The final piece to my outfit is a black glitter mask, which I tie around my head with lacy straps. The Cube is a full blackout club, with neither names nor identities. Everyone there is anonymous, and that’s one if its biggest draws.
I walk up to a set of double black doors at the nearest warehouse. Sexy electric lounge music slinks around me, and the camera seems to blink as I approach. I knock and wait. Then, a voice pipes over the speaker by the door and says, “The hopeful man seeks freedom.”
“But the wise man seeks knowledge,” I reply immediately. They change the passcode every night, so I always check the app before I leave my phone.
The door unlatches and swings open. A woman in a tight black dress and a clipboard greets me.
“Good evening. Come in.” As I step in, she speaks again. “I’ll take your keys, and please extend your arms for me.” I follow her orders and she waves a metal detector wand over my body. Then, I peel off my trench coat and another woman appears silently to take it to bag check.
Immediately, I feel frisky and sexy. The corset and garters are working their magic, and my heart pounds in anticipation of what’s to come. But security at the Cube is ruthless.
“Thumb print for the key tag and coat, please,” the hostess says before holding out a digital pad. I press my thumb to the smooth surface and the screen blips. It’s an efficient way of assuring our identity. She smiles and says, “Enjoy your evening, Miss Cuesta.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, and then the double doors behind the reception area open. Music wafts out, and I look around. The room is ornately decorated with gold chandeliers, red velvet sofas, and an old-timey bar in back with a dark wood surface. I mince over to the bar in my heels and order a red wine. The bartenders nod courteously, and within minutes, I have my drink. There’s no need to pay, and in fact, I wouldn’t be able to because my outfit has no pockets. Nonetheless, I understand that membership at the Cube is extravagantly expensive, and that many of the men are ridiculously rich.
But that’s not on my mind at the moment. I turn to scan the crowd and sip again at my wine. To the right of the entry is a hallway leading to ten bedrooms, each one more lavish than the next. My visits to those rooms are always sensuous and lovely, and my thighs clench with the memory. To the left is the entryway, and beyond that is a warren of rooms filled with delicious toys. I’ve been there a few times, and the depravity always astonishes me anew. I didn’t know that people could be like this.
But right now, things are relatively calm. A few couples linger nearby with their drinks, the women dressed in nothing but lingerie and heels, and the men in dashing black tuxedos. Everyone has on masks, but here’s the kicker: even though we’re supposed to be anonymous, as a regular, I can recognize some of the other regulars.
For example, near me stands a handsome blonde man who looks like a Viking. He and his wife, who’s equally blonde, murmur to one another. I know she likes to watch him with other women, and they sometimes cry out in some Scandinavian language when they’re having fun.
Then, a woman slinks in wearing furry brown lingerie that somehow manages to be cute and sexy at the same time. But she’s got a collar around her neck, and a man holds the leash, his blue eyes fixed on her curvy figure. Exhibitionists, both of them. Dog Girl and her owner are furries, and sometimes they copulate in the middle of the room, as if they’re real animals. It sounds disgusting, but it’s actually quite sexy to watch.
Meanwhile, I scan the room for a so-called “friend.” There’s a woman who wears a pink flower mask, and she’s as close to a friend as I have at the Cube. I hope she’s here tonight. She calls me Sparkles for my black glitter mask and always has a tip for me about the other members, since she’s been coming here for years.
A man in a feather and horn mask approaches me. As he draws near, I realize it’s a horned owl design. He is already missing his shirt and he has the right to walk around without one because he clearly lives at the gym. His shoulders are broad, and his stomach is toned and flat with visible six pack abs. He has a strong jaw with high cheekbones.
“You seem to be looking for someone,” he says, his voice low and rough.
“I might be.”
“Might I be that someone?”
I giggle. “Not unless you’re a young woman who usually wears a pink flower mask.”