Table of Contents
playlist
*WARNING*
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
forty-three
epilogue
bonus deleted scene
acknowledgments
about the author
Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Michael
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs, http://www.rbadesigns.com
Editor: Ashley Williams, Adept Edits
Proofreader and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1546724438
To those who fight.
Every battle is different but make sure you knock yours on its ass.
Do it for you.
playlist
*WARNING*
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
forty-three
epilogue
bonus deleted scene
acknowledgments
about the author
(Follow on Spotify)
“Fight Song” by Rachel Platten
“The Show Must Go On” by Queen
“Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Oasis
“Stars” by Grace Potter & the Nocturnals
“Die Motherfucker Die” by Get Set Go
“Cool For The Summer” by Demi Lovato
“Closer” by Nine Inch Nails
“Where Is My Mind?” by Pixies
“Murder by Numbers” by The Police
“Long Way to Happy” by P!nk
“Home” by Three Days Grace
“PILLOWTALK” by ZAYN
“We’re Going to Be Friends” by The White Stripes
“Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen
“World Spins Madly On” by The Weepies
“Climbing up the Walls” by Radiohead
“I Touch Myself” by Divinyls
“Whiskey and You” by Chris Stapleton
“How to Save a Life” by The Fray
“Because of You” by Kelly Clarkson
“Bottoms Up” by Brantley Gilbert
“Bad Things” by Machine Gun Kelly & Camila Cabello
“Monster” by Imagine Dragons
“Break Your Halo” by Andy Black
“Heartless” by Kanye West
“LIKE I WOULD” by ZAYN
“C’est La Mort” by The Civil Wars
“Beauty of the Dark” by Mads Langer
“Oh Henry” by The Civil Wars
“Love Crime” by My Darkest Days
“All of Your Glory” by Broods
“One and Only” by Adele
“Holloway Jail” by The Kinks
“Honest” by Kodaline
“Lies” by The Black Keys
“Scars” by Michael Malarkey
“Seek & Destroy” by Metallica
“Dust to Dust” by The Civil Wars
“Good-bye, Stranger” by Supertramp
“Striptease” by Hawksley Workman
“Psychotic Girl” by The Black Keys
“Soul Meets Body” by Death Cab for Cutie
“Die, Die My Darling” by Misfits
“Even My Dad Does Sometimes” by Ed Sheeran
“Green Green Grass of Home” by Tom Jones
“Fade to Black” by Metallica
*WARNING*
DEEPER IS A STAND-ALONE DARK ROMANCE THAT CONTAINS STRONG SEXUAL THEMES, EXTREME VIOLENCE, AND EXPLICIT LANGUAGE. THE SCENES CONTAINING THESE TRIGGERS ARE INTENSELY GRAPHIC AND VERY DETAILED. THE THEMES OF DEATH/MURDER, ABUSE (BOTH PHYSICAL AND SEXUAL), AND CHILD NEGLECT/ABUSE ARE HEAVILY PRESENT WITHIN THIS NOVEL. THIS IS NOT A THIN WARNING OR A LIGHT READ.
Rylan
Debauchery.
Sex. Lust. Excess.
Forbidden secrets.
This place overwhelms my senses, but Maplefield is a small town, and Utopia is the first of its kind in this area of Connecticut. For a small price, I gained admittance into the club, which wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had thought it would be. Once my one-week probationary period is over, I will get my full-blown membership. Until then, a red lanyard hangs from my neck, telling everyone I’m off-limits and only allowed to observe.
One week never seemed so long before.
“First time here?” A middle-aged woman with porcelain skin sits down at the stool next to me. Her eyes hold that same awestruck quality that I imagine matches my own.
I return a genuine smile. “Yeah. How about you?”
She plays with the lanyard around her own neck. “I’ve been here a couple times this week, but my probation is almost over.”
“Are you here alone?”
The guess to my own question is no. While the woman had no problem striking up a conversation with me, she seems a bit too shy to have come here without someone else.
She points to a group of men across the room. “That man in the blue polo is my husband. A few of his work buddies come here, and it’s always fascinated us, as a couple. We finally decided to check it out.”
“Good for you!”
“What about you? Are you here alone?”
“I am.”
“I don’t think I would have been able to come here without my husband,”
she admits.
The unknown, intimidating, or different doesn’t give me anxiety. If anything, it pushes me.
