I’m back again.
Standing on the side of the street, staring across the road at the neon-lit sign for The Golden Apple.
I’ve never been in, only done this weird staring thing, over and over, trying to pluck up the courage to walk across, open the door, and enter into what I imagine would be a darkened room.
You never know. The reception of a sex club might be well-lit.
Tam told me I wouldn’t like it, that it’s not the kind of place that nice girls go to, and ever since I’ve found myself back here again and again.
Because I might seem like a nice girl—I’m called Janet, for goodness’ sake, you can’t get more boring than that—but I’m not.
I’m not a nice girl.
I’m not a girl at all.
I’m a woman, and a woman who knows what she wants, knows what she needs. And what I need won’t come from some well-meaning, bumbling fool of a guy who doesn’t seem to realise that I need more than a few pumps to get me off.
What I want are nights of losing myself so completely to dark desires, that I forget how to stand in the sun afterwards.
The light of the sign flickers, and it’s almost as if it’s a sign, as if I’m being called forth, summoned.
There are stories about the Golden Apple. About the decadence and the debauchery. Stories that have me squeezing my thighs together, feeling the throb of my clit, echoing. Stories of lust and violence.
People never seem to think that nice girls want the violence.
I want the violence.
Clenching my fists, I steady my resolve and take a deep breath. I’ve got this.
Before I can change my mind, I’m walking across the road, barely cognisant of the rain that bats against my hair.
Up to the door, and then three sharp knocks.
I wait.
The waiting is torturous. Agony. Almost as if whoever is waiting on the other side of the door is testing my determination to be granted entry.
Tossing my hair back, I attempt to adopt a look of nonchalance. I doubt I pull it off, but clearly something worked because the door opens silently and I have my entry.
The reception actually is well-lit. There aren’t many people around at all, other than a bored-looking person who barely looks up as I walk over.
“Membership number?”
“I’m new.” The words sound croaky, as if it’s the first time I’ve ever spoken aloud. It feels as though it might be, as though this is the first step into my new life.
They look up then, bemused by my apparent nerve. “You can’t just walk in.”
It’s an exclusive sex club, of course you can’t just walk in.
“I applied online,” I say. “They said that I could come in for an evening? I’ve passed all the referencing.”
“You brought your ID with you?”
I hand over my passport, almost fumbling it in my nervousness.
“You’ll need a host for the evening. I’ll ask someone to come down and get you. Do you want to put your coat over in the cloakroom?” They look me up and down again, an eyebrow raising in question. “There is a dress code.”
I know that there’s a dress code; I agonised over it for hours before heading out this evening. Tried on one outfit after another until I landed on this one. A short black velvet dress, its skirt floaty, and its neckline cut low enough to reveal most of my very amble bosom. It’s not complicated, not even overtly kinky, but it makes me feel confident. Sexy. Desirable.
And I want to feel desirable tonight.
Slipping my coat off, I glance down and then up. “Will this pass?”
There is a softening around their eyes, and the receptionist smiles lightly. “Oh, sweet child, they are going to eat you up in there.”
I bristle at being called a sweet child, but there’s a shiver hidden under that bravado, a shiver at the idea of being eaten up. “I’m sure I’ll manage,” I say tartly, but I don’t think they quite buy it, because they chuckle under their breath, and shake their head in amusement.
“Of course, you will.”
My hands are trembling slightly as I hand my coat over to the cloakroom attendant, and take my ticket. There’s a pause when I realise that I have no pockets to put it into. The attendant laughs softly, and gestures to me to turn over the ticket. There’s a pin there, and I pin it to my dress.
“Harder to lose that way,” she says. “Just be careful not to lose the dress.”
Lose the dress?
I hope I won’t lose the dress.
“Come now, Una,” says a voice from behind me. “Her dress may get discarded, but it’s very unlikely to be lost for all eternity.” The voice is low, lower than any woman’s voice I’ve ever heard before, and it resonates with me on a physical level, as if the tone has reverberated in my very soul, and awoken sensations I’ve never yet felt.
She is hauntingly beautiful, with red hair that falls to the ground, and pale skin that’s almost ghostly in its complexion. On anyone else, it would make them look ill. She just looks ethereal, or as ethereal as anyone can in a tailored suit.
“Welcome, Janet,” she says, spreading her arms wide, “to the Golden Apple.”