Copyright 2012 by the A. Van Peebles, All Rights Reserved
This is a true story, or as true as I remember it. I've changed some of the names, for obvious reasons. My name isn't Jenny, my boss isn't named Cynthia, and the club in question isn't called Club San Limites, but the club does exist in downtown Montreal under a different name. I've also omitted some details like what industry I work in and where what city I live in. It's not like I'm famous or anything, but it's a small industry and those who work in it could probably identify "Cynthia" and me from details like that. But those details aren't important to the story, so leaving them out won't affect anything.
That trip to Montreal changed my life. It opened me up to a world that I was only vaguely aware existed, and more importantly, it led me to discover who I am sexually. I'd been to Montreal before; we have a major client located there, and I'd been working on that account for two years, but this was the first trip to the city on my own. I was taking over management of the account from Cynthia, my boss. It was my first big promotion, and I was excited.
Even better, before we got to Montreal we had a stop in New York to see another client. Cynthia was along for that leg of the trip. I was twenty-five years old and this was my first trip to the Big Apple. We spent the day in meetings and at dinner with the client, so I didn't have much of a chance to see the city, but that didn't matter. I was in New York, and that was thrill enough. Then I was up before dawn to catch the first flight to Montreal.
And to make things even better, Cynthia had suggested I stay the weekend in Montreal, even going so far as telling me to expense the weekend hotel bills, saying I would be spending a lot of time in Montreal, so I should get to know the city on the company's dime. She said I could consider it sort of a bonus for working so hard over the last year. Cynthia is great like that. She's demanding and makes you bust your ass, but she also knows how to reward you. I loved working for her, and she'd taken me under her wing as a protégé.
A few weeks before the trip, I had half-suspected that Cynthia was interested in me sexually. Now, I had wondered about her sexual orientation before—she was forty-five and never married, never bringing a partner, male or female, to any corporate social event—but I actually knew almost nothing about her personal life. Cynthia is scrupulous about maintaining a professional demeanor. What made me suspect she might be interested in me was that a few weeks earlier she had cracked that professional barrier and asked about my social life, in particular whether there was a guy in my life.
There's not, at least not any one guy. I've got a couple of friends who provide benefits and are usually available for late-night booty calls, and when the urge is overpowering and my friends are otherwise engaged, I just go out to a bar and pick a guy up. I don't want to sound conceited or anything, but I'm good looking and finding a guy for a roll in the sack just isn't a problem. My priorities right now are work, the gym, and nights out with friends. I'm twenty-five. True love and finding the one guy to spend the rest of my life with can wait a while.
Anyway, Cynthia seemed surprised when I told her that I didn't date much, telling me that should be more adventurous—for obvious reasons I didn't tell her about picking up guys in bars. I remember her exact words because they were so surprising, "at your age you should be exploring your sexuality. You need to find what excites you, what turns you on. If you're into being tied up, you should be learning how to tie knots. If you're into women, you need to be discovering that." Up to that point, the conversation had been one I could have had with any of my girlfriends, but it was that statement that led me to think she might be interested in being more than just a friend.
That isn't the sort of thing that bosses, especially bosses as savvy as Cynthia, say. Told to the wrong person, it could be the basis for a sexual harassment suit. Not that I took offense. In fact, I thought I might be willing to have fling with Cynthia if she asked. I didn't think I was really into women, but I'd fooled around with some of my girlfriends once or twice—nothing major, just some kissing and fumbling about—but Cynthia is quite attractive, and despite what she thought, I could be adventurous—more adventurous than even I knew, as it turned out. I'd often wondered what real sex with a woman might be like and was willing to try it under the right circumstances. But nothing came of the conversation, and by the time the Montreal trip rolled around I was convinced that she had been just trying to be a friend and had been extending her mentoring role into my social life. I figured that she didn't want me to make the mistake she had made and end up being forty-five and alone, without even a girlfriend to talk to about men and sex.
