Wicked Love

fucking. Echoes of the female pleasure on the other side of the glory hole wall reverberate outside, making the whole erotic experience of being a voyeur to this exciting. My own pussy tingles with fascination, and yes, with a longing to be a part of it, even though I know this is probably the epitome of getting 'some strange.'
Several of the inhabitants of the room successfully get their nut, pulling their glistening cocks out and then use baby wipes to clean off.
One of the females, who's been bucking her ass against the padded wall, shrieks her pleasure as the cock on the other side brings her to a long, deep orgasm that leaves her twitching and gasping for air. The last person we see is a fortyish looking heavyset member, who is on his knees, sucking the dick of whoever is behind the glory hole.
"Who's behind the walls?" I whisper to Shelby as we proceed out of the Holy Glory room. "Are those other members of the club?"
"Nooo," she says, chuckling. "They are paid staff."
"If they're paying people to do sexual acts or receive sexual acts, well, isn't that technically sex for hire?"
Shelby stops before we take another step. "Look, Carson, they are paid staff. They get "X" amount of money per hour, whether they're busy or not. So no, technically, it is within the law. I'm contemplating picking up some extra bucks myself working a four-hour shift, which is all that's required. It pays a hundred bucks an hour - cash. Cha-Ching."
I think about that for a moment. It sure as hell doesn't appeal to me.
"C'mon," she says, "Let's go to my favorite lounge."
I follow Shelby down the hallway. She stops at the third set of doors on the left. I glance at the brass plate next to the doors.
"Studio Masquerade," I say aloud, "Okay, prepare me."
"Now this studio is simply a voyeur stop for me. I've never participated, but it's really worth watching. So we can grab a seat behind the glass partition. That's where the observation seating is. That's all I'm going to tell you," she replies, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "I think you'll love it. Follow me."
I follow her inside the room, noting the theatre-style seating and the glass partition separating the audience from the stage. Several people are already seated. I give Shelby a quizzical look.
"Be patient," she murmurs, "These are kind of like erotic plays. They only run once a night, and it's due to start in a few minutes. The people involved choreograph it, but the interesting thing is, they actually don't know who the other participants are until they hit the stage, wild huh?"
I feel my forehead crease in confusion. "So, it's like a play, where the participants only learn their parts? And then go into the production cold?" I ask.
"Exactly. Each week there's a new performance," she explains, "the week prior, club members who wish to be included in the following week's production pull a role based on their gender from a locked box out in the lobby, and they then have to act out that role."
After ten minutes, the studio lighting brightens, and a door behind the stage opens, and the players file out, one by one. They are in various forms of dress, based on their genders, but all are wearing black masquerade which covers the upper portions of their face.
The sound of instrumental music flows through the sound system, and a male, with an ornate masquerade mask, wearing a black top hat, red velvet cape, and carrying a crop, takes center stage. He reminds me of a ringmaster in a circus, which is clearly his role in this live production, I soon find out. He's the only one with lines.
In the performance line-up, there are four men and four women.
"It's showtime," Shelby announces softly. "This is gonna totally blow your mind, Carson."
And I watch as the sexual depravity begins. Punishment, chokeholds, anal rape, it's all there.
The memory startles me awake. My heart is pounding, and my breathing is strained. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I calm, realizing I'm safely tucked into my own bed at home. So glad to be out of the hospital, out of New York City, but I'm certainly not out of the woods.
The dreams I've been having aren't normal at all. They seem to be bits and pieces of a reality I don't remember. And I know why. When I wake, the reactions are always the same: heart pounding, palms sweating, and shallow breathing. My sudden awakening from these is my escape, which is both comforting and frustrating, which I know makes no damn sense.
But my shrink says, in time, I will remember. She says my emotional healing takes time, maybe even more time than my physical healing.
I roll to my side, and then quickly roll back. My physical therapy is finally over, and as much as I hated it, I can't deny that it's done the job in chasing away the pain. My ribs no longer hurt, and I don't even require the medical marijuana I was prescribed any longer.
I finished the P.T. in mid-December, but immediately after, the psychological therapy commenced. And just as expected, the emotional healing was becoming the most painful bitch of all.
My shrink, Dr. Kingsley, has explained that these dreams are termed as Recollection Memory Dreams. In time, she assures me, I will have the full picture if I continue to get therapy, to allow those dreams to provide the full story.

PART TWO
Present Day


6 Back in the Saddle - Almost
One thing you need to know about me is that I'm a lot stronger than my family gives me credit. So on Memorial Day weekend, when I announce I'm returning to Columbia, starting with summer session the following week, I watch as my family turns to stone. "Hey, I can knock out a few electives for my degree program, and get back in the saddle again for next semester," I explain.
The room becomes