I left behind the last of my vanilla existence the second I walked through that door and signed my name on the dotted line. I need to continue pushing boundaries to discover experiences that curl my toes and paint my fantasies. According to the paperwork, this place will do just that—providing that my behavior here isn’t illegal and is safe for all members, that is. Having sex in front of an audience? That’s perfectly acceptable here. Mixing pain and pleasure? Yes, please! Giving control of my body to another? Permission granted!
I’ve always been curious about sex. Porn became a part of my routine at a young age for a girl, and losing my virginity wasn’t scary for me. It was thrilling. Powerful. I’m not into BDSM culture, and I don’t have any crazy fetishes, but I need excitement. There isn’t much I would say no to until I at least try it once. I have a few hard limits, but I try to stay open. This is the place for me to continue pushing my limits.
“In the past, I’d been with guys who liked routine and predictability, and it drove me mad. I was bored out of my mind. Some would balk if I suggested anything a little outside the box, but others would try, which was almost worse. I’d end up with watered-down versions of what I actually wanted because my exes were too timid or too unimaginative to give me what I needed. As a single woman, if I want more, then I need to go after it.”
Since saying good-bye to the last in a rather long list of disappointments, I’m ready for everything Utopia has to offer because my sexuality is ingrained into the person that I am. Sex has always been how I connect, communicate, and express myself.
This makes my job perfect for someone like me. I’m an explicit sex columnist.
Thanks to my employer, I live, breathe, sleep the world of kink.
“Young, single, and you know what you want. You’re a catch! Wait, I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Rylan.”
“Nice to meet you, Rylan. I’m Janet.”
“Good to meet you, too.” I relax and take in the room around us.
Physically, Utopia is as I expected, but the atmosphere is where the expectancy ends. For a place that seems low budget from the outside, it’s actually pretty comfortable inside. Music plays softly throughout the room, and women who bare their flesh dance in cages to their own slow, tantric rhythm. The naked dancers are tame for this world though. They are a part of the decor, the ambiance. Tables fill this front room facing a stage that, for now, is dark and empty. The back rooms are where most of the fun happens and are off-limits to me during my probationary period. So, instead of playing, I’m at the bar, sipping water since alcohol isn’t served here because it blurs the lines of consent.
“I didn’t expect there to be so many people here. Small town and all,” Janet comments.
Our conversation ends before I can respond. A vibration fills the room as the music is cranked louder, and a spotlight hits the stage. Men in leather wheel out a woman hooked up to a sex swing. Her legs are spread open, dangling through straps, and her arms are bound to opposite sides of the contraption. The only thing she’s wearing is a blindfold, and if someone wasn’t paying attention before, they are now. I follow suit, ready for the live sex show. My fellow probationary friend beside me swallows audibly and nods at me before she returns to her husband’s side. He envelops her in a loving hold as they watch.
The men in leather exit the stage, and three others enter the spotlight, surrounding the woman. One carries a crop and another a wand vibrator while the third secures clamps to the woman’s nipples. Their faces are stern as their hands begin to explore the woman’s body. The man with the crop drags the leather down her front. The vibrator comes to life in the hands of the second man, and the third tests a gentle tug of the clamps. As they continue, she yelps and moans while she’s hit repeatedly with the crop. She thrusts her body when the massager touches her pussy. She begs for more when the last man tugs on the clamps.
They shout orders at her, and she responds as a submissive would.
Her answers are always followed with a softly spoken, “Sir,” when she asks permission for her pleasure.
It isn’t the brutal indulgence or the display of control that has my panties wet. It’s the freedom. There’s no judgment here. Sex isn’t considered a taboo subject or only meant for two people behind closed doors in the dark. The club is a place to celebrate sexuality without fear of judgment. This is exactly where I belong.
Then, the mood changes with one swift falling object. Naked flesh plummets from the rafters above the stage. The Doms curse, but the submissive woman is unaware since she’s blindfolded. They struggle to get her free from the swing, and in their haste to get her off the stage, the strip of fabric over her eyes is knocked off. Her screams pierce the room at a shockingly loud decibel, but no one listens. Everyone is too busy screaming themselves and running for the nearest exit.
I revel in it.
A naked man with a dark fauxhawk lies in a lump on the stage. A ball gag is shoved into his mouth and strapped around his head. Perfect for the BDSM theme—well, it would be if it weren’t for the number five that is carved into his flesh from his collarbone to the top of his naval. He’s dead, without a doubt, and everyone else in this room knows it, too.
