13 December 2022
By B.B. Nash
Baby’s first time at the sex club.
This story is from the collection of AURORE. Erotica, updated—all based on real experiences.
Down in the industrial district beneath the interstate overpass, there’s an unassuming gray door set into the blank brick of an empty warehouse. Dozens of well-dressed adults are lined up outside, wrapped in long winter coats and toting sleek handbags and duffels.
In a secondhand fleece, fanny pack, and sneakers, I feel out of place.
The sight must look like a meeting of the local Freemason chapter to what few outside eyes pass by—mostly factory workers heading home or off-duty bus drivers—but to those of us lined up against the side of the building, close in the cold, the secret society metaphor couldn’t be more appropriate.
There are places like these all across the country, I’ve learned in my recent research. An autobiographical tale read online of a stranger’s local bathhouse sparked my curiosity—had my historical eastern city anything so alternative? Indeed, I found, and more than just one. But there’s no debate for the premier provider of its unique services: Silver Social Club, its physical location only demarcated by a stenciled acronym on the door. Social, swinger, adult—all synonyms for these sorts of spots’ unbidden promise: sex. My compatriots speak in hushed tones among themselves, small parties and spouses. I’ve come alone, though, and feel far too young and inexperienced to insert myself into a discussion as I readily would at a more traditional get-together. And anyway, outside the unassuming building’s walls, its purpose remains concealed—we all anticipate what awaits us, certainly, but I suppose to discuss it out here would be gauche.
The gray door opens, and a well-dressed young man with dark skin and a friendly smile welcomes us in.
“Pre-registrations,” he summons, “please follow me up the stairs to get all checked in. The rest of you can come wait inside.”
We siphon into warm respite, lined up a wrought iron stairway. Closer now to our destination, my compatriots in line get chattier.
“I like your fanny pack,” says the young woman in front of me through sardonic, smiling lips.
“Thank you!” I reply, only now noticing the tantalizing curls of lace lingerie peeking out from beneath her coat. I swallow, mouth a little dry. Now seems as good a time as any to seek solace for how out-of-my-depth I feel. “It’s really convenient, but I think it makes me look a little silly compared to how well-dressed everybody else is. I’ve never, uh… done anything like this.”
She beams. “No, you’re fine. Look around; all the boyfriends and husbands are wearing basketball shorts and polos.”
She’s right, I realize, looking around us and laughing. “Touché. Are you here as a single, too?”
“Technically. I’m just here with my friend, Mina.” She nods up a step behind her at another young woman who has been, up until the mention of her name, distractedly people-watching. She turns her freckled face in my direction and says hello, grinning.
“Your friend?” I can’t help an incredulous laugh. “Do you two do stuff like this often?”
“We’ve fooled around,” my acquaintance explains, shrugging. “I’ve come a couple times before, and Mina was curious, so I invited her along as a plus one.”
“Man,” I murmur, astounded. “Uh, I don’t think I got your name, by the way.”
“Marin,” she says, a hand to her laced breast.
“Marin and Mina,” I chuckle, part poking fun at the assonant names and part committing them to memory—I’m already clinging to this duo’s calm know-how for dear life. I barely have a moment to introduce myself in turn before the staff member returns from two great oak doors at the top of the stairs, gesturing for the rest of us to file into the club. I’m so light with anticipation I only just notice that Marin reaches back to lead me after her by the wrist.
We enter into a dim coatroom and are outfitted with wristbands that mark us with our respective levels of experience with the club: premium members in red, regulars in green, and newcomers like myself in blue.
“Fresh meat!” a few guests jeer at myself and the other blue-bands when we’re ushered through to the changing rooms. I blush—I’ve always known I liked a little spectatorship in theory, but to experience it in this entirely alien setting confirms my suspicions. More than anything I want a glass of wine to bring a little more heat to my cheeks and down between my legs; I’m champing at the bit to experience what Silver has to offer, but know I’ll need a little help settling the butterflies in my stomach before I can partake.
Thankfully, I’m not alone.
Marin reappears from a locker she’s claimed in the changing area, disrobed with lace-wrapped breasts on full display. They come to perky points and look gorgeous clad in white to contrast their owner’s dark skin. My mouth is watering, but I manage to hold her intent gaze. “Come get a drink with us, and we’ll give you the grand tour,” she says.
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” I stammer.
The club is dark and spacious, throbbing with the rhythms of the dance floor. The crowd—about a hundred strong—moves in small gatherings around comfortable couches, standing tables, along the walls; some eye Marin and Mina and I hungrily as we pass, while others pay us no mind. At the bar, I am served a generous pour of cabernet sauvignon, while Mina and Marin are mixed simple margaritas of tequila and lime juice.
