His own arms tingled from shoulders to fingertips, and all he wanted was to reach her, enfold her in his arms and share whatever body heat she needed. Then he wanted to lay her out and take her. Heat her up to boiling.
The impulse to drag her into the bushes and get her jeans off came sudden and hard. Hot damn he was horny. Randy as a teenager. Must be the woman. Either that or the purpose of the weekend was getting to him.
He tugged at his collar to release some of his pent-up heat, but it didn’t help. He hurried the last few steps, happy to get the weekend off to a good start.
“Hello,” he said as he reached her side.
She was startled but smiled back at him. “Hello. Are you the talent?” Her tone was bold as a shore-leave sailor’s. She assessed him while she flapped her arms around her middle.
“Apparently. One of them anyway. You’re here to bid?”
“Yes.” Her glance heated as she let her gaze travel from his face down to his hikers.
What he saw when she looked back into his eyes was approval.
A small worry drifted away. He’d done everything in his power to be included on the auction block this weekend and it looked like he passed muster.
“Matt Crewe,” he said, “very pleased to meet you.”
“Carrie MacLean,” she said with a nod and smile. “Sorry about the talent comment, it was rude. I’m not sure what came over me, but as soon as I walked through the gates…” She looked back at them, but the entrance to the driveway was obscured by pine boughs.
“Cold?” he asked.
She released her arms. She unzipped her fleece to mid-chest, then loosened her collar the way he had. “No, I was freezing a moment ago, but now I’m hot as can be.”
“You can say that again,” he muttered as he bent to pick up her overnight bag. “I’ll carry this for you,” he offered.
“Thanks!”
The cabs spread ahead and behind them as people arrived at an orderly pace. She watched every car that went past with interest. “Do you see the optical illusion?”
“You mean the boughs swaying away from the noses of the cars?”
“Yes. It’s odd. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”
He shrugged. “Like you said, it’s just an illusion.” But his sexual arousal was real as real could get. His cock strained behind his fly.
She glanced up at him, her eyes catching reflected light as it bounced off the tree limbs. “Yes, an illusion. Have you been here before, Matt?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“Me too.”
“Virgins, then.”
She chuckled. “In a manner of speaking.” There was just enough room at the side of the driveway for them to walk side by side. They took it.
He wanted to understand the colors at play in her hair, see the smoothness of her cheeks, how straight her teeth were, the level of intelligence in her gaze, but the on-again, off-again lighting only allowed for glimpses.
No matter, he’d see her soon enough. See her and know her in ways he could barely fathom. He wasn’t prone to fanciful thoughts, but he did know gut reaction, and his gut was screaming full speed ahead with her.
Lights from the house began to appear between the trees ahead, and they rounded one more curve. The driveway curved directly in front of a three-story Victorian mansion aglow with welcome. She caught her breath at the sight, and he wondered what she’d sound like in the throes of passion. He was determined to find out.
“Perdition House,” she said. “A weekend of rest and relaxation awaits us both.”
“You could call it that.” He called it a sex club, pure and simple. But if she wanted to keep to her own illusions she was welcome to them. “This is where we part company, Carrie MacLean. The hired help is expected to enter through a side entrance.”
“See you later?”
“Yes, you will.”
She put her hand on his sleeve and looked up at him. He felt a punch of desire to his gut he fully accepted. “I’m already looking forward to it,” she said. She licked her lips, and the power of the simple gesture undid him.
He headed across the drive before he dragged her into the well-tended rosebushes.
An hour and a half later, Matt slid the bow tie through the collar around his neck and tied it perfectly on his first attempt. He took stock in the mirror. His face had been shaved to baby ass smooth. “Not bad,” he muttered, skimming his gel-slicked hair.
The guy next to him snorted as he also checked his reflection. In the mirror he flashed Matt an apologetic grin as he stuffed a sock down the front of his tuxedo pants. “Gotta advertise, man, that’s the name of the game.”
