A/N: This sultry tale involves a lifestyle club and two people who cannot believe they're in one. It moves rather quickly, so try to keep up ;) And as always, let me know what you think!

Hermione Granger was trapped.

She was trapped in the longest end-of-day floo line that ever existed in the history of the Ministry for Magic. And worse than simply being trapped in line, she was also trapped in the absolute worst place in line a person could be trapped: with the gigantic backside of an extremely sweaty maintenance worker right in front of her, and a fidgety, huffy little witch from the DIMC right behind. The latter seemed to be under the impression that if she stood close enough to Hermione and breathed hard enough down her neck, the line would go faster.

Yes, Hermione was trapped. And it just so happened to be on a day which no one wanted to take responsibility for the climate control charms, so the Atrium was fast approaching 35 degrees.

The longer Hermione stood there between the butt and the busybody, the more it seemed to her this situation was a metaphor for her life. She was trapped in so many other ways that in line. For one, she was trapped in her current job, unable to advance due to a certain Quinton Harlash: an eighty-year-old racist who didn't care for bumptious muggleborn upstarts and who also happened to be her direct supervisor. He was extremely well-connected and infamous for cowing muggleborns out of the upper echelons of the Ministry.

And that was just one example. She was also trapped in her social life: it seemed every week she went out to the same places with the same people to drink and do the exact same things. Though she loved her friends, the tedium of the routine was beginning to make their outings feel like a chore, not something to anticipate.

And worst of all, she was trapped in an existence completely devoid of romance.

She grimaced as the memory of her last encounter flashed before her eyes. It had been over a year ago, and although the previous dates had not gone terribly well with the man, she had allowed him to take her home out of sheer desperation that perhaps, what he lacked in conversation, he made up for in the bedroom. Well, she had been mistaken: he'd finished before she had even gotten properly wet (or undressed, come to that) and then he'd left, never to speak to her again.

The whole experience had been so awful, she'd been scared off men ever since, telling herself that when the right one came along she would know and the ceaseless dry spell would at last come to an end.

Unfortunately, either her "right man" detection equipment was badly decalibrated or there simply weren't any "right men" in the wizarding UK willing to give her the time of day. And she was slowly coming to accept this as fact.

Standing there in that line, thinking about all of the different aspects of her life that she wished she could change, and how the fiery-eyed girl she used to be would never have abided such a shameful stasis, something inside her snapped.

Without a word to the hulk in front of her or the pest behind, she broke free of that awful line and made her way through the crowded room to the very back, where a floo stood open and unused. It seemed every eye in the place was turned on her, but she clenched her jaw and ignored them.

She did hesitate for the tiniest second at the mantle, however, realizing just why it was abandoned: this was the floo to Knockturn Alley. Nobody in the Ministry would be caught dead using it with the Atrium so full, but Hermione found she didn't care: it was available, and the apparation point in Knockturn was close to its public floo. There was no reason why she couldn't use it.

It wasn't as if she planned on spending any time there, after all.

The floo-tender on the other side didn't even look up as Hermione came shooting into the room with more force than necessary (evidence of a poorly kept mantle). "Welcome to Knockturn," was all he said, flipping idly through his magazine (which, Hermione was horrified to see, was pornographic). "Apparation point's midway down the alley, near Loft X. Enjoy your visit."

Hermione didn't respond, mainly not wanting to attract any attention to herself; she hurried out of the shabby floo port and into the even shabbier street, nervously trying to orient herself before any of the more unsavory shoppers recognized her. Although they were fewer in number nowadays, there were still enemies at large from the War who would love to do her harm if they got her alone, and rumor had it that some of them tended to lurk around Knockturn.

It's fine, she thought, squaring her shoulders. Nobody would dare try anything in broad daylight, and look, that Loft place is just over there. I'll just keep my head down and nothing will go wrong.

Her journey through the underbelly of wizarding London went off without a hitch until the very end, when it came time to cross in front of the establishment called Loft X to get to the alley on the other side and apparate. She was just past the opulently decorated front porch when, from out of thin air, a creature that looked like a hag only just passing as a witch leapt into Hermione's path and cried, "Such a beautiful young thing shouldn't be wandering aimlessly out and alone on a sumptuous day like this!"

