because I love you reddit, I offer my latest flash erotic story without edit here. If you like my dirty little stories and would like to read longer, harder, hotter, more please visit my website: http://www.harlottesometimes.com
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Their Whispers Pique My Interest
by Harlotte Sometimes
(approx 1000 words)
Their whispers pique my interest the way hushed tones always do.
“A sex club? In Seattle?”
“Gross… Pathetic… No Way!”
Then the usual accusations—“Germs? Sounds? Odors?”—and the worst regrettable dismissal—“Not the people you’d hope to see naked.”
I interrupt. I’m always interrupting. “Excuse me,” I whisper. “How do you know which people I hope to see naked?”
I repeat until someone giggles instead of recoils. This is how I find new friends. She’s pretty in a way that makes me jealous. Her tidy blue button‐up, her pressed oversized pants, and her short, sloppy haircut makes her look like she’s well‐dressed little boy.
A date is made. Our conversation miscommunicates and plans unhappen. Finally, we get together.
“Besides,” I tell her over drinks to build confidence, “I’ve been to all kinds of places other people say the same things about. The places people call ‘gross’ or ‘pathetic’ are almost always also the most fun.”
“I’m just glad I found someone to go with me,” she answers. “I’ve been curious about this place for years.”
Her eyes sparkle. I sip.
We’re not late for orientation. Orientation is not sexy. The sex club works off reams of rules and regulations. The sexy volunteer explains, exhibits, and answers questions: a crash course in hygiene and etiquette. We take a break an hour later for water, paperwork, and snacks.
I learn the sex club celebrates sex positivity. They—staff, volunteers, members, and guests— encourage, honor, demand, and respect consent. They welcome all people regardless of who or how or why they identify. The sex club is a play place of personal expression. Cum—if you will—as you are.
We attend the party. When the clock strikes the magic hour, either we pay, or we leave. The decision comes easy; the place mingles with exactly the kind of people I’d like to watch.
Once the freeloaders leave, the lights dim. My friend’s sly smile brightens. Her eyes focus and adjust. I see her hunger clearly. It scares me in a way I decide I like.
“What should we try first?” I ask her.
Old familiars claim the good equipment quickly. Clothes come off. Experts bring bags of extra equipment: ropes mostly but also whips and floggers. Somewhere behind us giggles and gasps follow the buzz of something electric. Dance music, mirror balls, and moving lights fill the space between slaps, cries, and moans.
The beatings continue. Some pairings become private parties. Others perform. “Who is your favorite?” I ask her.
“Besides you?” her wry smile answers.
I wink. Her eyes show welcome. Together, we scan the room. “I think the extrovert is beautiful,” she admits. “I love the way she loves attention. Did you see how quickly she got naked?”
I add with a nod to an adonis, “He’s done this before.”
I turn away from where I was once looking. Suddenly self‐conscious, I try to not stare. “What about the boy beating the other boy on the pummel horse?” I whisper. “Did you see the size of those knots?”
She stands behind me. She finds reasons to brush her body against mine. My eyes wander almost as much as her hands.
I marvel at the variety of bodies. I take interest in the details. Behind me, a naked lady beats—then fingers—then beats again her partner. Two couples—fully clothed—on a couch share trail mix, chat about politics, and pretend. They, like me, fidget and squirm.
The tattoos and piercing amaze me. I want to sit. I want to lay down. It sure is hot in here. A beautiful boy sees us and flirts.
“Oh hi, how are you? Hang on for a second, I’ll be right back.”
Alone, I’m less nervous. I drink water. I lean into the corners and watch. I remember to breathe.
She walks through the crowd. She works it. Pretty kitty gets attention. When she looks past them until she catches me watching, she gives me a little taste of her sexy wry smile. I wonder if she wonders if she’s more than I can handle. Little kitty thinks she can take a spanking. At exactly the right moment, we both hear the same delicious scream.
“Yes! More! Yes! DADDY!”
Our eyes meet. We share the same thought together. In that space, the mind of the thing we become when we’re together finds its first solid footing. I stand up and expect my knees to buckle. They don’t.
We wander together. I act casual. She doesn’t. Her breath on the back of my neck, the dangerous tone behind her whisper, “Do you want to dry hump together inside that cage?” she asks.
I don’t remember saying yes. Maybe I just think it real loud.
We giggle inside the bars, then we get down to business. We take turns taking advantage of each other’s predicaments. Someone—I’m not telling—gets rough enough to draw a safety monitor’s attention. The volunteer observes without interfering until she’s sure everyone agrees. Our eye contact and situational awareness answer for us.
In the break, we steal the moment. She’s tender with me. A sweet kiss on my forehead now grants her access to put her lips wherever she’d like later.
Later? Nevermind. Sex Club. Duh. Semi‐private padded places with clean sheets, towels, and curtains await us in the back.
She reads my mind. She says what I’m thinking. “Wanna do more than dry hump?” she asks.
This time for sure I say “Yes!”
Stuff happens here. The details deserve more space than I have to offer. Maybe they’ll slip into some future sex story I haven’t written yet. Maybe I’ll forget them completely. Who knows?
Later, naked, alone together on a curtain‐shrouded mattress island, exhausted but still breathing, covered in sweat, I have time to listen. A subset of the couples from on the couch earlier shake the springs of the bed beside us now. Her squeals make me happy. “She has to know I hear her, doesn’t she?” I wonder.
The slaps and screams of pain from the play room come more quickly now. The DJ drops beats to approximate their rhythm. I overhear an impromptu scream‐off between two separate subbies. They take to their roles well. “Ouches” and “Fucks” reverberate around the sex club’s concrete walls, each louder than before. They sound beautiful, happy, and sexy.
Empathetic giggles overcome me. I’m shy at showing my bare emotions. Fortunately, she hears the same things I do. She giggles too.
We cuddle. I’m thankful and happy at least for a little while. This place, her, and me: we made and did something special in the place they said we should be ashamed.
Their whispers piqued my interest. “The sex club is dirty, shameful, and gross,” they said.
I’ve learned; the secrets those ladies whisper when they get together teach me to listen. Their shaming isn’t scolding, but it might be confession. Places with “germs, sounds, and odors” and “those kind of people” are the sex club and are me. Next to some near‐stranger’s hotel room or apartment, here I feel safe, proud, permitted, and allowed.
And, for a while at least, I feel a little less weird.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/58b4cg/an_evening_at_the_sex_club_group