Matt shrugged. “What the hell.” Then he shifted his cock and balls to show them to the best advantage too. He shot his cuffs and adjusted his collar with a sideways glance at the sock.
Then he looked at his own package again. He bulged behind his fly, hard since he stepped through the gates. If he was honest, the blood started to gather the minute he saw Carrie climb out of the cab ahead of him. No idea why, because he wasn’t here for the sex. He was here for the truth. But still, he had more to offer than sock man.
From the looks Carrie had given him, she was just as interested in Matt as he was in her. Convenient since he planned to fuck her senseless all weekend.
A bell over the door chimed a warning, and Matt turned toward the door with the rest of the men. Twelve in all. Mostly randy college kids but for a couple of guys who looked like pros. The pros were older, jaded and cool, ready to serve. To a man, they were tall, muscular, good looking, with granite jaws and perfect teeth.
And all for sale. Even him. He’d sold himself for the truth. And if he had to, he’d lie himself to hell to get it.
He waited his turn to leave the library-cum-dressing room and felt his years. He was just as buff but noticeably older than the randy college boys. He couldn’t gauge what the pros were thinking stacked up against this kind of competition. At twenty-eight, he shouldn’t feel old, but a wall of jocks in their early twenties could remind a man of his unfulfilled ambitions.
In his yearlong hunt for sex clubs, Perdition House was the only one he’d found that catered exclusively to heterosexual women. He’d been damn lucky to find it too. A maze of misinformation existed even though the place was relatively new. Someone had covered their tracks from the very beginning, and covered them well.
As for being the talent, as Carrie had called him, he’d had to go through hoops to secure his spot. Having a clear criminal record was just the beginning. Strict guidelines and criteria weeded out sexually inferior male specimens.
Only the best men found their way onto the auction block. References were checked, health certificates required and even a psychological test was given to screen out potentially violent men.
The women who paid top dollar for these weekend sex marathons expected the best. The best was exactly what the owner of Perdition House, Faye Grantham, gave her clients. That the weekends occurred under the guise of charity auctions was beside the point to him.
Aside from his need to research the place, Matt was pumped that he’d been selected.
Which went a long way to easing him past his most recent failure with The G Spot, the only club he hadn’t managed to infiltrate. Lesbians didn’t want him nosing around. Go figure.
Eventually, he would deal with that minor problem, but right now he had to get through this weekend. In all the other clubs he’d found, he’d been an observer.
But not this time. The only way he could get in was in the guise of a full participant. He would stand on an auction block and be purchased for a weekend of hot sex with a woman he would never see again.
He’d never been turned on by the whole sex slave fantasy, so his arousal and interest surprised him. But there was no other reason for his hard-on since coming through the gates.
If his luck held, he’d be Carrie MacLean’s sex slave. He rubbed his smooth jaw and thought abou
t her giving him orders. Maybe he should rethink his stand on bondage.
He imagined himself on his knees wearing a heavy black collar being told to lick Carrie’s boots. He chuckled at the vision of her walking shoes as she’d stamped them into a bed of pine needles. Nah, not his bag. He’d break out into laughter and wreck the mood.
Whatever the weekend held, he would be matched up with a woman with similar sexual predilections. The quiz on preferences had pretty much covered every sexual situation known to man.
For Matt, sex was about mutual enjoyment. Equal pleasure for each partner. He liked wild, raunchy, fast and hard. Raw was good. Hard was great. Fast had to be mutual. But slow? Slow was best.
Having a boot on his throat? Being strapped down? Not so much.
He wasn’t the kind of guy to be at anyone’s beck and call. Ever. For anything. That’s why he’d been given red silk boxer briefs for the actual bidding. No dog collars or leather for him. Wasn’t his style.
The tuxedos were to be worn during the cocktail party mixer so the women had a chance to talk with the men. But the auction was where the real truth came out. Some of these guys would be dressed dominant. Some would show themselves as submissive. Blue bikinis meant multiples welcome.