Hermione nearly screamed. "Oh Merlin!" she clutched her chest. "You startled me!"

The witch ignored her "I've seen your kind before, girl, dragging yourself around in those short heels, running errands, meeting your other single friends for lunch and asking yourself why your lives are not more exciting! Wouldn't you rather take a chance today, and instead of grocery shopping, you take a moment to explore your deepest most savory desires?"

The only deep and savory thing Hermione found about the situation was the witch's breath, of which she kept getting liberal doses. Before she could form and indignant response at all of the blatant insults (as well as the gross invasion of personal space), she found her vision blocked by a roughly propounded brochure.

The front panel depicted a sensual image of two hands clutching each other, and near the top, the words "Loft X" announced itself in a calligraphic script.

"If you get tired of toting that satchel nonsense along and pretending to be your own man, you should pay us a visit," the hag suggested. "You won't regret it."

And just as inexplicably as she had arrived, the creature was gone.

It was only due to her innate sense of curiosity that Hermione didn't chuck the brochure straightaway. She had to see what she'd been accosted over―or at least get the general gist of it. So she turned the pamphlet over in her hands and began to read. The back showed a picture of a sultry fireplace and bore a list of private floos into the Loft: "for those discreet patrons who prefer the subtle entry."

With a snort she made to throw the handout into the nearest bin. She should have. This was obviously some kind of borderline illegal operation; what use did she have for something like this?

Later, she told herself what must have happened was, in her haste to get out of Knockturn, she simply couldn't find a bin in her route, and out of habit she had stuffed the leaflet into her satchel and forgot about it.

That was the only possible explanation.

Lucius Malfoy was agitated.

He'd been sitting at that same uncomfortable desk at the back of one of his many apothecaries, pouring over the ledgers for the umpteenth time, but no matter how he worked the numbers the ugly truth kept blaring out at him: this branch, along with all of the other branches he'd visited so far, was failing miserably, and the only explanation was that the anti-Death Eater boycott organized last month was actually working, and even gaining traction.

"Damn." He slammed a hand down on the desktop and startled the weedy little teller manning shop nearby. There was nothing else for it. He would have to do some major restructuring―displace the Malfoy name from any public endeavors with shell corporations and accept whatever losses necessary.

It also wouldn't hurt to branch out a little into new markets. Investing in something unique may not hurt at this stage. Regrettably Lucius had been all but exiled from the wizarding world after the War, and he found himself woefully out of the loop.

"You, there," he addressed the teller, who straightened up like a soldier called to attention, "which venue is growing in popularity at present?"

The scrawny boy turned magenta. "Well," he said slowly, "there's that―that Loft X everyone's been going mental over. They're always booked up, people've been selling their firstborns just to get in. Very popular business, sir."

Lucius frowned. "I see… and what exactly is this business?"

If the boy had been red before, it was nothing compared to now. "Well, it's… it's sort of… here," he reached into the breast pocket of his robe and pulled out a battered brochure. "This should clarify a little bit, sir."

Lucius took a moment to peruse the literature. From what he gathered, Loft X was a lifestyle club specialized in anonymous sex―whether by means of Blackout Blindfolds, appearance-altering charms or even polyjuice (for the right price), X's main goal was to create an experience entirely free of relationship. You could have sex with anyone―you could have sex with your elderly neighbor and neither of you may know, though according to the brochure, patrons could apply parameters of personal preference when being assigned companions.

"Is this legal?" Lucius flipped the leaflet and scanned the back. "Ah, it must be, if the Ministry has approved private floo connections for them… I suppose it doesn't matter what your business provides so long as you pay the appropriate tax, no?"

"I suppose not, sir," the teller responded, with a sycophantic laugh.

Lucius turned to the middle of the brochure and scanned the list of services offered. Loft X was not the sort of business in which a Malfoy should invest, but it might prove to be worth it if what the teller claimed was true about its rising popularity. In any case, more research would need to be conducted before he made a final judgement call…

"So this is in Knockturn, then," he muttered to himself.

The teller guffawed again. "'Course it is," he said, "they wouldn't let the likes of the Loft in Diagon, would they?"

Lucius frowned at him. It seemed the boy had mistaken his idle conversation for friendliness. This must be rectified.

