The mock club pulses with bass.
I’m standing near the bar, nursing a drink that tastes real, surrounded by empty booths and velvet ropes. The set is impressive – whoever designed this space understood the details. The sticky floors. The dim lighting. The VIP section roped off with gold chains and a sign that reads “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”
My heart is pounding.
What the f**k am I doing here?
I think about the questionnaire. The one Jess sent me after I’d had too much wine and admitted my darkest fantasy – the one about being caught, detained, used by men in uniform who didn’t care about my protests.
The form had been detailed. Brutally specific.
Check all that apply: Restraints. Strip search. Verbal degradation. Physical discipline. Forced orgasm. Multiple partners. Object penetra
