Intimate Soirees

Our First Club Visit

by Les Libertins (Her)

I had never been to a swinger club before.
Not even close.
But there I was, freshly dating F., already tiptoeing into the velvet unknown.

I could feel his nerves — sharp and humming, like a string pulled just tight enough.
He was bringing me into his world, a place he’d known before, and I imagine the thoughts were sparring in his mind:

Will she like it? Will she judge it? Will we survive this first dive?

We jumped into an Uber, the kind of ride that feels more like a glide when you’re overdressed and underprepared. The city slowly dissolved — from neon chaos to whispering trees and private villas, the kind you only see in estate magazines. I thought the driver had made a mistake. This place was too… quiet. Too manicured. But no. We had arrived.

That was the first surprise: the juxtaposition.
This seamless entry into a hidden parallel world. A wormhole disguised as a residential villa. “Cartas Blancas” was the name.

We stepped into the entrance hall — dim, indifferent. A dusty glass vitrine on the left full of aging dildos tried to set the tone, but they felt like outdated museum pieces. Kitschy, almost charming in their awkwardness. A soft smirk tugged at my lips. This was the opening note — absurd, theatrical, and a little dry. The kind of prelude that asks you to surrender your expectations.

Then we passed through.
And the vibe changed.

Suddenly, we were in what I can only describe as Mallorcan baroque meets roadside Americana — with a pole in the middle.
It was like a cowboy bar that had taken an erotic sabbatical to the Balearic Islands.
Peachy, light brown tiles stretched across the floor — sunbaked and classic, nothing polished or modern. The walls were half-heartedly decorated, somewhere between a rocker’s man cave and a forgotten cabaret set.

To the right: a lounge area with scattered couches and tall tables.
To the left: the bar, right near the entrance.
Behind it: a sweet, flirty bartender from Venezuela playing soft Latin rhythms — bachata, reggaetón, some salsa slipping in like hips through a curtain.
The lighting was low and a little yellowed, like the corners of a beloved paperback.
The snacks sat in a glass cabinet that adhered to the eastern bloc aesthetic — as if repurposed from a hardware store to now host croquetas and condoms.

And front and center: a tiny stage with a pole… and beside it, the red stiletto-shaped chair.
Yes, that kind — gloriously kitsch and entirely self-aware.

The atmosphere was oddly charming.
Not glamorous. Not seedy. Just… gently absurd.
It made you smile before it made you ache.
A perfect soft landing before the descent.

We took the tour.
The hallway to the left unfolded like a passage into deeper desires — and darker corners.

The first room we entered was the Mirror Room.
Private. Lockable. A room that didn’t ask for permission, just reflection.
The walls were painted in a decadent red, and three of them were covered in mirrors — slightly distorted, imperfect, like the memories you make in heat.
It felt like a scene from a forgotten erotic novella — boudoir meets Dracula, a sensual lair where shadows flirted with glass.
This wasn’t just a room — it was an invitation.
A place where the gaze became a character.
Where your reflection didn’t just show what you looked like…
but who you were becoming.

Next came The Prison.
Perfectly dim. Almost theatrical in its minimalism.
Iron bars, low light, and silence that hummed.
It was raw, restrained — a room that held you, but didn’t comfort you.
A place built for surrender.
It smelled of tension and stories not yet spoken.
It didn’t ask you to act — it dared you to feel what it was like to be watched, trapped, desired.
And I loved it.

Then finally — we arrived at the big room upstairs.
And that’s where everything changed.

The dim lighting, the dark wooden panels, the naked bodies on white sheets, soft shadows flickering across curves and edges — an orgy in action and it looked like a neoclassical painting in motion.
A moving tableau vivant of lust.
For a moment, everything fell silent inside me. I couldn’t hear the moans or skin against skin — only the slow, graceful choreography of mouths and limbs.
My eyes scanned like they were reading art: a thigh raised, a back arched, a gaze caught mid-climax.

And that’s when it stirred inside me — not jealousy. Not intimidation.
But recognition.
“This is where I belong.”

I turned to F.
He looked at me — hesitant, curious, waiting.
And I smiled.
Not with reassurance, but with invitation.
A quiet, unspoken “follow me.”
I moved first. My hand on him. My breath closer. My energy shifting.

That was the signal.
And then, we began.
We didn’t even move far — just right there, at the edge of the scene.
Close enough to feel their heat, but entirely in our own bubble.

And that’s when it happened.
They watched us.
One by one, heads turned. Not in judgment. Not even in curiosity.
But in that magnetic, primal acknowledgment — like animals scenting something wild in the room.
It thrilled me.
I felt seen in the most delicious way — not as an object, but as a force.
I could feel my body responding to their gaze, to his touch, to the humid, golden light washing over my skin.
It was summer. I was slick with sweat and want.
And I loved how I looked. I loved being seen.

There was no need for performance. We were just… us.
Exhibitionists by instinct. Primal without apology.
Two bodies answering a call that had been humming since the moment we walked in.

Eventually, we drifted back.
We found our way to the Mirror Room, closed the door. Let the red walls hold us.

Later, while catching our breath in the main lounge, I was handed a cold cheese croqueta. F. had his fingers inside me. The combination of salt, fat, and the slight shame of being fingered while snacking?
Perfect. Delicious. Divine.
One of those moments that sounds unappetizing in theory, but in real life — just right.

A group of girls entered.
We tried to eavesdrop. Maybe something spontaneous would spark. But it was their first time too. They were sweet, unsure. We read the energy, smiled, and withdrew.
Instead, we turned inward — to each other.
Eyes. Skin. Pulse.
What we were feeling was a blend of hormones and heartbeats, euphoria, exhaustion, maybe even the start of something sacred.

Before we left, we visited The Prison one last time.
A man stood alone. Touching himself. Eyes closed. Breathing.
And somehow — he climaxed exactly as we did.
Without a word. Without contact.
Just shared electricity.

That night didn’t give me what I expected.

But it gave me something I didn’t know I craved:

A memory etched in heat, in glances, in the pulse of other people’s pleasure.

A story, stirred by the moans around us, the bodies we watched — and the ones watching us, shaped by the way the room seemed to breathe with us.

And the delicious truth that we were already playing with fire —

and loving how it burned.

Have you been to Cartas Blancas? What was your experience? Share with us in the comments.