Excitement grows in the pit of my stomach as the chaos unravels around me. I uncross my legs and then cross them again, trying to ease the building throbbing. I don’t take my eyes off his lifeless form showcased under the bright lights until I’m pushed off my stool and pulled along with the wave of club members. This place just became a crime scene, and most don’t want to be caught at the club the town pretends doesn’t exist. I begin to move, but my steps falter, and I take one more look toward the stage.
I leave Utopia and am in my car, traveling home, before the first siren cuts through the night.
There is nothing vanilla about murder.
Rylan
Aria,
I’ve been crushing it in Connecticut. Today is my last week of hulking out correction counseling. Go me!
Since getting my boss to agree to let me work remotely, he says my last three articles are some of my best. I’m glad he finally realizes I don’t need to be sitting at a desk to type an awesome article about sex. He contributes my week suspension and these classes for the extra flair in my writing. Whatever, I’ll let him think what he wants, but it’s probably more likely an effect of not having to look at Chip anymore. He has a way of killing the libido. Punching him during that strategy meeting may have been impulsive, but it definitely worked in my favor.
I’ve got to run!
I miss you. I love you almost as much as ice cream.
Rylan
I close the weathered notebook, stuff it into my purse, exit my car, and scowl. The air holds a slight chill, and my Florida blood isn’t made for anything below seventy-five degrees. I pull my hood over my head as I walk down the sidewalk to the office building. At least I missed the bitter cold of New England this year since I only moved here a little over a month ago. And, now, it won’t be long before spring takes over.
I open the polished glass door and stride inside, letting it swish closed behind me. Cheesy motivational posters hang on the walls. Chairs are set up in a circle around the room, and only half have people sitting in them. A few people linger by a table set up with cookies and coffee, which I steer clear of. I’ve already learned how much the coffee more closely resembles garbage sludge.
Tatum, a tiny girl with rainbow hair whom I’ve come to know, stands in my path. She smiles up at me and tilts her head, causing the feathers on her headband to sway a bit. When I met her five weeks ago, I thought I had never seen anything like her. At my first session, I tried to avoid her, I really did, but somehow, she’s found a place in my world. I was rude when she said hello, cold and standoffish when she tried to chat. She ignored my bad manners and acted as if I weren’t shutting her down. I thought I didn’t
need people in my life, but now, I’m warming up to the idea. How could I not with a girl like Tatum?
“Did you see Perry is here today?” Tatum asks as we head to the circle.
“Perry will be here for the rest of his life. I can guarantee it.”
She smiles at me again, and we take seats next to each other.
I remember asking myself, What the hell is this girl doing here?
Tatum doesn’t look like she has anger issues. She’s all bright colors and big smiles. I can’t imagine her even raising her voice to someone. But her stories paint a different picture. She shares a lot about an ex-boyfriend during these sessions. After he cheated on her, she made pamphlets detailing bogus behaviors of his and left them in the mailboxes of all his neighbors. She posted his phone number on Craigslist under Male Seeking Male and filed formal complaints against him at a job. In short, she made his life hell. She relayed each incident with a smile on her face. I was stunned.
Originally, I thought these sessions would be like AA meetings. I guess my only knowledge about group therapy was what I’d seen on television, but I was wrong. Sometimes, there is a whole lot of complaining and self-pity, but most of the people here really want help to change their ways. Others, like me, are only here because they have to be.
Vanessa, who I decided during the first session was in the latter category, walks into the room in a wrinkled pencil skirt and blazer, and everyone else takes their chairs.
She claps her hands twice and then pushes up the glasses falling down the brim of her nose. “Hello, everyone. I’m sure most of you know me, but for everyone joining us for the first time, I’m your counselor. For everyone else, you know the drill. One person at a time, and we’re here to listen, not to critique or advise. So, who would like the floor first?”
“Hey, guys,” a stout woman in her forties speaks up. “The journaling techniques have been working really well for me, but I’m still having an issue with controlling my temper when I’m in the heat of a moment. Writing my feelings down takes the edge off, but when I’m faced with a problem, counting to ten rarely slows me down.”
The woman goes on, but I check out. Vanessa doesn’t care about this job, and it shows in her running of the sessions. I’m not sure that anything I’ve learned here would have prevented me from punching Chip’s smarmy face.
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