I grab my keys and go down to my car, a ten-year-old Mazda Miata that I was able to pick up cheap when I got here to California. It's small, it's sporty, and while it's not really all that powerful, it works for what I have to do in both sides of my life.
San Francisco is fifty minutes away from my apartment in the opposite direction of Stanford, which I suppose is the way that it should be. As I get on the Interstate to drive toward the city, I'm not actively telling myself that I'm going to go to The Club, but still, my hands unconsciously steer me that way. Shawnie's not here right now. The demon's in control, and I'm just along for the ride.
The Club doesn't have any other names. It’s just known as The Club. Kinda like the movie Fight Club. If you don't know what it is, then you don't need to be there, and there are no signs out front or anything like that, just a discreet parking service that appears out of nowhere when you pull up.
The Club was started by those folks who found the normal sex scene in San Francisco just a little too tame for their tastes. Considering that San Francisco is pretty much the freak capital of the world, you understand just how varied the tastes in The Club can be. It's not all crazy off the wall stuff. A lot of people just go to do normal fucking, but some of it is. In the eight months that I've been there, ever since the people at the Armory told me that I was unwelcome there with my so-called mental state, I've seen just about everything you could think of.
I pull up out front, getting out to give my keys to the valet. The membership fees aren’t cheap, and anonymity is strict. There’s a good reason for it, too. I've seen people in there who wouldn't want the rest of the world to know about this side of themselves.
I knock on the door, waiting while the old-fashioned steel eyehole opens and the eyes of the doorman look out at me. “Name.”
“Sandy Eagle,” I reply, using my Club name. It's one you get to choose and is one of the last choices I've made in The Club, except that I keep coming back for more whenever the demon inside is too much to handle. I can't let it out around campus. It’d destroy me if the people at Stanford knew how much of a broken woman I am. At least here, I have a prayer of having a future afterward.
The door buzzes and I open it, stepping into the atrium. The doorman, a hulking man in a black suit and wearing a domino mask, stands in front of the main door, his hand on his gun. It's not a show. He's more than willing to use it, and you don't go to the hospital. You just end up somewhere in the waters near Alcatraz, out where the currents mean that your body’s not recovered. He holds up a tablet computer, comparing my face to the picture of me when I signed up, and then he has me put my thumb on the scanner plate that's attached to it. “Miss Eagle.”
“How's things tonight?” I ask faux casually, desperate to get inside. The demon is cackling, clawing and scratching inside me, demanding to be fed. “Crowded?”
“Not so much, but I believe you'll find yourself entertained,” the doorman says, giving me a slight hint to his identity. The Club employs multiple security staff, all of them huge and intimidating, but only one has seen me inside, helping me out after a particularly painful encounter. I call him Dutch in my mind, mainly because I joked as he helped me out to my car one time that next time, I'd take him out on a date, Dutch.
“What's the music?”
“Tech-jazz,” Dutch replies, and I roll my eyes. I don't need smooth techno-influenced jazz. I want screaming metal, driving synths, and dirty dancing music, shit that'll help get me in the mood to get this over with. “Want a private room?”
“No,” I say. “Thanks though.”
Security complete, he hits a button and the inner door unlocks. He opens the door for me and waves me through. Once inside, the door shuts, and I look around the room, seeing what's going on.
It isn't super busy right now, but I see a group already engaged in a public suck n' fuck session, and another two are already naked, ready to join in or perhaps they're just taking a break.
I head to the bar, where the bartender, in a full Phantom of the Opera mask that covers about three-quarters of his face, leans in. “What can I do for you tonight?”
“Scotch and soda, neat,” I order, turning around and watching as the one woman in the middle of the floor who's naked is getting spit-roasted by two men while another woman stands back, a strap-on attached around her waist, smearing lubricant that glows slightly in the black lights of the performing area on her ten-inch silicone cock, her forehead already dotted in sweat. She's a dominatrix who is just as willing to use that schlong of hers on a man as she is on a woman, from what I’ve seen. I'm not too sure who's in for those ten inches, but it definitely won’t be me. I need a cock with a pulse tonight.