Cynthia was beautiful, elegant, and had a winning personality—she could charm just about anyone. She was also rich, having been with the company since its founding and had made a fortune when the firm went public. But she still worked harder than anyone else in the firm, continuing to bring in millions in new business to the company, and that kind of dedication came at a cost. As far as I could tell, she had no social life at all. She was at the stage in life where she would be justified in powering down, reducing her hours, and delegating more work to her employees, but she remained as hard charging a businesswoman as ever. She lived for work.
Anyway, all that was going through my mind as I took the elevator up to my hotel room. The meetings that day with the Montreal client had gone really well, and I was looking forward to a weekend of exploring the city. It was snowing, but Montreal on a Friday night, even a snowy one, would be fun.
Once I got to my room, however, I saw the bag sitting on the bed. It was black leather, Coach, and thus expensive. It had a tag on it that read, "To help you enjoy the weekend." No signature. My first thought was that Cynthia had arranged to have a present delivered. But then I opened the bag.
It was some kind of sick joke. Inside was a kinky sex kit. There was a leather collar; some sort of leather body harness; a pair of elbow-length, black gloves; and a pair of black leather, above-the-knee boots. There were two vibrators, one like the one I, and every girl my age, has at home and another smaller one, a pocket rocket for the clit. Some of my girlfriends told me those pocket rockets were absolutely great, but that I'd never tried one. There was also a huge dildo made of black silicone. It was about nine inches long and thicker than any cock had the right to be, and came with a corresponding strap-on harness. There was also a double-headed, silicone dildo. The sex toys were all in their original packaging, and to top it all off, the bag contained an assortment of lubes and body oils. There was also an envelope inside that contained some kind of membership card. It read, "Club Sans Limites, Member # A0154, if found, please return to..." and there was a Montreal address and phone number. It didn't take a pocket-rocket scientist to figure out that the Club San Limites was some kind of sex club.
I knew right away that Cynthia would never give me something like this. Either this was an over-the-top prank by one of my friends or I had some pervert for a stalker. All my friends knew I was in Montreal for the weekend, as did everyone at work, plus a bunch of my clients. Any of them could easily have found out which hotel I was staying at. I couldn't think of anyone at work who would send me this, and while some of my friends aren't above playing pranks, this went beyond anything they might do. Not only did they not think like this, none of them would spend this kind of money on a prank—I didn't know how much sex toys like this cost, but they looked expensive, and I do know how much a Coach bag costs; the bag and its contents easily cost six or seven hundred dollars.
But then I realized there were a few other people who might have sent it—the clients I worked for here in Montreal. There were two partners who owned the company and either one could easily afford this, and they might know about the club, given that they lived in the city. They were both older men, in their mid-fifties. I knew John the best. He was a really sweet guy, but not the kind of guy you'd expect to be a member of a kinky sex club. He was a jovial, pudgy guy who was always going on about his family and kids and the charity work that he threw himself into every spare minute he had. And he had never shown the slightest hint that he might be seriously interested in sex with me—or anyone else, for that matter. He'd have to be an amazing con artist to have a secret kinkster identity. Keith, the other partner, was another matter. His responsibilities in the company didn't overlap with my work, so I hadn't had many dealings with him. I knew nothing about him except that he was divorced. It's possible he could be harboring a secret thing for me and this was his way of letting me know. Keith wasn't a bad-looking guy, but not really my type, and I would never sleep with a client anyway. And anyway, any guy who pulled a stunt like this to get my attention would be scratched off my list. It was just too creepy.
That left the stalker theory, and that wasn't a comfort.
I called the front desk and asked who had delivered the bag. After a few minutes, the desk clerk called back and said that the bag had been dropped off by a messenger service with instructions that it be delivered to my room at check-in. He was sorry he couldn't be of more help.
I flipped open my laptop and Googled the name of the club. There were only a few hits, all business directories that gave the club's address and phone number and said only that it was a "private club." Whatever this club was, it didn't have a web page and its members didn't talk about it on the net. I next went to Google Maps and looked up the address. It was on a side street, a few blocks from my hotel. The street view showed that it was on a respectable street, lined with a mix of offices, cafes, and shops, but at the club's address all I could see was a blank door and a small sign with name of the club. So the place existed, but was very discreet, whatever it was.