As far as he knew the red boxer briefs he’d be wearing indicated he liked his sex straight, one on one, and often.
Worked for him.
He slanted a glance at sock man. False advertising wasn’t his style either.
Carrie was his style, with her sensible shoes and practical fleece. She was not the kind of woman he’d expected to find here. A spike of need rose through his belly to his chest at the thought of what the weekend with Carrie would bring.
The men around him quieted into an expectant silence. Some checked out the books on the shelves while a couple others sat at a games table set up with chessmen. Matt leaned against the dark oak wainscoting and settled in to wait.
A cold draft seeped through the wall where his shoulder touched, then traced down his body with icy fingers. Those fingers settled south of his belt and his cock responded with a full-blooded howl of delight. He closed his eyes to better enjoy the sudden sensation. His balls tightened, chest heaved, blood rushed and pumped. Full-out arousal made him sensitive to everything around him.
He tugged at his collar for air, then adjusted his slacks to hide his raging woody. If any of the men in the room thought it was for them, he was doomed.
He hoped Carrie bid for him, but he wasn’t sure it mattered. His cock filled out to rock hard and his heart pumped fast and furious. The cold fingers stroked his lower back, slid down between the cheeks of his ass and cupped his sac. How could he feel so hot when the hand stroking him was arctic?
2
Silky strokes on his cock continued as Matt gritted his teeth against coming. The guy ahead of him started to move with a slow shuffle toward the door. Sweat broke out on his neck. He wasn’t the only man fully cocked and loaded. What the hell?
He broke away from the wall. The hold on his cock and balls eased and drifted away. He took a couple of steps, then looked back at the age-darkened oak where he’d been. Nothing but the patina of time and the luster of wax marked where he’d leaned.
The idea of being auctioned off as a sex slave turned him on? Fuck that.
It was Perdition House itself. Something weird had been happening to him ever since he walked through the gates.
The atmosphere oozed sex and sensuality and made him randy as a teenager. The whole mansion teemed with sexual imagery. Statuary of lusty satyrs, the paintings of lush nudes, even the old wallpaper looked sexual. Overblown flowers, their petals were folded open. Bulbous stamen sought entrance. The obvious sexual aura was enough to get most men’s libidos cranked up.
Wherever this led, his sex-addled brain decided to go along. He’d sort it out in the morning. Surely by then he’d be spent and his brain would kick back in. Til then, he planned to enjoy himself and one Carrie MacLean if he could.
As he followed the rest of the men into the hall, he glanced up to the soaring ceiling. A mural caught his eye, and in the flickering shadowed light from a hall chandelier, he thought he saw the figures move. He blinked, but the light tricked his vision into seeing sex acts.
His blood boiled again as he stared harder, trying to discern exactly what he saw.
Naked circus performers. Trapeze artists, mostly, but he saw a couple of jugglers too. The light and shadows kept up a steady ebb and flow of imagined movement among the painted figures. In shock, he nudged the guy next to him and pointed to the mural three floors above.
Sock man tracked his gaze. “Wow, look at that,” he said, voice hollow with shock.
The college boy on his other side looked too. A low whistle from him drew more attention. Soon the entire group of men was staring straight up.
The painted figures continued to move and writhe, the naked bodies bending and jutting toward each other.
Matt broke out into a sweat as he zeroed in on one couple. She faced away from the man behind her, her arms looped up around the back of his head, making her breasts jut up and out toward a woman’s open mouth. The woman with the open mouth dangled upside down from a trapeze swing, while a man had his face buried in her pussy. Matt could swear he saw the guy’s head move as he ate her.
The man behind the first woman clasped her ass in his hand and squeezed in a subtle demand for her to open to accept him. The woman on the swing had a man licking her clit while her mouth worked the first woman’s nipple. A regular round robin.
Matt blinked. Blinked again. He must have been mistaken because now the tip of the woman’s breast was inside the trapeze artist’s mouth while the man behind thrust deep into her pussy. Her own hands were now sliding over her clit while her face looked ecstatic with sexual release.
