ASHTON

I know I shouldn’t want to do it, but I do.

Chances are, if you can’t tell anyone about it, there’s probably something wrong with what you’re doing. But to hell with it.

Working at Club Sin is a sin. It has to be. If it wasn’t, then people would know I work there. And I wouldn’t have had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. And I’d have a goddamn job title.

But, no one knows I work there, I did sign an agreement, and I don’t have a job title. So, I’m definitely doing something I shouldn’t be.

But I like it. Fuck, I love it.

Being a part of a secret like Sin is exciting. Not to mention, the job itself is one I can’t see myself ever tiring from.

I can’t imagine ever working at a place like it on a full-time basis, because it could really start to play with your head, I think, but being able to go into Sin on Friday nights and do my thing is a welcomed break from the life-and-death shit I deal with at my real job.

I can’t imagine what it would be like if my friends, family, and community knew what I did at Sin. If someone asked me what my job was there, what would I say? Fantasy maker? Sexual pawn?

Whatever you want me to be , is probably the most accurate answer.

Which is exactly why whatever goes on behind the doors of Club Sin, stays within the walls of Club Sin. It’s unorthodox. Easily misinterpreted. And definitely not for everyone.

I certainly didn’t think it would be for me. But, one night, and I was hooked.

And I can’t think of one thing that could make me want to give up the gig I have there. Not one.

***

T he club is packed tonight. Just wall-to-wall madness, a sea of patrons trying desperately to rid themselves of the trials and tribulations the workweek has thrown at them.

I can’t blame them; it’s the same reason I’m here, too.

Except that most of them are here only with the intent of drinking their faces off and being able to claim that they made it inside the velvet-covered walls of the club, gyrating on the dancefloor to the beat of techno music and grinding with the barely-dressed dancers the club has hired to keep patrons hot and bothered.

Me? I’ll be behind the scenes tonight.

As usual, I’m careful to park my vehicle in one of the parking lots a few blocks away, and keep the hood of my sweatshirt pulled down over my eyes, head down, as I make my way up the sidewalks and duck in behind the building that houses Sin. I press the passcode into the back door and slip in without a sound, as though I’m nothing more than a shadow.

“Where you been, Butler?”

I barely have the heavy steel door pulled closed before I see Chris poking his head out of one of the stockrooms, cases of liquor bottle stacked high on either side of him. Christian Tolman and his wife, Anya, own the club, and they run it well. All employees, whether they be waitresses, dancers, or even those with offices who work on the marketing and publicity of the club, are treated well. Like a family, as ridiculous as that may seem when referring to a club based solely around society’s love of sex.

“I always worry when you’re not here early, you know.” A hint of a smile shows on his face, and he heaves one of the liquor cases down from the stack in front of him.

I lower my backpack from my shoulder and leave it by the door. “Then I really should start showing up on time like everyone else, instead of early,” I smirk. “You’re starting to expect it from me.” I lift one of the cases up and carry it from the room.

“It’s not so much that, as it is worrying about you and that career choice of yours.” He hands another case over to me.

“You’re worried about my other job, even though I come here once a week and put myself in danger of being manhandled by all these pretty women?” I don’t even bother to keep the smile off my face.

“Yeah,” Chris nods, chuckling. “That’s got to be really rough on you, Ash. Now, shut the hell up and go get the room set up. Anya says there’s a client for you.”

“Already?” I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the clock in his office. Barely ten o’clock. “Jesus, it’s pretty early for that , isn’t it?”

“Looks like you’re a wanted man.”

***

I get nervous every time I start a shift. I think I’d be crazy not to. There’s no telling what kind of crazy woman will come through that door, or what she’ll ask me to do. There’s a waiver signed beforehand—she can change her mind at any time, and I can decline anything she asks of me—but still, there’s something fear-evoking about being in a dark, locked room with only one other person and their fantasies to keep you company.

My job is simple—I’m hers for one hour. But the rules are just as clear: The room stays completely dark—she never sees me, and I never see her—and the conversation must continue throughout that one hour so that I can gauge how well the client—as we so eloquently call them—is handling the scenario.

In the five months I’ve been at Sin, not once has one of these one-hour sessions resulted in actual intercourse. It’s risky, and a whole other level of intimacy for women—a level most women aren’t comfortable with reaching.

But, there’s been a whole lot of nakedness, touching, and breathless words.

Intimacy. That’s what it seems to be about for the women who end up in the darkness of the Seduction Room with me. Yeah, that’s what they call it. I let Chris and Anya know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t into all that bondage and fetishism stuff that some of the other specialty rooms were offering, but seduction?

Yeah, I can do seduction just fine.

And, honestly, my role has taught me more about how the female mind works than I ever could have known otherwise.

I’m a guy. And I like to get it on just as much as the next dude. But, I’m also not so completely delusional not to realize that women want that connection, that intimate moment that’s just for them. They want to know that they matter, that what they want matters.

But, damn, some women are just hot little forces to be reckoned with, too. And their demands, whispered sometimes with apprehension, but mostly with aching need, turn me on just as much as it does them.

But it’s not about me. For that hour, I do—or don’t do—whatever my clients tell me to. And while I can’t see them, and have no idea what they look like, I’d like to think I’m pretty good at recognizing voices. Removing such a vital sense such as sight from the equation tends to heighten the other senses, sometimes sending them into overdrive. Which is why I’m positive that I’ve recognized the same voices, and felt the same womanly curves—proving that I have repeat customers.

Which means I’m definitely doing something right.

Even if it is wrong.