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Maison du Sexe

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It took about three months after my divorce until I started to feel something other than depressed. For three months, and for the year prior to the divorce, I’d felt like a failure; bitter, hopeless, and lonely. And after those three months of, well, grieving, I guess, I started to feel something else. Free.

It was time to do something crazy. Something I never could have brought myself to do while married to my high-school sweetheart. I wanted to be sexy; I wanted one-night stands and random sex in restaurant bathrooms. I wanted to enjoy what I assumed most people enjoyed in high school and college that I had never gotten to. I wanted to be a hot, sex-crazed slut.

The problem was, I didn’t know how. I had zero dating experience, and I was now in my mid-30s. I felt like dating would be painfully awkward. I didn’t have much time to date anyway. I had a demanding job and was also a part-time adjunct professor for the local community college. And honestly, I didn’t want a relationship. At all. I had been married for 15 years. I wanted to be single for the first time in my adult life. I wanted to decorate my house exactly the way I wanted. I wanted to go on vacations where I wanted to go, and do things I wanted to do. No more compromise or surrendering to the will of someone else.

I hesitantly looked at ads on craigslist and other avenues, but they terrified me. Too much of an imagination, I guess, and too many horror movies and books. I had heard of Tinder, but I hated the thought of someone “swiping left” on my picture, or anyone even finding out I was on there. What if a co-worker or a student of mine was on there? I didn’t dare ask any of my friends– they would have been shocked that I wanted random hookups and I would have been mortified. This little secret quest was all mine, and it looked like it would continue to be all mine as I slumped into grudging acceptance that I was out of luck. I’d just go on watching people having crazy sex online and using my good ol’ Rabbit.

Then one evening, as I finished up teaching my accounting class at the community college and was packing up my materials, I noticed a student had left their backpack on the floor next to their desk. I walked over to pick it up, intending to identify which of my students had left it so I could email them. I looked for a tag on the bag and saw nothing. So I unzipped the main pocket and found a couple textbooks, an iPad, and a red folder. I opened the red folder, assuming I’d see some assignment or something with a name on top, but what I found was way, way more interesting.

There were a couple assignment-looking papers in there, but what caught my eye was a red piece of paper that looked like a flyer, but thicker, textured paper. “Maison du Sexe” was on top in scrolling, golden, shiny font. The rest of it was elegant illustrations of what looked like pictorial aides from the Kamasutra. The only other information was an address and a very long, complicated URL.

Suddenly panicked that the student would burst into the classroom at any second and bust me looking at their dirty flyer, stuffed it back in the folder and zipped the bag up. My heart fluttered. What was this “Maison du Sexe?” Why was I so excited? It was probably a frat house party or a play or something. I went to the door, opened it, and looked up and down the empty hallway. Then I went back to the backpack and retrieved the flyer. Why would a party or a play need a URL? Then again, I wasn’t exactly “in the know” about what college students did for fun. There was something about it, though, that made me want to learn more. I didn’t know exactly what that something was, but I took a picture of the flyer with my phone, replaced it, found a name on an assignment in the other pocket of the folder, and finished gathering my things to leave. I dropped the bag at the front desk on the way out.

I usually have a ritual when I come home from teaching an evening class. Pour myself a glass of wine, pop some popcorn, and put on one of my shows. This evening, went right to the kitchen table, grabbed my laptop from my bag, found the picture on my phone, and typed in that crazy URL. Well, I typed it in three times, as I must have missed a letter or character the first two times. It was a really, really long URL.

The webpage was just a red screen with small writing on it saying, “Verify your age.” I complied, and after hoping that I remembered to update my anti-virus software, clicked “Enter.” Another simple red screen, this time with “Maison du Sexe” in the center and a menu on the left. I clicked About:

“Maison du Sexe provides you with a fantasy that is meticulously tailored to your tastes and preferences. Completely safe, discreet, and wonderfully exciting. Fill out an order form and include as much or as little detail as you wish. Schedule your appointment and prepare for an adventure you will not soon forget.”

