Loverman

A secluded street with a discreet door and a discreet brass plate. She can only guess what is about to happen. It will be hot. She asks if I'm worried that people may recognise us. Squeezes my hand. In all honesty, it's never crossed my mind. Where we are going, everyone is in the same boat. I reassure her. Whisper that the hardest part will be letting herself go.
'You'll see... After that, it's just like riding a bike.'
Cautiously, the door opens, just a couple of inches. A quick chech to make sure we meet the criteria of the establishment. These places all have rules: women are forbidden from wearing trousers; turtlenecks and other garments which cover too much. These are strongly discouraged. Single men are only welcome at certain times and evenings. Single women are extremely welcomed but often highly rare.
We sit at the bar. Ceiling too low, lighting dim; worn-out red velvet and Eighties music. Television screens play close-ups of fucking. Photos on the walls of women with big tits, sleazy, old-fashioned pin-ups. I leave her to go look around. I watch her perched anxiously on the bar stool. She trys to look calm and confident. Her gaze travels around the room. It meets that of the predators waiting to pounce on the first prey they can get their hands on. I let myself get distracted by two waitresses, both wax, wearing only strings and sequined tassels. I return before she starts to curse me for leaving her all alone. Take her to a darker part of the room.
We sit, making a place for ourselves. A circled has formed around two girls next to us. They're laying on the floor, one on top of the other. Tenderly caressing each other. A few men are watching. Turned on, but mainly annoyed. They can't join in. The boss emerges, ranting about sluts that take his girls. The slut in question stuck her head under the skirt of the other girl. Brushed away the male hands that grab at her.