As far as first times at sex clubs go, I was already so far down the rabbit hole there was no turning back.
My night of debauchery had already been more than I’d ever dreamed of. Scantily clad customers, a playroom of amusements, and sex on the dancefloor while everyone watched (which you can read all about here).
But I wasn’t done. Although I don’t suppose anyone ever is at the world’s largest fetish sex club in London.
It was Torture Garden’s annual Halloween Ball. A night for those seeking an experience “far beyond the norm”, where guests transformed into their “most extravagant and extreme versions of themselves”.
I’d well and truly left the real world behind, and all my deepest fantasies were within my grasp.
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Dressed in nothing but a leather collar that held three chains around my body and a black suspender belt with stockings and stilettos, I climbed the staircase to the lounge, hungry for more.
The room that overlooked the dancefloor below was dark, with a heady mix of alcohol and sex in the air. While the DJ’s beat floated through the crowd, guests covered couches from wall to wall.
And everywhere I looked, everyone was having fun.
It was erotic. Enticing. And I ached to be a part of it.
He was standing beside the bar when he caught my eye. Shirtless, toned, tanned and tall, he was a head above the crowd. And as I walked toward him, he drew me in with a hand on my shoulder.
“Hello,” he murmured in my ear. Australian. Well-spoken. A banker, I’d later learn, and he came from money.
My gaze dropped to his black leather pants as he offered to buy me a drink, eyes roaming my face; a sign of what was to come.
We hadn’t even been served by the time his lips were on mine.
With wandering hands, he clutched at my body with urgency. The sexual tension was palpable. And as his fingers slipped under the lace of my g-string, while we were still standing at the bar, I’d never been more turned on in my life.
Groaning into his mouth, I couldn’t believe this reality. The people standing beside us hadn't so much as flinched.
Suddenly he pulled back with a suggestive smile, and taking my hand in his, he led me across the room.
Nerves filled my body, as I followed him to a sofa in the corner, facing a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dancefloor below.
Pulling me onto him, I straddled his lap, as his mouth found mine and his hands squeezed around my silver-studded nipple covers.
By the time he edged my body up an inch to unzip himself, I was ready. All inhibitions were gone, and I needed him. Now.
Sliding on, I felt the rush of adrenaline of doing it in public, as I began to move up and down. But looking at the wall, I had no idea what kind of scene, if any, we were causing.
It wasn’t until I was on my back, stretching my neck over the arm of the couch, that I even noticed that we had an audience.
Here and there, guests stood in front of us, taking in the show.
It was the single most exhilarating moment of my life.
It wasn’t cheap or seedy. It didn’t feel fake like pornography. It made sex an art, and we were the celebrated artists.
Listen to Chantelle Otten discuss visiting a sex club. Post continues after podcast.
The next time I looked up, there were two girls beside us. Kissing in the corner. They were so close, I could feel his excitement as he pulled me to my feet.
Lifting my body up, he held me against the glass panel of the window, as my legs wrapped around his waist. Driving himself in, I held on tight, enjoying the act as much as the show.
By now, we’d got the attention of two certain girls. And as they moved towards us, he lowered me to my feet.
With one arm still around my waist, he leaned forward to kiss one. I was shocked. But then remembered that this wasn’t reality. I was so far from it, I threw myself in.
The second girl and I moved towards each other. Mouths, tongues, hands, bodies... the four of us intertwined.
Then it was just us again, and a shared insatiable desire. It was 5am and closing time, but we hadn't had enough.
Picking up our coats from the cloakroom, he took my hand and led me into a taxi.
Our night was far from over.
Image: Getty/Mamamia.