My eyes widened. A sex order form? MUST. SEE. ORDER FORM. I clicked back and found the last menu acıbadem escort option was the order form. For the next half hour, I read it over and over. There was the personal information section, which wanted to know your gender, age, sexual orientation, and the lot. I also saw that here you check a box saying you’ve included health information. Whatever; I’d look into that later. Then the rest of it got very interesting.

Type of encounter you’re interested in: Sex, watching.

Check the following categories for your experience: One-on-one hetero One-on-one same sex Threesome (MMM, MMF, FFM, FFF) Anal Vaginal Oral Masturbation Gangbang Mature Bondage

What feeling do want associated with the experience: Loving Rough Anonymous Degraded Worshipped Dominated Sweet and gentle Other

Your types: Skin tone: Hair color: Build: Age range: Facial hair: Tattoos: Other:

List any fetishes you’d like to incorporate.

List anything you absolutely will not do or what would make you unhappy.

Check the following props you’d like used: Vibrators Dildos Bonds Lingerie (This list went on and on…)

There were more categories and more spaces to type in specific requests. It was literally designing your perfect sexual experience. I had a million thoughts swimming in my head. Who would be providing these services? How does this business even operate? What kind of person does this? Is this safe? Is this too fabricated to be exciting? Could I get in trouble? Is this a real place, or some elaborate joke to find out strangers’ sexual appetites? And most importantly, how much does it cost?

I wanted to find out more. I certainly couldn’t ask my student. Could I just go there? Could I be that brave?

I clicked around some more and found the price list. It reminded me of the price list at my salon: eyebrows, facials, leg waxing, color, cut, style… except of course the items on this list were quite a bit different. And a hell of a lot more expensive. I deflated a little. Maybe the expense would make the decision for me.

After shutting my laptop, I tried to go into my regular routine. I popped the popcorn. I put on my show. But I wasn’t eating and I wasn’t paying any attention. I decided I needed a little relief and went upstairs.

I pulled my pink Rabbit out of my night stand drawer and a small bottle of lube. Then I laid down on the bed and began imagining the Maison du Sexe. What would I put on my order form? Maybe a muscle-bound 20-something meathead to just pound away at me. Maybe I’d just watch a couple fucking and doing all the things I watch online. I started touching myself. Maybe I’d watch for a while and then they’d beg me to join in and I would. Maybe I’d have a sexy little redhead woman lick me in between my legs. I’d never had an experience with a woman.

I put the lube on my vibrator and started rubbing it gently over my mound. I turned the vibrations to the lowest level and just stroked slowly while I pictured the sexy couple in my mind worshipping me with their mouths and hands. They squeezed my breasts and sucked on my neck. She pushed her fingers inside me while pushing her tongue in my mouth. Then she migrated down and pushed her tongue flat against my mound and moved it rhythmically in circles. The man turned my head toward him and pushed his long, hard cock through my lips. I pushed the head of the vibrator inside me and started slowly pushing it in and out, deeper every time. My fantasy turned to two men. I was on my knees and had one in my mouth and one inside my pussy from behind. The man in my mouth grabbed my hair. The man behind slapped my ass as he pumped his giant rod in and out of me. I turned the vibrator up and started working it faster. The fluttering clitoral stimulant giving me jolts of pleasure when connecting. I pumped it inside me faster and faster, and let out a groan as I felt my orgasm building inside of me.

Now my fantasy was a group of men. They bent me over a couch and took turns just using my pussy and treating me like a prop. Just hard and fast, every one. In and out. No relief. They shot their cum all over my back and ass and some in my waiting mouth. And my orgasm came hard. I held my vibrator still while I groaned and sighed through it.

I laid in bed for a little while thinking. See what did I need real life for? I didn’t need to spend that kind of money. I had my imagination. I had porn. I could pick up a random guy at a bar if I needed to…

But there was still a part of me that said life was short. Be exciting. Be wild. Get what you want for once. A random guy wouldn’t be a perfect experience. He’d be thinking of his own pleasure. It’s your turn to indulge yourself.

I went into the master bath and looked at myself in the mirror. Maybe they wouldn’t even accept me at Maison du Sexe. I was attractive, I guess. I was fairly fit, average breasts, medium-length brown hair, brown eyes. A little short. akbatı escort But I was so… blah. Plain.

