When we come to stop at another room, boasting twin, raised platforms, each skewered with stripper poles, Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Strippers, eh?”
“My friends Candi and Jewel host two interactive shows every week,” Justice explains. “How many couples have fantasies that revolve around a strip club? It’s a multibillion dollar a year industry, so obviously, the demand is there. The problem is that too many spouses reject them, seeing it as something vile and degrading to their marriage. But, in reality, they are just as intrigued by what goes on behind those doors, and their hatred comes from a place of fear. So not only are we bringing it to them, we’re teaching them how to re-create this experience in their own bedrooms. And we encourage them to enjoy it for what it is—entertainment.”
I watch Tucker’s expression as he nods in appreciation. Of course, this is no shock to me. I already knew the two strippers were on the payroll. I’m just pleasantly surprised by all that Justice has accomplished with his new training program within a few months. I try not to get into the details with him, considering that I can’t spin what I don’t know. So information is usually offered on a need to know basis. And before now, I didn’t think I needed to know any of this stuff.
Justice waves in the direction of a pair of doors as couples pass us wearing nothing more than navy blue bathrobes etched with the Oasis logo on the breast pocket. “Through there you’ll find the spa area, both male/female, and coed. Indoor pool, hot tubs, steam rooms, tables for intimate massage, plus a separate entrance to the outdoor pool. And down through here is the . . . communal play area, if you will. We call it the playground. Either you play fair and safely, or you don’t play at all.”
“Play area?” I frown. This is news to me. “What do you mean by that?”
“Let me show you.”
Justice leads us to the door in question and pulls out a key, also tied with a satin ribbon. This one is black, alluding to the dark desires that harbor just on the other side. He unlocks the door and steps aside to let us in first. While the lighting is dim, I can clearly make out a descending staircase.
“Go down. You’ll come to another door. Also locked,” he instructs from behind us, his tone all business.
We do as he says, maneuvering our way down the cramped staircase. It’s narrow so Tucker and I must part grasps, him taking the lead as my husband and protector. When we reach the end of the staircase, Justice comes to stand before us, his back to the door protectively.
“Now before I open this door, I want you to understand something: No marriage is created equal. There’s no handbook, no set of rules and regulations. And in this day and age, people are just trying to hold on to the love that initially sent them down the aisle. They’ve learned to improvise . . . explore. Experiment. And I allow them to do so in a safe, non-judgmental environment where discretion is the golden rule. Any and everything you see behind this door will probably shock you. It may even scare you. But you will refrain from condemning the people that choose to be proactive in their marriages versus succumbing to society’s opinion of what their relationships should be. You won’t find routine within those walls. You won’t see rigidness or censure. What you’ll find is freedom and happiness and, yes, love. Because it takes an immense amount of love to selflessly give your partner what he or she needs sexually. That is one of the greatest sacrifices one can give to another.”
With those words, Tucker and I lock eyes and lock hands, just as we were before. However, I hold on to him a little tighter, hoping he can still my trepidation, and I feel just how incredibly grateful I am that he is my husband. It’s no secret that this may be uncomfortable for him, yet he’s here anyway. He’s always here, always patient. He’s the perfect husband, yet I have been a less-than-perfect wife.
We both look back at Justice and nod our agreement. He turns around and places the onyx-laced key in the lock.
The first thing that hits us is the noise. The bass is so heavy that I can feel the vibrations through my chest and the tempo is sinuously provocative. It’s like the quintessential sex mix tape, and not just any sex either. Nasty, messy, kinky sex. And that’s exactly what surrounds us at this very moment.
Large beds are scattered around the room, some canopy (to hold up a variety of chains and cuffs), some round (because apparently, they fit more people), and others rotating (providing a 360 view for . . . everyone). Aside from the three of us, everyone is naked, or wearing the same blue terry cloth robes I saw earlier. The same ones hanging in our en suite bathroom. Come to think of it, I recognize a few of the participants from just minutes before when they disappeared into the spa.
I try to withhold my gasp, or what Justice would call it—pearl clutching, but there’s just so much . . . sex. Like on every surface, every platform. Even against walls and from ceilings.
There are men and women on huge wooden crosses, naked and shackled, some with gags in their mouths. They moan and writhe as their lovers perform humiliating acts on them—whipping them, caning them, even pouring hot wax on them. And while many of them cry out, I find that they are not cries of distress, but cries of pleasure. They love it. Some even beg for more.
I spy at least three sex swings suspended from the ceiling as well as a half dozen oddly shaped lounge chairs that are being used for anything but lounging. There’s a scene merely feet away from where we stand, where a woman is being impaled from behind, her upper torso draped over the chair in a way that gives her lover maximum depth. I hate to admit it, but it looks incredibly hot. So hot that I’m mentally strategizing all the positions that chair would allow.
There’s not just hetero sex going on in here either, even with people I am positive lead hetero lifestyles. On one of the round beds, there seems to be some kind of conga line of sorts. A man is fucking a woman from behind while her face is pressed between a woman’s thighs. Another man fucks her mouth while he eats a man’s ass. And that guy is balls-deep in a young man who looks no older than eighteen. And that’s really not the most shocking scene around the room.
Reluctantly, I look over at Tucker and find his eyes fixated on the group sex scene. I can’t read his expression, and I so desperately need to know what he’s thinking. He’s never had an aversion to homosexuality—hello, we live in NYC—but he also has never made me think that he could be into other guys. That night with Ransom, as he watched with his dick in his hands, was as close to kink as he’s ever gotten. And maybe that’s what did it for him . . . not watching me get fucked, but watching another man. Maybe that’s why he came harder than I’ve ever seen him come. Maybe that’s why he seemed so buoyant and sexy. Justice said that one of the greatest sacrifices one can give their spouse is giving their partner what they need sexually. What if Tucker doesn’t need me? Maybe I can’t physically satisfy him? Would I be willing to let him experiment with another man?
Tucker must feel my hand tense as that realization gnaws at me, and looks down, a mixture of haughty desire and fear on his face. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head and return my gaze to the crowd. Now I realize why the music seemed so ridiculously sexual. It’s being remixed by real life moans and mewls.
“Any questions for me?” Justice asks. “And before you say No, I’m not buying it. Everyone should have questions. And I’m glad to answer them.”
I look up at the gorgeous man to see that he appears nonplussed. All this must not even phase him. I guess being around it day in and day out makes you pretty immune.
“These people are all married. So are these couples sleeping with other couples? Seems like it could get kinda messy.”