“What the fuck?” sock man muttered. “I swear there’s a guy up there getting the best blow job I’ve ever seen.”
“Where?” Matt couldn’t see anything of the sort. He was caught in the whole swinging girl, pussy-eating, tit-licking, doggy sex round. “You see the girl on the swing?”
“No. Mine’s a juggler getting deep-throated.”
“Fuck.”
“No shit.”
The whole room heated up as guys all around Matt hitched at their slacks.
Every man there was a walking hard-on.
Faye Grantham, the mansion’s owner, cleared her throat, getting their attention. Not that anything she did would go unnoticed.
“I’d like a crack at her,” came a rumbling voice from somewhere in the crowd. A shuffle of agreement went through the group. Matt tried to remember he was there for research, but his throbbing cock told him otherwise.
Faye Grantham was sex kitten hot. Platinum blond hair that looked natural framed an exquisitely pretty face. Wide blue eyes and a pouty red-tinted mouth that invited deep kisses added to her allure. Smooth round shoulders framed a great rack, while a trim waist flared into hips a man could hold on to.
Like a screen siren of the fifties, she oozed sexuality and licentious need. She touched the elbow of the man nearest her. At her touch he came out of his stupor. “Please, come into my parlor.”
Said the spider to the fly. The strange thought flit through his head like a razor through shaving foam. Then he heard a light female giggle. Matt shook his head to clear it.
The man next to Faye followed her with dutiful steps through a double pocket door that seemed to slide open without her touching it.
A womanly groan of sexual release floated around his head, but he refused to look up at the mural again as he followed the rest of the addled men.
Carrie watched carefully as the bachelors entered the parlor, a group of agile, virile guys who all looked like models. Athletic models. Most were younger than Carrie, but some looked to be in their midtwenties, like her. Like Matt, the one she’d met outside.
She watched for him particularly, but he hadn’t come through the door yet.
Every one of the men sported a woody, making the whispering women closest to her go quiet. Except for the one who leaned in to the woman next to her and remarked in a stage whisper, “Looks like lunch, girlfriend.”
They snickered, heads together, but the other women around them nodded in lascivious agreement, including Carrie. If she belonged here among the moneyed, hard-working female CEOs, lawyers and bankers, she’d be just as quick to get excited.
She was probably the only woman in the place who didn’t want to get laid. But still, being a red-blooded woman with needs that hadn’t been met in too long, she looked her fill.
She dismissed as an aberration the embarrassing lust that had overtaken her on the driveway the minute she laid eyes on Matt. Her weekend was not about indulging in sexcapades. Not with Matt or any of these other gorgeous ready men.
She went back to cataloguing the new arrivals, keeping a professional eye sharply tuned for a likely target for an interview. The one with threads of silver at his temples looked bored, as if he’d been doing this too long. She pegged him for thirty or so and too jaded to be free and easy with what he said. He looked most likely to see through her facade, so she dismissed him.
She didn’t want to lie about why she was here, or even about who she was, but she had no choice. Telling the truth under these circumstances would get her kicked out.
Bidding on one of the younger men was the way to go. Someone eager to please. Someone who wasn’t Matt. She couldn’t trust her reaction to him, not after she’d wanted him to throw her into the rosebushes and take her like an animal.
No way could she bid on a man who made her feel like that!
Three or four likely candidates showed up as the men trailed in. Young, randy, hot. A couple looked feverish with arousal. She doubted either of them would give her time to ask one question, let alone several.
But still, the frat boys who needed tuition money would be the easiest to get information from. She’d need documents to back up her story, and from the scraps of information she’d gleaned, she knew there had been questionnaires filled out and health certificates required. These young men with their cocks at full attention would be so anxious to get their rocks off, they wouldn’t notice Carrie’s questions. Maybe they would even provide her with the documentation she needed.
Thigh High Page 18