“Here you go,” the bartender says a minute later, setting my drink down. “By the way, Mr. Robinson just sent me a message. He said he'd like a word with you.”
Mr. Robinson is the manager and director of The Club, but it’s owned by others. Who they are, I have no idea. Tall, handsome, and the only employee who doesn't wear a mask, he’s the man who makes sure The Club operates by the rules. He’s also, even more than the security guards, someone you don’t want to get pissed at you. He never seems to lose his temper, but the few times he’s had to intervene when Club members have broken the rules inside . . . they don’t come back, and they’re never seen again. He’s a good lay—maybe I should just use him to satisfy this need inside me. At least I won’t feel too dirty tomorrow when I have to live with what I’ve done.
“Tell Mr. Robinson I'd love to have a chat,” I reply, turning back around and sipping at my drink, watching the show on stage, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
In my mind, the demon takes me back, back to that lake house in Georgia. The hot summer afternoon, the drugs coursing through my system as he cut me. My pussy is practically dripping wet, even though I know it shouldn't be. I was cut, I was abused and beaten. But the way the drugs were in my mind, I was so aroused. I came so many times despite it being against my will. I know why I actually felt some pleasure. I’ve read the studies. I know it wasn’t my fault, but that doesn’t change things. I can't help it. The demon was born and released in the summer heat. The devil came down to Georgia . . .
“Sandy,” Mr. Robinson says, and I shake my head, knocking the memories loose for a little bit. My pussy twitches and I can feel my nipples hard and tight in my bra, and I look him up and down, wondering if he wants to fuck me tonight. I need it, and by the look in his eye, Mr. Robinson knows it, too. “Good to see you tonight.”
“Good to be seen,” I reply, sipping my drink again as if this were a normal conversation and that we were going to discuss some top forty tunes. “The bartender said you wanted to talk. What's up?”
“About a half hour ago, I got a call. A very respected member and his friends are looking for a special event,” Mr. Robinson says, looking me up and down, judging in his head if I'm what he's looking for. “Gangbang. Think you might be interested?”
I think, sipping my scotch and soda. Inside, the real me is sobbing, crying out that I can't be seriously considering this idea. The idea of untold numbers of men I may or may not know fucking me in every hole, using and abusing me . . . and the kicker? I actually crave it. Well, I don’t, but the real me isn't in control. If I were, if the old Shawnie were, I’d tell this guy to kiss my ass and give him a good kick in the balls to boot. But the demon is, and it wants to be fed. “This respected Club member—he and his friends are clean, right?”
Mr. Robinson tuts me in correction, but he nods. “You know that's a rule here. Your test up to date?”
“You know perfectly well that I emailed it in less than a week ago,” I respond to him, my pussy and that side of me that I hate already saying I’m ready. I bite my lip, nodding in assent that I’m up for it. “Deal. But a private room. This music sucks.”
Mr. Robinson nods, giving me an appreciative smile. “I'll tell him. I'm sure it won't be a problem. You can use the Blue Room. I think that'll be best.”
/>
The Blue Room, huh? This guy must be hot shit. I know the price it takes to reserve that room, with its bottles of chilled Dom, eighteen-year-old double-malt Scotch, and toys that'd make a lot of pros blush—toys you can keep as a souvenir if you like afterward. I've never been in there before, though I’ve been invited once.
“Well then, I suppose I should go get ready,” I purr, reaching down and cupping Mr. Robinson's cock through his suit pants. He’s always dressed in some of the finest fashions unless he's fucking, which he does occasionally for fun as well as a way to see what members might be up for. I’d never do something like that outside The Club, but in here, I’m a different person. “Think you might want another ride with me? You know just how to make me come.”
Mr. Robinson's cock stirs in his pants and I can see that he's interested. “Maybe another night. For now, just enjoy.”