I decided that, prank or pervert, I wasn't going to play the game. So I put the bag aside and started unpacking my clothes and thinking about plans for that evening. The snow would limit my options, but maybe the concierge could direct me to a decent bar or club. But my thoughts kept drifting back to the bag and what kind of establishment the Club San Limites was and how much whoever sent it knew about me.
I opened the bag again and checked the sizes of the boots and clothing. They fit me. That made me more nervous. Someone who knew my shoe size had gone to great trouble and expense to lure me to this club. And the really troubling thing was that it was working.
My curiosity won out. I knew that if I didn't go, I'd be wondering the rest of my life what the hell had been going on. I might as well check out this club to see if it was what I thought it was and if someone had really given me a membership to it. I had nothing better to do that evening, and it would be an adventure. I thought about the risk, but it seemed minimal. The location was public. It's not like I was going to go walking down a dark alley. And if anything looked sketchy, I could just turn around and leave. So I put on my coat, picked up the bag, and headed down to the lobby to catch a cab to the club.
It wasn't snowing all that much, but the streets were deserted already, even though it was only just after seven on a Friday night. It only took a few minutes to get to the club's address. The street was mostly empty, the offices and cafes, which catered to the lunch crowd, were closed. There were a few people hurriedly walking past though, so it didn't seem particularly ominous, and I noticed a corner bar down that block that I could use as a refuge if things got scary. After the cab drove off I stood in the snow for a moment, screwing up the courage to open the door. Then I walked up the three steps to the door, opened it, and stepped inside.
The foyer looked like the entrance to an upscale restaurant, with dark wood paneling and plush carpeting. There was reception station, staffed by a young woman, about my age, wearing glasses and with her hair bound up in a bun. Vaguely pretty, she didn't have the appearance of someone who would be working the door at a sex club. She looked like a no-nonsense schoolmarm.
"Bonjour," said the woman.
Unsure of what to say, I just handed the woman the membership card. The woman looked at the card and then punched something, presumably the member number, into the reception station's computer.
"Good evening, Ms. Loring," said the woman, in accented, but perfect English. "Welcome to the Club Sans Limites. I'm Helene, the hostess for this evening. If you require anything, just ask me or any of the staff. We're here to make your visit exciting and pleasant."
I was about to explain that I had been given the bag and card and had no idea what the club was, but the woman just continued.
"Since it's your first time, I'd like to give you a tour of our facilities and explain how we operate. I'm sure you're familiar with it from our correspondence and from the friend who nominated you for membership, but we always like to go over the details with those coming here for the first time. We find that making sure that there are no misunderstandings in advance makes for a more enjoyable evening."
Again, my curiosity got the better of me. I would take the tour and then leave. I had idly wondered what went on in sex clubs before—and by now I was pretty damned sure this was a sex club, a very upscale sex club—and this would be a no-risk way of finding out. Besides, tonight would probably be my only opportunity to ever step foot in a place like this. I might as well see what was beyond the reception station. I found myself smiling and agreeing to the tour.
Helene took the bag from me and handed it to another woman, and then she and I started the tour off with the changing rooms, which were on the first floor. There were a lot of them, at least twenty. Each had a locker, a shower and toilet, and a small bed. Helene explained that members often chose to sleep a few hours in their changing room before heading home in the morning; it was a private place to prepare before the evening's "entertainment," and for recuperating afterward. One of the club's few rules was that the "entertainment," as she kept calling it, was not to occur in the changing rooms. There were beds upstairs that weren't for sleeping.
She then took me upstairs. On the second floor there was a small bar and some staff were setting out a light buffet supper. Helene explained that drinks were available, but that most members refrained from anything more than a glass of wine or two. "It blunts the abilities," she explained. The same went with the food; a heavy meal "interfered with the fun, but you need something to keep the blood sugar up."