"There will be some changes here," he said, pocketing the leaflet and heading for the door. "I will be in touch with your manager about this apothecary and how we are to proceed in light of those ledgers. I am astonished he neglected to come in today; I find that speaks volumes of the interested he takes in his work."

And he left the teller feeling sorry for his boss―but more sorry that Malfoy had stolen his brochure and all the floo addresses on the back.

Hermione was faced with a predicament.

On the one hand, she had a specific set of standards away from which she never deviated. For instance, she had never slept with a man on a first or even second date, much less in any situation wherein she wasn't even allowed to know his identity. And she had no intention of breaking habits now.

On the other hand, her pussy was currently wringing the life out of her dildo and her fingers were going a million miles an hour over her rock-hard clit, and she wasn't any closer to coming than she'd been five minutes ago. No matter what she did, it was as if her body was rebelling against her, refusing to give her the release she so needed as some twisted punishment for her spending another night alone.

She had to face the troublesome truth: she needed a man. She'd been pining for physical intimacy for longer than she cared think about. And she knew it was lazy and sleazy and any number of unsavory adjectives, going the route of Loft X, but trapped as she was in her mundane life, she was seriously considering it as her best alternative to another few miserable dates and another round of shoddy sex.

At least with the Loft, she wouldn't need to waste her time making small talk with men who tended not to understand her anyway, and if the sex ended up terrible, she could always leave and pretend it never happened. And the world would be none the wiser.

She thought it through again. She'd be able to enforce her preferences so there was no threat of her getting paired with a morbidly obese, century-old lecher (unless of course he was using polyjuice, in which case he would at least look good while he slithered all over her). Toys and certain other avenues of play were also provided to any patron who asked: from fluffy handcuffs to riding crops to dog masks, they had it all.

And the main rule―the central pillar to the business―was the preservation of anonymity. It was very cleverly done, actually. It is never disclosed to either partner whose appearance had been changed, so one could never know if they were with a natural or altered partner. And the brochure made it clear that there would be no speaking in the bedrooms unless both parties consented; otherwise Babel charms were mandatory (and much preferred over Silencio, as they still allowed for moaning and other such nonverbal pursuits). Things could slip out between the sheets, after all…

Hermione kept going back to linger over one package in particular. It was very simple: a single bedroom, a single partner, a Blackout Blindfold, and the air of total mystery. All she would have to do is lie there, blindfolded, and allow a stranger to have his way with her.

Terrifying. So many things could go wrong. And yet, when she thought about it, her pussy clenched around her dildo and at last and she came in sighing bliss…

She couldn't say what, but something about it had drawn her in.

So against her better judgement, blaming it on the half-bottle of chardonnay she'd consumed earlier that evening, Hermione resolved to floo Loft X that upcoming Friday night.

It was either that or dust her library.

Lucius sat with a book on Ancient Runes propped open on his armrest, a tumbler of fine scotch in one hand, his rigid member in the other, and both eyes set in the middle-distance―thinking.

He was defeated. The evening had begun well enough: he'd almost finished his book and had every intention of moving on to the next advanced text that night. The scotch had come out of his private drinks cabinet and he'd dipped into it in order to calm his nerves; it was of course sublime, though he found himself curiously disinterested.

You see, he had a problem. And that problem happened to be twitching eagerly in his palm, despite the fact that he had serviced it four times already since arriving home was beginning to develop a pain in his wrist from all of the back-and-fourth.

He was… in need of company. It seemed he could not slake this particular thirst on his own. And he blamed that blasted pamphlet for filling his head with images of activities, of which he would never be a part. He had no interest in anonymous sex, being a vain man who didn't like the sound of changing his appearance but also being quite distinctive looking―it was simply impossible for him to walk into a room and not be identified on the spot.

However.

There was… one fantasy he kept coming back to. It was not a terribly elaborate one like the dozens of others X had to offer: just a room and a blindfold. A Blackout Blindfold, to be precise: impossible to shift or see past once tied, and equally impossible to remove until its time limit was up. So there would be no peeking, as it were, and his anonymity could be preserved.

