By: Jennifer Michael

“I didn’t expect there to be so many people here. Small town and all,” Janet comments.

Our conversation ends before I can respond. A vibration fills the room as the music is cranked louder, and a spotlight hits the stage. Men in leather wheel out a woman hooked up to a sex swing. Her legs are spread open, dangling through straps, and her arms are bound to opposite sides of the contraption. The only thing she’s wearing is a blindfold, and if someone wasn’t paying attention before, they are now. I follow suit, ready for the live sex show. My fellow probationary friend beside me swallows audibly and nods at me before she returns to her husband’s side. He envelops her in a loving hold as they watch.

The men in leather exit the stage, and three others enter the spotlight, surrounding the woman. One carries a crop and another a wand vibrator while the third secures clamps to the woman’s nipples. Their faces are stern as their hands begin to explore the woman’s body. The man with the crop drags the leather down her front. The vibrator comes to life in the hands of the second man, and the third tests a gentle tug of the clamps. As they continue, she yelps and moans while she’s hit repeatedly with the crop. She thrusts her body when the massager touches her pussy. She begs for more when the last man tugs on the clamps.

They shout orders at her, and she responds as a submissive would.

Her answers are always followed with a softly spoken, “Sir,” when she asks permission for her pleasure.

It isn’t the brutal indulgence or the display of control that has my panties wet. It’s the freedom. There’s no judgment here. Sex isn’t considered a taboo subject or only meant for two people behind closed doors in the dark. The club is a place to celebrate sexuality without fear of judgment. This is exactly where I belong.

Then, the mood changes with one swift falling object. Naked flesh plummets from the rafters above the stage. The Doms curse, but the submissive woman is unaware since she’s blindfolded. They struggle to get her free from the swing, and in their haste to get her off the stage, the strip of fabric over her eyes is knocked off. Her screams pierce the room at a shockingly loud decibel, but no one listens. Everyone is too busy screaming themselves and running for the nearest exit.

I revel in it.

A naked man with a dark fauxhawk lies in a lump on the stage. A ball gag is shoved into his mouth and strapped around his head. Perfect for the BDSM theme—well, it would be if it weren’t for the number five that is carved into his flesh from his collarbone to the top of his naval. He’s dead, without a doubt, and everyone else in this room knows it, too.

Excitement grows in the pit of my stomach as the chaos unravels around me. I uncross my legs and then cross them again, trying to ease the building throbbing. I don’t take my eyes off his lifeless form showcased under the bright lights until I’m pushed off my stool and pulled along with the wave of club members. This place just became a crime scene, and most don’t want to be caught at the club the town pretends doesn’t exist. I begin to move, but my steps falter, and I take one more look toward the stage.

I leave Utopia and am in my car, traveling home, before the first siren cuts through the night.

There is nothing vanilla about murder.



I’ve been crushing it in Connecticut. Today is my last week of hulking out correction counseling. Go me!

Since getting my boss to agree to let me work remotely, he says my last three articles are some of my best. I’m glad he finally realizes I don’t need to be sitting at a desk to type an awesome article about sex. He contributes my week suspension and these classes for the extra flair in my writing. Whatever, I’ll let him think what he wants, but it’s probably more likely an effect of not having to look at Chip anymore. He has a way of killing the libido. Punching him during that strategy meeting may have been impulsive, but it definitely worked in my favor.

I’ve got to run!

I miss you. I love you almost as much as ice cream.


I close the weathered notebook, stuff it into my purse, exit my car, and scowl. The air holds a slight chill, and my Florida blood isn’t made for anything below seventy-five degrees. I pull my hood over my head as I walk down the sidewalk to the office building. At least I missed the bitter cold of New England this year since I only moved here a little over a month ago. And, now, it won’t be long before spring takes over.