“I think I might be the youngest person here,” I say idly to Mina as the three of us clink glasses.
“How old are you?”
“Me too,” Marin pipes up.
Mina smirks. “Close, but no cigar. I’m 22.”
I sneak a glance at the other folks at the bar, most evidently older than the three of us. An attractive middle-aged couple, a man and a woman, meet my eyes and give me a smile.
“So… what happens when somebody wants to pair off with you?” I ask, gaze lingering on the couple for a moment before I turn back to Mina and Marin.
“They’ll just ask,” Marin chuckles.
“Consent is key here, after all,” Mina chimes in.
“That said,” Marin rejoins, sidling close to me and placing a hand on my arm resting on the bar, “we might not be able to let anyone else claim you for the night.”
I only gape for one unintelligent moment before my face goes warm, and I have to hide a bashful smile behind my wine glass.
“Maybe that tour before you proposition me?”
“Sure.” Marin’s long nails drag along my arm as she pulls her hand away and gestures for me to follow.
In the main room beside the bar is a circle of leather couches and armchairs surrounding a television streaming—what else?—pornography. A few guests are chatting amongst themselves, none paying all that much attention to the porn. Beyond that is a wall of BDSM accessories: crops, paddles, various forms of harnessing and rope, and a St. Andrew’s cross. There’s even a Sybian, though Marin tells me she’s never seen it in use. Not much need with all these helping hands around, I figure.
There are a few offshoots of the main room—one chamber cheesily made up to look like a classroom, and another outfitted with blacklights. Beyond the bar a narrow hallway is lined with even more bedrooms, all with optional privacy curtains. I peer inside one and meet eyes with none other than the couple who were eyeing me at the bar, woman laid flat on the bed while her male partner plows into her. Instantly, our trio takes pause—and slowly, a small crowd forms.
“The velvet rope drawn across the door means anyone is welcome to watch, but they’d rather nobody came and joined in,” Marin explains.
“Which means we’re welcome to make fun of that guy for keeping his socks on while he fucks his girlfriend,” a stranger’s voice says beside me, earning a laugh from the crowd.
“I’m trying to get a good look at his dick, but I can’t get the right angle,” another spectator says. For a moment it feels perverse to so shamelessly scrutinize this duo’s intercourse, but I remind myself that they’ve invited just this. I allow myself to indulge, imagining their pleasure: I picture myself in the woman’s position, nude and laid belly-up, arms and legs akimbo. Her partner’s thick cock plumbing deep into her, claiming her before all these viewers. Alternatively, I fantasize about being the man—thrusting deep inside his partner while all these desperate spectators wish they could worship her curvaceous body just as he is. Slickness forms between my thighs as I daydream. I’m ready to get down and dirty myself, and it seems Marin and Mina are feeling the same—they lead me past the scene at the private bedroom and into the final room at the end of the narrow hall: the orgy room.
It’s a quiet scene this early into the night: just one older couple making out on a loveseat, and a young woman moaning beneath her partner’s mouth as he eats her out. Marin and Mina and I adjourn on one of the room’s beds, holding our glasses, silent in a pregnant pause. Belatedly, I realize my wine glass is empty. I can feel the effects of the over-large pour down in my thighs, feeling warm and antsy.
“So… is anyone gonna make out with me, or are we just gonna beat around the bush all night?” Marin casually says into what remains of her drink.
Mina is on her before I can work up the nerve, and internally I am grateful for a moment to gather myself. I lean in close, a hand on Marin’s thigh, to watch the girls’ lips lock languidly together. I lick my lips in envy when I see Mina’s tongue file over her friend’s plush lower lip and dip between her teeth, yielding a pleased hum.
“Alright,” I huff, voice unintentionally ragged, “my turn, Mina.”
The pair laugh as I break their kiss with a hand gently gripping Marin’s chin. I turn her towards me and receive her as she dives in, placing a hand on my arm and letting it slide slowly down to cup my breast through my top. I let out a soft moan into her mouth at the feeling of her warm grip, and briefly crack my eyes to see Mina leaning in to suck Marin’s neck into a slow hickey. Next we break apart—noting the room’s other occupants’ eyes on us in the interim—and Mina and I crane over Marin’s lap to kiss, our hands clasping between Marin’s thighs.