Should he… sample… the services offered by this prospective investment, then? See what it had to offer before considering it a viable business opportunity? Because if he so intended to do such a preposterous thing, this Blackout fantasy would be the one he wanted. After all, it required no effort or risk on his part: he didn't have to lie there blind and oblivious. And he did so love the idea of complete control, his partner totally unaware of his next move…

Lucius' cock jumped insistently in his palm, hot as cherry steel, refusing to be ignored. With an irritated sigh he put aside his scotch, leaned back in his plush leather lounger and began stroking himself to thoughts of strange young women reaching for him in lustful disorientation…

Hermione made the floo.

She felt as if she were in a trance: this was so incredibly unlike anything she had ever done, and she knew if she stopped to analyze it too closely, she'd end up back home again and she couldn't bear to spend another Friday night reorganizing her book collection. This was a risk―a break from the norm. And it fulfilled something in her that she hadn't felt since her schooldays: the thrill of adventure.

She arrived through one of the discreet floos listed in the brochure. It led to a room that, other than the rather sultry décor, wasn't much different from a normal receptionist area. The young woman behind the counter (rather prettier than the hag who had flagged Hermione down in the street) greeted her warmly.

"Welcome to Loft X." She rose and extended a clipboard to Hermione. "All new members must fill out the preliminary paperwork in order to make an appointment… but for the famous War heroine, I'm sure we can make an exception and slip you in, no appointment necessary." She winked.

Hermione, caught slightly off guard, responded, "Oh―that's very gracious of you, thank you."

"And keep in mind," the woman added, "you're welcome to sign all of this with an 'X'―anonymity is the name of the game here." She gave a tinkling laugh.

The paperwork was fairly straightforward, considering the subject matter. Protective charms were obligatory and cast over each bed. Time limits were strict (to accommodate those patrons using polyjuice). Each room came equipped with a panic pullcord, though according to the fine print, they had never been used.

And she had to sign an acknowledgement that, due to the nature of the institution, she could end up paired with anyone inside her specifications, and she must understand this reality. With a roll of her eyes she marked the signature line with an X, wondering just how many men had ended up in bed with their wife's sister in this place to warrant such a measure. Judging by the number of times this disclaimer was mentioned, she was beginning to suspect quite a few.

Eventually it came time to set limits on her partner. Blushing, Hermione checked single partner only, as well as the boxes beside "athletic," "attractive" and "in prime" (fearing another minute-long tumble and thinking that perhaps someone more mature would make a better lover). She felt rather vapid as she did so, thinking to herself that some of these ought to have been obvious. She neglected to select age, assuming that any man who fell under her other parameters would do well enough.

She also ticked off "no talking," having never been fond of dirty talk in the first place and curious to see how the encounter would progress without communication. Lastly, she chose the Blackout as her fantasy.

The receptionist took the paperwork back and, after settling a payment (Hermione grimaced at the expense) and establishing that she, Hermione, wanted to be the one blindfolded, the receptionist led her to a side room and instructed her to remove all of her clothes, put on the robe offered to her and step back out once she was ready.

Hermione was shivering, almost jumping out of her skin as she pulled off her clothes and donned her silken purple robe and pulled out her wand. The receptionist made her realize that she hadn't opted to do anything to hide her own identity, and if word got back to the Ministry that she was frequenting sex clubs, she could kiss any potential future career goodbye.

She stood there, wand raised, thinking of what she might do. She didn't want to alter herself too much, and honestly she didn't feel she needed to: the blindfold would cover most of her face, and like Harry's scar and glasses, her defining features were her distinctive bookwormish way of dressing and, of course, her hair. Anytime she changed clothes or did anything to tame her wild mane, all identifiability went out the window, even with her closest friends. She didn't have to worry about her outfit here, but perhaps…

With a wave of her wand, the wild ringlets grew much lighter in color, almost to a shade of strawberry blonde. She waved her wand again (this one took two tries) and the curls relaxed somewhat, coming to rest in soft puddles on her shoulders. Hermione checked the mirror in the dressing room and was shocked to discover just how different she looked―almost like a completely new woman.

What am I doing? At this point the thought wasn't a real question so much as her own doubt speaking to her from the back of her mind where she'd locked it away. She knew exactly what she was doing; she simply couldn't believe she was going through with it.