But maybe all their clients are ugly or old or weird or something. Why else would they pay for sex? But, I thought, maybe they’re just like me. They just want the anonymous act, so they can truly ask for what they want without judgment, without attachments, without emotions getting all tangled up. I shrugged at myself in the mirror. I didn’t know. And it was probably fake, anyway, and I was being a fool. I hadn’t made the decision yet, but I was thinking hard about the Maison du Sexe while I fell asleep that night.


The next day I went to my office job. I easily fell into my day routine. Get ready, stop for coffee on the way, make my way to my desk, unload my things, and start catching up on all the emails I received since 5:00 p.m. yesterday.

But every once in awhile, my mind betrayed me and I thought of that red flyer and of the red website. I tried to focus on my to-do list, but around 9:30 a.m., I had already decided to take a ride on my lunch hour and drive by the Maison du Sexe, and I was practically squirming in my seat.

“Hey, there, Lara!”

I jumped a little and blushed, as though Caleb-the-Intern could see the dirty little thoughts in my mind.

“Sorry,” he said, hands up. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t, Caleb. Too much coffee this morning. What can I do for you?”

“My supervisor is supposed to sign this for me, but he’s out all day. Can you sign it instead?”

He handed me a piece of paper, and I briefly scanned it, seeing that it was for his professor, proving that he was doing the time and earning course credit.

“Of course,” I said, and I searched for a pen on my cluttered desk.

“Oh, here,” he said, and handed me his. Our fingers touched briefly and I shivered a little. Caleb was tall– easily 6’4″– and had a lean, swimmer’s build. He had sandy blond hair that was always in his eyes and a year-long tan. He looked like he should be wearing board shorts and nothing else, but looked sexy as hell in a button-down shirt and tie. He had a polite, but easy-going nature that made him immediately likable. He wasn’t a dumb frat jock or a suck-up. Just a nice… well, kid. He must have been 21 or 22. That’s a kid.

I was almost embarrassed that the intern dressed more professionally that me. That day I had on dark-wash skinny jeans, knee-high riding boots, a black tunic sweater and a black and gray floral scarf. My hair was just pulled up in a messy bun. At least I’d managed to put on some mascara and lip gloss.

I signed the document and handed it and the pen back to Caleb.

“Thanks so much, Lara.”

“No problem.” And off he went, leaving behind a faint scent of aftershave. I sighed a little. Man, was I getting pathetic.

I shook myself and went back to work, noting the time. Two hours until my little drive. I wouldn’t even go in… I’d just drive by to see if it was a real place.

The next two hours went by pretty quickly, as I had a quick meeting with my boss and about twelve more tasks to put on my to-do list because of that. I made myself focus on the work, and didn’t even take a break and gab with people in the cafeteria. But as soon as 11:30 a.m. hit, I was throwing my coat on, grabbing my bag and heading out the door.

I opened the website on my iPhone when I was in my car and found the address. I put it in my GPS and off I went. I was sure I’d been in that area before. It was downtown– there were lots of old architecture and narrow, one-way streets. I found the right street and began looking for signs and numbers. I didn’t see any signs, and I silently scolded myself for being stupid. Of course an illegal business wouldn’t have neon signs out. So, I went around the block and looked exclusively for numbers. I was looking for 213. I saw 211 and then 215. I frowned. Despite the scarcity of parking spots available downtown, I saw one right in front of 217, so I quickly pulled in and got out.

Where the number 213 should have been was just an old, metal door that looked like it led to apartments above the businesses below. No number. No sign. No one around. I hesitated before trying the door. It was locked. I did, however, notice an old, rusty intercom. I was too nervous to press it, thinking that a random person, or perhaps a very strange, perverted person who made crazy, fake sex house websites lived there and would answer. I walked back to my car and got in. It was just a stupid fantasy anyway, wasn’t it? Why was I so disappointed? I stopped at Starbucks on the way back to the office and tried to forget about my stupid little excursion.

After an hour or so at my desk, I decided I needed a quick walk around the building. Some fresh air would do me some good, and I just couldn’t focus on the spreadsheet in front of me. I walked down the aksaray escort hall and pushed the door to the stairwell open, just in time to hear a soft gasp and some quick movements. I slowly began walking down to the landing and saw two people, whom had been out of my sight range, rapidly adjusting their clothes and trying hard to look cool and nonchalant. It was Caleb, the intern, and Melody, the marketing assistant.

