by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by feeticles
It starts as a fever dream, this fantasy Bate Club of mine—a filthy, glorious utopia where every depraved need is not only met but worshipped. Picture a discreet storefront in some nameless city, windows blacked out, neon sign flickering ‘PRIVATE MEMBERS ONLY’ above a nondescript door. Maybe you’ve walked by on your lunch break, never suspecting the hedonistic wonderland behind those walls, but tonight—tonight you’re invited in.
The entrance is lined with velvet ropes and a bored-looking bouncer in a tailored suit, who sizes you up and ushers you inside with a jerk of his thumb. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cleaning products barely masking sweat, sex, and lingering poppers. It’s a labyrinth of rooms—each more debauched than the last—filled with sectional leather couches and plush ottomans, all arranged to give everyone a front-row seat to the action. Soft-core porn flickers on impossibly huge screens, but the real show is always the live one in each room.
At the check-in desk, a woman with a severe bun and mischievous eyes hands you a folded white towel and a branded squeeze bottle of lube. She points to a bank of lockers and—without preamble—orders you to strip down and place your street clothes inside. There is no room for shyness or negotiation; the order is a truth of this place, and every patron seems to obey it with a trembling thrill. Goosebumps rise along your arms as you peel off your shirt, then your jeans, then everything else, stowing it all away before knotting the towel at your waist. The anticipation is almost unbearable—a low, electric hum below your navel.
The first room you survey is populated by a dozen men, their bodies all shapes and shades, seated in a loose circle around a low coffee table stacked with cum-stiff rags and half-empty water bottles. The etiquette is unspoken but absolute: find an open seat, drop your towel, and let your cock out for the world to see. You do so, heart hammering, and the thrill of being so utterly on display sends a dizzy wave of heat through your belly. The friction of your palm is less than the friction of all those hungry, roving eyes.
Next room, a gender-fluid riot: two women in mesh bodysuits, one glistening with sweat and silicone from a previous round, take turns fingering themselves spread-eagle on the couch while three nonbinary cuties watch and stroke in time, eyes huge and shining with reverence. There are no judgments here—only open hunger and the shared goal of explosive, spectacular pleasure.
You drift from room to room, towel bunched around your hips, lube bottle in hand, until you settle in a mixed-gender lounge where newcomers sit in a semicircle, hands nervously gliding over bare thighs, waiting for someone to make the first move. A handsome guy with a hockey player’s build winks at you, then starts stroking slowly, proudly. His boldness is infectious—the entire group follows suit, hands moving in synchronized, almost choreographed rhythm. The sounds fill the air: slick, wet stroking, the gasp of a first-timer losing inhibition, the growled encouragement of veteran exhibitionists.
You take your place on an overstuffed chair and join in, letting your legs fall wide, cock perched shamelessly for all to see. The first touch is shattering—a jolt of pleasure made sharper by the knowledge that everyone is watching, everyone is doing the same. You glance around and see a pretty brunette, cross-legged and rubbing herself with slow, deliberate circles, eyes locked with yours. She smiles, lazy and loaded, and mouths, “Faster,” as though daring you to keep up.
The pace quickens. Lube-slick hands piston with mounting urgency, and the erotic feedback loop of the circle intensifies. Some participants edge themselves with clinical precision, others chase their finish with reckless abandon, but all are united in this wonderful, filthy communion. You can’t remember the last time you felt this seen, this safe, this wholly alive.
Now sit down and join in the wanking! Imagine the sights and the sounds mmmmmm