She could leave, now―and nobody would know. But that was just it, wasn't it? Nobody would know if she didn't leave, either. And despite the nerves crawling up and down her back, there was no denying the tingling that had begun between her legs.

She wanted to try this. And she could do so without fear of judgement. That was the charm of the place, wasn't it? The secrecy…

When Hermione emerged from the dressing room, the receptionist didn't even blink at her change in appearance. She merely gestured for Hermione to follow her and led her down a long series of halls until finally she stopped at a door marked "87."

During the journey, Hermione realized she couldn't hear a single thing, and figured Silencing charms on all of the rooms was just another part of the standard operating procedures of the Loft. Some people could get terribly… vulgar during sex, and others couldn't properly let loose unless they felt they couldn't be heard. It made perfect sense, really.

With a flourish the receptionist opened Door 87. Inside, the walls were draped with royal blue velvet and the only furniture was a large four-poster set against the back wall. A door near the bed led to the in-suite bath, but otherwise, there was nothing else in the room.

"Make yourself comfortable," the woman said, taking Hermione by the elbow and leading her over to the bed. Hermione allowed herself to be drug around only because her rapidly climbing nerves would not permit her to do anything but stare like a deer caught up in traffic.

The woman beckoned for Hermione to sit on the bed, and then (when Hermione did so hesitantly) she drew a long, black silken handkerchief out of her pocket.

"Now hold still…" In a second, the handkerchief was wrapped over Hermione's eyes, blocking her vision completely. "There. Can you see anything?"

Hermione shook her head. "Is this a Blackout Blindfold, then?"

She could hear the smile in the woman's voice. "It is, and it won't come off until your hour's over or you use the pullcord, or the safety word we've designated for today: puffskein. But don't worry about any of that: this is a place of pleasure and relaxation." Footsteps, and a door opening; the receptionist said from the threshold, "Lie back and relax… your partner will be in shortly." Then the door closed, and all was silent.

Life is paperwork, Lucius mused, ticking off 'fit' under his partner's body type and finishing off the whole lot of it with the Blackout fantasy. He handed all the nonsense back to his own receptionist―a boy with a curiously orange complexion―and was instructed to disrobe in a side-room that afforded little privacy other than an insubstantial curtain.

It was with great reluctance that Lucius did so. He was not a shy man by any means, and he certainly didn't feel self-conscious about his body, it was only… that receptionist boy seemed rather intensely interested in him, and while the attention was flattering, and the unnecessary touching of his shoulder and arm was tolerable, Lucius did not want anyone ogling him covertly unless he invited them to.

Inside the flimsy changing room Lucius waved his wand over his hair and shortened it down to a business cut, perfectly coiffed. The wizarding world was a claustrophobic place, and he was well-known for his hair. It wouldn't do for the blindfolded woman to identify him just by touching his head.

Satisfied with his spellwork, he proceeded to undress, keeping an eye out for that receptionist as he did so.

Once robed and back in reception, the boy informed Lucius that the next available partner for a Blackout had a no-speaking stipulation, and would he still be interested or did he want to return when another opened up that allowed talk? Lucius' initial reaction was to reject the idea, but then curiosity got the better of him. He wondered―could charm a woman with just his touch? There was only one way to find out, and now would be the ideal time…

He accepted, and the boy led him through a maze of halls (trying as often as possible to steer him along with a hand on his back or elbow, something Lucius found exceptionally vexing) until at last, they stopped in front of a door labeled "87" near the end of one of the endless halls.

"Your partner's waiting inside," the boy said, waggling his eyebrows at Lucius (bringing on a mild wave of nausea). "Just go right in… and enjoy the fantasy."

Thank Merlin he turned and left after that: Lucius was unable to resist rolling his eyes. Now that he was alone, standing in front of the door behind which a strange woman awaited him, Lucius realized this would be the first time he would be engaging in such casual sex for nearly six months. How strange… he'd been so preoccupied, he hadn't even noticed his neglected libido.

Drawing himself up, he had the urge to check his reflection, even knowing his partner would be blindfolded. He shook the impulse and, as quietly as possible, turned the doorknob, and let himself in.

A/N: What could be behind Door Number 87? Please let me know what you think so far! Your reviews are what keep me writing!