“Oh, hey, Lara,” Caleb said casually, even though he seemed to be sweating.

“Hey, Caleb,” I said, equally casually, and I eyed Melody. She smiled sheepishly. She had to be 15 years older than Caleb. Her lipstick was smeared and her button-down shirt was askew. She jogged up the stairs while I kept going down one more flight of stairs to the ground floor. I noticed Caleb leaned against the wall and took out his phone. Probably to text his buddies that he got busted making out at the office, I thought.

When outside, I couldn’t help but picture myself in that stairwell with Caleb. I imagined my hands untucking his shirt and exploring underneath. I could almost feel his rock-hard abs and hip bones that made lines pointing to his cock. I’d feel his hardness under his charcoal gray dress pants and press up against him while he licked and sucked on my neck. He’d squeeze my ass with both hands and push me harder against him. Then he’d slip a hand into my pants and into my panties and I’d feel a finger slide against my–

I literally shook my head. I needed to get laid. I was ridiculous.

After my walk, I was determined to finish my to-do list. I stayed late in order to accomplish my self-directed goal, and when I got home, I opened that damn website again. I knew, logically, that it was probably fake; a ruse for gullible, lonely people, and probably a prank. But I opened up that order form and started making selections.

At first, I was pretty vanilla, even for me: heterosexual, man in his 30s, preferably blonde, one-on-one encounter. Then, after I had a couple glasses of wine and thought about it for a while, I decided that if I was going to spend an extravagant amount of money, it was likely this would be a one-time thing (if it was real). So I decided to change some things. And add some things.

After changing a number of things a number of times, I felt satisfied. I read the instructions and didn’t allow myself to pause before sending the order form. I should get an email back within 24 hours. I downed my third glass, popped up a new window to watch some casting couch porn, finished myself off upstairs, and went to bed.


I woke up and checked my email immediately. It was there. I got a little thrill in my stomach and opened it.

Dear Lana (I had used a fake name),

Thank you for your order. Your appointment has been scheduled for tomorrow night (September 13) at 8:00 p.m. Please bring confirmation of health signed by your doctor and payment to 213 Cheshire Street. Use the intercom and the password “Aurora Borealis.”

This correspondence is strictly confidential and shall not be shared with anyone but the recipient and originator. If you have received this communication and are not the original recipient, please delete and disregard.

Thank you, Betsy

Betsy? I thought. Weird. Then I got excited. What if this were true? Would I do it? Would I risk getting raped and murdered, or kidnapped and sold into slavery? Or is this a real thing? How could I make sure? I couldn’t ask my student. That would be crazy inappropriate. I thought for a minute, and then I replied back.


I’m sorry to ask, but how do I know this is a real thing?


I hit send, I hoped for the best. I got ready for work. That night I had my night class, so I packed up my instructor stuff as well as my regular bag, and headed off.

Before I got halfway to work, I heard my email notification on my phone. I had an email. It was probably from some store that had asked for my email address or some spam about house insurance. But in my gut, I knew it was Betsy. I pulled over into a gas station parking lot and fished out my phone.

I was right. But my thrill turned into dread.

Dear Lana,

I apologize. I assumed you were a referral, as all new clients are referrals. If you do not know any of our current clients or hosts, I will not be able to confirm your appointment.

If you do have a referral, I apologize. Please let me know the name of your referral, and I will confirm your appointment.

Thank you, Betsy

No, no, no, no, no! I thought frantically. This email had convinced me, about 80 percent anyway, that this thing was legit, and it was taken away, just like that. I panicked. What was that student’s name? It was Conner. Conner Ashberry. I remembered, of course. He was a quiet student, but studious and always aced his accounting exams. He was shorter, but muscular, I thought, when I could see his biceps and chest under a tight t-shirt, and had mocha skin and dark brown hair he kept very short.

Could I use his name? Would he know? Would he know I found the flyer in his bag? I smacked the steering wheel with the palm of my hand and grunted frustratingly. I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. I was going to be late to my regular job. Think, Lara.

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