He moves off, and I turn back, downing the rest of my drink and signaling for a refill while I watch the group that's fucking right now.
As I watch, my pussy drips. Still, inside me, the part of me that was the real me until that summer day by the lake cries softly, sobbing as it wants to go to sleep, to ignore what the demon is going to show her again. But it can't. I feel sorry for myself and toss back the second scotch quickly. If the real me can't ignore what I'm about to do, at least I can be drunk enough that it might not care so much.
I head to the Blue Room, which the attendant opens for me. Inside, I take a look around and nod. It’s classy in a certain perverted way. None of the tools or toys are just lying out. They’re all hidden inside brushed aluminum drawers, and the big padded space in the middle gives a little under my feet as I take off my heels and step onto it.
I’m trying to figure out if I should leave my clothes on or take them off when the door opens again and a group of men come in, led by a man I’ve seen before on television. He certainly looks different when he’s not standing on the steps of the State House.
The demon is laughing even while I’m sobbing hysterically inside. I feel myself escaping into delirium even as I know that later on, unfortunately, I’m going to remember every second of this.
Finally, it’s over. The men get dressed, the famous one stopping at the door to look back at me in wonder. “You’re one amazing woman, you know that?”
He feels bad, I think, and the logical part of me understands. It’s kinda hypocritical to make speeches and introduce bills demanding respect for all women and then treat me the way he just did. I’d like to tell him the truth, but maybe I’m just too nice. “Don’t worry, honey. It was fun for me too.”
The man nods, looks like he’s about to say something else, then leaves, closing the door behind him. My liar’s smile disappears the instant the door shuts. In the quiet, that side of me that I hate is content.
I do what I should do, what any normal woman would. The first tears are hot and searing, but at least they’re honest. Surrounded by sex and depravity, by the destruction that my hell makes me do, at least they’re something honest in my life.
Chapter 2
Rafe
The first day of fall semester is one that I both enjoy and hate. On one hand, each year in the three undergrad classes I normally teach, there are plenty of fresh-faced students, each of them eager to push their limits. It's one of the reasons that I work here at Stanford. Its reputation as one of the best schools for academics in the entire nation is well-deserved. There’s plenty of disappointment to go with it though, as year after year, I see that none of them can keep up with me, that none of them are willing to actually use their fucking brains for more than social networking and trying to see how much ass they can get before they graduate.
“Good morning. Are you here to see the Professor?”
I turn at the question, pissed already. Of all my pet peeves, being unprepared is definitely my biggest, and I guess this poor fuck just picked the wrong day to be stupid with me. The guy is a TA. I hired him, like most of the TAs that the university sends me, sight unseen. I don't care what you look like. I'm interested in what you can do for me or if you’re just going to waste my time. Still, the registrar's office forwarded me his photo from his student ID two days ago and I remember his name. “Thaddeus Gilbert.”
He realizes who he's talking to and goes pasty white. “Pr–Professor Meyers, I'm sorry. I didn't—”
“You didn't take the time to actually learn that the professor you're going to be working for is me,” I finish for him. “Well, I took the time to learn about you. Chemical engineering major, finished your undergrad work with a 3.8 GPA. Tried out for the swimming team until you decided that being a chemical engineer was more important. It was that reason alone that let me agree to give you a chance.”
“Sir, I'm very sorry—” Gilbert says, but I cut him off.
“I’m not finished. Do you even know why you got assigned to me? Did you know that I go through TAs like toilet paper? Or did you just decide that you’d like the stipend and you figured that being a TA would look good on your transcript at some point? Did you even research who you got assigned to?”
Gilbert stutters again, looking down. “N–No sir, I didn't.”
I roll my eyes. “Get out. You’re fired.”
He looks down and quickly packs up his stuff and leaves, slamming my office door behind him. The glass rattles, but it doesn’t break like two years ago when my fired TA decided that the best way to lodge a protest was with a stapler through the frosted glass.
