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Saturday went by very slowly as I waited for the evening to arrive. I had so much emotion invested, I grew anxious. Maybe nothing could measure up? Maybe I couldn’t do it? I wrestled with such questions until gradually those doubts ebbed, overtaken by my newly energized deep desire for slutty sex.
I would have started right away if I could have, but I had no influence over the schedule. I kept myself busy preparing my outfit, redoing my nails and hair, shaving and re-shaving.
When at last the hour arrived, I took a taxi to the club, timed to get there at ten p.m. When I got out of the cab, all I could see was a line of young people, dressed to impress, in front of a black facade. A small neon sign said “The Pit” in dripping red. Music was blasting through an open door, but a black panel just inside made it impossible to see anything.
Walking up the short flight of stairs, I attracted a lot of hoots and whistles, attention for my outfit. The black backless, sleeveless mini-dress had only two vertical sashes above the waist, rising to cover my breasts and tie behind my neck, leaving a deep V plunge in the center. Lots of skin and boob curves were on display. The hemline of the tight skirt was far up my thighs, closer to my crotch than my knees. My heels were stripper tall.
My shoulder length hair hung softly loose and I wore no makeup or jewelry. I only carried a tiny purse.
The part I was hoping to play dictated the look, or so I thought. I didn’t really know much about what was going to happen, but I was more than ready to jump in.
A large man in black pants and matching skin-tight turtleneck guarded the velvet rope in a spotlighted area at the head of the line of wannabes agitating to get in. I had been instructed to tell the gatekeeper that “Hammer sent me.” Supposedly I’d have no problem.
I walked straight to him, ignoring the line. Someone booed.
“Hammer sent me,” I announced when I stood in front of the huge guy.
“That’ll be a hundred bucks,” he murmured, while inspecting my cleavage.
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“Cost you a hundred to get in. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No, nothing like that. Is Hammer here?”
“Cost you a hundred to find out.”
I was starting to feel nervous about the situation, but against my own better judgment I took a wad of folded bills out of my purse and counted five twenties into the gatekeeper’s hand. The bills disappeared in a flash. As he opened the velvet rope for me, he slipped a Queen of Hearts into my hand.
“Hold the card so it’s visible. Hammer will find you,” he advised.
I walked into the dim interior.
The crowd surged up and down in time with the deep-toned music managed by an elevated DJ. Laser lights flashed and slashed the gloom. But that wasn’t what got my attention. In four alcoves around the walls of the room, spotlights illuminated nude women secured to the wall, dungeon style. Each was different; standing, sitting, hands behind back or held wide by shackles. They were mixed type, color, and age but all moved with the music, as best they could with their restraints. Judging from body language and expressions, the victims were ecstatic from the treatment.