The Secret Fisting Club

The invitation arrived in a black envelope, slipped under Riley’s apartment door like a whisper. No stamp, no return address—just their name in silver ink and three words: The Fist Awaits. Riley, a barista with a restless streak, had heard the rumors—whispers in dive bars about a secret club where the city’s elite shed their suits for something rawer. Fisting, they said, but not the clumsy kind from bad porn. Something ritualistic, almost sacred. Skeptical but bored, Riley followed the cryptic instructions—11 p.m., a nondescript alley off 7th Street, knock twice.

The door was steel, unmarked, and when it creaked open, a figure in a hooded silk robe beckoned them inside. The air was thick with incense and low, pulsing bass. Dim lights revealed a cavernous room—velvet drapes, leather chaise lounges, a scattering of masked figures sipping drinks or murmuring in corners. At the center stood the host, a tall silhouette in flowing black silk, face half-hidden by a silver mask that caught the light. Their voice was smooth, genderless, commanding: “Welcome, newcomer. Curiosity brought you. Will you stay?”
Riley’s pulse quickened. “What is this place?”

“The Fist,” the host replied, stepping closer. “A sanctuary for those who crave more than the ordinary. Here, fisting is trust, art, release. Care to learn?”

Riley hesitated, then nodded, drawn by the host’s magnetic pull. They were led to a private alcove, its walls lined with mirrors, a low bed draped in satin. The host shed their robe, revealing lean muscle and scars that hinted at a life lived hard. “It’s about connection,” they said, producing a sleek glove and a vial of shimmering oil. “Not force. Surrender.”

What followed was a slow unraveling. The host’s hands moved with precision—gloved fingers tracing Riley’s skin, oil warming under their touch. Words guided them: relax, breathe, trust. When the moment came, it wasn’t crude or rushed. It was deliberate, overwhelming—a stretch that blurred pain into pleasure, a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. Riley’s gasps echoed in the mirrors, their body trembling as the host murmured encouragement, eyes glinting behind the mask. Time dissolved; it could’ve been minutes or hours.

Then the twist. As Riley lay spent, panting, the host peeled off the mask, revealing a face Riley knew—Jade, their ex from three years back, a lover who’d vanished after a fight about “needing more.” Jade smirked, brushing a strand of hair from Riley’s forehead. “Surprised? I built this place after I left. Found my ‘more.’ Looks like you did too.”

Riley stared, shock mingling with the afterglow. “You… run this?”
“Every night,” Jade said, voice soft but edged. “Started as a dare to myself. Grew into this. You’re welcome back—if you dare.”

The alcove fell silent, save for Riley’s ragged breathing. They left at dawn, legs shaky, mind reeling, the black envelope crumpled in their pocket. The Fist wasn’t just a club—it was Jade’s empire, and Riley was already hooked, wondering if they’d return to face the past and the pleasure all over again.