Next up was the common room. It took up most of the second floor and the ceiling extended up through the next floor. It was designed around a large sunken pit with couches around the edge. There were that various restraints, cages, and bondage devices scattered throughout the room. There were a few chairs with stirrups and arm restraints, a couple of sex swings, and at the very center of the pit was what looked like a vaulting horse, but had shackles for arms and legs; it was clearly designed to have someone bent over it and tied down. I had seen pictures of such furniture on the internet, but I never dreamed I would actually see them in real life. No one else was in the room, and Helene explained that things usually didn't get started until after nine. I asked how many would normally be here on a typical Friday night and she told me that some twenty or thirty club members might be there on weekend nights, but that she didn't expect that many tonight because of the snow.
"Of course, we have our entertainment staff to supplement the guests," explained Helene. "So you don't have to worry if it's not crowded. There's always someone to play with."
"Do you...?" I asked. She didn't look like a prostitute, or at least how I thought a prostitute should look. Regardless of the euphemism "entertainment staff," prostitutes were what they were. Maybe exclusive to the club and probably well paid, but prostitutes nonetheless.
"Oh no," replied Helene. "I'm not entertainment staff. I keep the club's books and some nights I'm at the reception desk." She reached out and gently stroked my chin. "But sometimes I make an exception for special members. Just for fun."
I felt a knot begin to form in my stomach. Perhaps my little game had gone on too long.
But the tour continued. On the floor above were private rooms. They ran along one side of balcony that overlooked the big common room below. The rooms were decorated in various themes, accommodating almost any fantasy one could think of. Some imitated decor from around the world; there was an Egyptian room and a Japanese room, for instance. Others were outfitted as dungeons. While the decor choices were varied, they all exhibited good taste, if you could call it that. What I mean is that there were no velvet paintings of naked women or porn films playing on large-screen TVs, the kind of things I expected to see at a sex club, and it was all very clean and well maintained. About half of the rooms had large Jacuzzis. Two of the rooms were basically big tiled bathrooms, for "water sports" explained Helene. I made a note to find out exactly what "water sports" entailed—when I did find out later on, I realized instantly that it wasn't my scene at all, but to each her own. One room looked like a cheap hotel room, for "affairs" explained Helene. Another looked like a teenage girl's room. "Schoolgirl fantasy" was the explanation. Some of the rooms had the doors closed. "Occupied."
Helene explained that if you left the door open, you were open to others joining you. If you kept it closed, you wanted to remain private. "If you think you might like to join in," explained Helene, "it is best to stand by the door until the occupants notice you. They'll invite you in if they want you to join them. Don't take it personally if you aren't invited. It just may not be the right moment for them." She took a long look up and down my body. "You won't have any problems, though." I get those looks from guys all the time. It was disconcerting to get it from this prim-looking woman.
We ended up back in one of the changing rooms, and I saw that the contents of the bag had been neatly laid out. All the items had been removed from their packaging.
"Now, I have to go over a few safety rules," said Helene. "First, do not feel pressured to do anything you do not want to do. You decide what activities you want to participate in and with who; do not worry about what anyone else thinks, and feel free to say 'no' to anything you are not comfortable with. The safe word is 'alabaster.' If any of your partners say that word, 'alabaster,' stop what you're doing immediately. If your partner is restrained, loosen the restraints as well. If at any time you feel uncomfortable or want to stop, just say 'alabaster.' Sometimes new members get somewhat scared their first time. Don't be afraid to use the safe word, which is 'alabaster.' Sometimes it just takes a minute or two to compose yourself, or the activity is just getting a little too intense, and you can continue in a few moments. And don't worry, we've never had a problem with a member ignoring a safe word. Everyone here is very considerate." Helene went on to explain the hand signals that were to be used in lieu of a safe word when either I or one of my partners were gagged. Then she made me repeat the safe word and make the hand signals. Finally she said that at the end of the evening, if I wished, I could leave the bag in the changing room and all the gear would be cleaned and held until I visited the club again. All I need do was call ahead, and everything would be prepared for my arrival.