Marin lets out a breathless laugh above us. “I’m glad we got dibs on this one, Mina. You two are fucking hot together.” Emboldened by the admiration and feeling stuffy, I lean back to pull off my shirt, letting my large tits and pointed black bra fall free of its tight embrace.
“Oh, fuck,” I hear Mina mutter.
“Damn,” somebody else says—I realize more folks have streamed into the orgy room, and recognize a few from watching the couple at the bar fuck in the other room. I let out a self conscious laugh, but am quickly distracted by a hand on each of my tits: Mina on one, Marin on the other, kneading my breasts in curious hands to get a feel for the stature of my best physical qualities. Mina gets greedy; she grips the cup of my lingerie and pulls it down to expose me, thumbing my nipple as I gasp. Marin opts for the polite route; she leans in close to take my mouth in hers as she unclasps my bra altogether, letting it fall to the bed.
“Now you two are overdressed,” I say.
We remove one another’s clothes, more guests entering the orgy room to watch. Many remain poised and sip drinks while my girls and I get cozy, but I see at least a few viewers getting frisky themselves, kissing their neighbors or just pulling out their cocks and getting to work.
I am pushed onto my back against the bed. Mina leans over me first, kissing me twice before making her way down my body, pressing her lips against my skin until she reaches my chest and sucks a nipple into her mouth. I feel two fingers file between my labia, picking up the slickness and toying with my flesh as it puffs up with arousal. She rolls my clit between her fingers and then lets one slide smoothly inside me, hooking upward and thrusting to get me used to the feel of her touch.
Mina suddenly breaks off my breast to let out a moan, and I look down my body to see that Marin has slid upside-down beneath her to position her face beneath Mina’s legs. Marin has reached up to pull Mina closer to her by the hips and is licking Mina’s pussy, sucking her folds down into her lips.
Starting to get foggy with pleasure as Mina sloppily shoves another finger inside my hole, I look around to check the status of the others in the room: the elderly couple that was kissing when we walked in have moved on to intercourse on the undersized loveseat, a stilted tangle of limbs as one thrusts evenly into the other. The other couple who first claimed the room with their lovemaking are finished now, a sleepy pile watching our congress. Cum oozes in globules from the woman’s hole while her partner idly toys with it, using it as lube to rub her clit. One of our masturbating spectators cums while I watch him, spurting white into his hand. If one had told me back in college, chronic virgin that I was, that I would within just a few years find myself in a sex club having sex with two women and being admired by a dozen more viewers, my head might have exploded. But in the moment like this, I can’t find it in me to marvel at the wonder, the daring of it all—it feels as safe and fun and natural as every party I’ve ever attended, with the mere added asterisk of wild casual sex.
Mina comes first, subject to Marin’s skilled mouth. She moves away to lay my head in her lap, hunching so that her small breasts hang in my face. My legs bent, she reaches down my body to continue fingering me from a new angle, hitting my g-spot perfectly and making me writhe beneath her. Marin comes to sit at my side, and I thrust two fingers into her entrance—neglected while she ate Mina out, her pussy is puffed up, dripping with fluid, and nearly purplish-red. She rides my hand with indulgent moans.
Another spectator cums, spattering onto the orgy room floor; the older top empties himself into his partner with a moan, and Marin and I finish more or less as one, clenching our legs and riding out hot, fleeting orgasms. Marin squirts fluid onto my hand, and I move with a satisfied groan to lick it clean. For what feels like a long while we lay in a sweaty, panting pile, comfortable this close to one another and happy to watch our audience take new places, some leaving the room and others staying to start new flings. I feel happy, satisfied, and sobered.
“Anybody know what time it is?”
“Just about midnight,” the bottom half of the older couple calls over to us, holding an arm sporting a wristwatch aloft.
The club closes at 2AM. My new friends and I may as well have all the time in the world.
I peer up at Marin and Mina. “How about another drink?”
“Yes, please.” Marin stretches all her limbs out with a happy groan. “Let’s hit the floor, too. I wanna dance.”
“Hey, yeah.” Mina gently ruffles my short-cropped hair and nudges me upright. “And after that we can sit down and check out whatever porn’s playing in the main room. Maybe something good’s on.”
Marin and I laugh at that. “I’ll bet,” she says.
“Maybe you wanna try the Sybian and tell us how it feels, Mina,” I grin.
“Uh, yeah, maybe not. Next time,” Mina winks.
We all fall to giggles, and finally pull ourselves from our damp heap on the mattress. With a few more stretches, we gather our scattered clothes, pulling undergarments back on but otherwise remaining bare. Not like we have much to hide from our fellow guests anymore, after all.