Ten minutes later, the department secretary, Melanie Petersen, sticks her head in. “Professor Meyers?”
I'm sitting at my desk, sipping at my morning cappuccino like nothing happened, reading my emails before I finish out the morning's work. Then I can get some real work done. Another nice thing about working at Stanford—good coffee. That endowment has to be spent on something, after all. “Hello, Melanie. How can I help you?”
Melanie comes in with a file folder, looking around with a knowing smile on her face. “TA didn't last long, I take it?”
She's been with the department since before I joined the faculty, and is one of the people I get along with best at work. Professional and competent, she knows me pretty well, at least as well as I let any of the staff know me. “Faster than normal. He didn’t even know who I was. What's the office pool got?”
“Nobody's gonna believe it, and I don't think anyone took today,” Melanie replies with a smirk, setting the file folder down. “I was hoping for next Tuesday. You know, all you’re doing is giving yourself even more work to do every time you fire a TA. Here, I need your signature on the updated parking lot rules. Inside is a copy for you to keep as well.”
“Great, just great,” I mutter, putting my initials down before turning back to my computer. “Bottom line is if they'd send me a good one, I wouldn't have a problem with it. But thanks. Talk to you later.”
In a sign of her consummate professionalism, Melanie leaves with only a simple goodbye and I'm left to get my work done. I’m getting through my lesson plans for the rest of the first week of classes when there's another knock on my door. “Come in.”
The door opens, and Dean Nathan Harper, head of the College of Engineering, comes in. “Rafe, I got a call about ten minutes ago from the Teacher’s Assistant office. Apparently, Thaddeus Gilbert showed up sobbing and saying that you fired him?”
“Sobbing? For fuck's sake,” I mutter, sitting forward and setting my keyboard aside. “Yes, I fired him. Totally unqualified and unprepared. I’d do better flying solo than having him around.”
Dean Harper sighs and sits down in the chair across from my desk, tapping the wooden arm rest and studying my face. “Dammit, Rafe, you are nearly so much a pain in the ass that it overwhelms what you bring to Stanford. You know that?”
“I know that last year, I brought Stanford nearly two million dollars in DOD money on my projects and that the College of Engineering plasters the fact that I have a Wright Brothers Medal and a Goddard Trophy al
l over the recruiting materials,” I reply, adjusting again and leaning back. Dean Harper and I have gone over this before. He knows I’m right, and I know that he’s right too. I am a pain in the ass. “I also know I’m tough and expect a lot from these kids, but I still have a waiting list two semesters deep for my classes.”
“And you have more complaints against you than any other professor in the department,” Dean Harper grumbles.
“None of those complaints have ever been justified. We both know that. Yeah, I’m tough on these kids, but someone’s got to be. Everyone else lets them get by while doing nothing. They’re here to become the next generation of leaders in aerospace design, not to get their noses wiped and have someone offer them a juice box with their degree.”
Dean Harper sighs again and nods. “Still, you're putting me in a tough spot. I had the TA office send Gilbert to you because, quite frankly, as popular as you are with students, he was the only potential TA who didn't list you as one of the professors that he was unwilling to work for. Maybe that, more than anything, should have been a red flag to me. He was too sloppy to read over everything. And with your work on the CyberFighter at the stage it's at . . .”
“Don't worry about it,” I tell him, thinking of this afternoon's work. “The Pentagon's still happy with what I'm doing, at least that’s what they told me last week when I talked with them. What's your point?”
The Dean sighs. “Rafe, my point is that this semester, if you want to get this CyberFighter to the next stage of completion, you need a TA. You can’t do everything.”
I half groan, half sigh, knowing he's right. I need a TA if for no other reason than to do some of the grunt work that takes up my teaching hours. There’s too much lab work that needs to be done for me to get through it all otherwise. “Fine, fine, send me another. I'll be nicer this time.”
No Limits: A Dark Romance Page 2