Once again her thoughts drifted toward Jonathan Danvers. If only he was her creative writing professor. Oh, the assignments she would turn in. She’d write the hottest, dirtiest stories for his private perusal, and then she’d put on her tightest dress and visit him in his office…
“Chelsea? May I speak with you?”
With a start, she realized that class had ended. Professor Deveaux’s dark eyes watched her. “Oh, of course.” She headed to her desk.
Professor Deveaux smoothed her chignon, and then fixed Chelsea with an implacable stare. “I wanted to ask if you reviewed the comments on your story, ma chère.”
“I did. I’m sorry, Professor. This isn’t my best work.” Chelsea blushed to the roots of her fair hair.
“I know it isn’t. And that’s why I’m going to let you earn extra credit.” Professor Deveaux’s dark eyes met hers without sympathy or generosity, but a challenge.
Chelsea processed the words. “I—what? That’s so nice of you. I tried to do well on this, I really did, but the dorm—”
“I know. The dorm is hardly conducive to writing good work.” A rare smile cracked Professor Deveaux’s aloof face and then she shocked Chelsea further by brushing aside a loose strand of hair from Chelsea’s face. The tender gesture left her speechless. “It’s always been that way with my more…sensitive students.”
Chelsea tried not to blush again. “Well, I don’t know if I’m sensitive…”
“Oh, you are, Chelsea. You are.”
For a moment, the professor’s brown eyes bore into her with a special meaning. Chelsea swallowed and shifted her feet.
Again, Professor Deveaux gave her the sideways smile that drove all the male students crazy. “About that extra credit. Why don’t you write me a small essay on the poetry of Anne Sexton. The library has some wonderful critical essays on her work. You can turn it in…this weekend? Is that too soon?”
Chelsea nodded fervently, trying not to sound too grateful. “That would be great.”
She thanked her professor again and hurried from the building. She’d probably be the only girl at the library on a Friday night, but she didn’t care. She wanted to please Professor Deveaux and show her that she was serious about her work.
“It’s the weekend, Chelsea. Please don’t tell me you’re going to stay home and read!”
Chelsea moved around her dorm room without meeting her roommate’s eyes. “No, I’m going out.”
“Where?” Nikki sounded impatient. “Just come to the Tri Delt party. We need to kick off the new semester in style. And who knows—you might meet someone. You know you need to get laid, Chelsea.”
Chelsea shook her head, pulling on her favorite red sweater and a pair of jeans. “I’m just going out for pizza with some friends from my sociology class.” She lifted her hair out of the sweater and turned away. She didn’t like lying to her roommate, but if Nikki knew where she was really headed tonight, she’d never hear the end of it.
As it was, Nikki groaned loudly. “Ooo, that sounds exciting… God, Chelsea, you’re turning into an old maid.”
Chelsea ignored her. Instead she put on her coat and scarf, then slipped out of the room.
It was a bitterly cold January night. Across campus, she could see students huddled in their coats, some already clutching cups of beer. She ignored the frat boys who called to her. Sexually frustrated as she was, the last thing that appealed to her was being picked up by some drunken jock. Instead she headed to the library, which was predictably quiet on this Friday night.
“We close at nine tonight,” the security guard warned her as she entered.
“I know.” She wouldn’t need that long. She headed up to the poetry stacks and looked for the critical essays on Anne Sexton that Professor Deveaux had mentioned. With a furrowed brow, she hunted through the books. Finding the right book was always a matter of chance, given how many were stolen or misfiled. Then she saw it.
A leather-bound thesis authored by Jonathan Danvers.
Jonathan Danvers?
Her heart began to pound. A hot flush of excitement burned her cheeks as she quickly grabbed it out of the stacks. Yes, it was truly her idol’s final project, somehow misfiled here in the poetry criticism section. Unbelievable. Whatever miracle had connected her with it, she didn’t know, but this just had to be a sign that they were destined to meet. She touched the pages reverently. Then she saw inside it a handwritten note that another student must have left.
Check original manuscript in the special collections room…
Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? As a successful alumni, some of his original work was no doubt collected here at the library. She had to get into that special collections room before the library closed and see it for herself.
Quickly, she crept down to the basement. She knew this was where original manuscripts, rare books and private collections were housed, deep in the dusty archives of the library. It was very rare that anyone came back here. She glanced at her watch. It was just past eight-thirty. She would only have a few minutes to look through his collection. But she had to at least try. The thought of tracing Jonathan Danvers’ actual handwriting with her fingertip gave her pussy a violent throb of longing. Maybe it was adolescent of her, but touching his penmanship was as close to him as she could get.
As the door of the special collections room shut behind her, a heavy silence settled over her ears. Chelsea glanced around at the leather wing chairs and green-shaded lamps. Yes, this was the perfect room in which to read his personal papers. Yet, as she moved toward the stacks, she heard something else.
Faint music and laughter was coming from somewhere in the library. That didn’t make sense. As her ears strained to hear the noise, it seemed to grow louder. Could it be…ghosts? No, that was ridiculous. Strangely, the music seemed to be coming from beneath the basement.
She tried the handle of a discreet door at the back of the room. It was unlocked. To her surprise, it opened to another hall that led at a long sloping decline to what she assumed were more archives. Perhaps this led down to where they housed the oldest or most useless books, or the student dissertations. She’d known the library contained deep and private rooms, she just didn’t understand why anyone would host a party in one on a Friday night.
Her boots clicked down the narrow hallway, which ended at the top of another staircase. At the bottom was another door, opened just a crack. Crazy. This was almost like a secret passage beneath the library. She could clearly hear a man’s voice speaking with authority from the room at the bottom of the stairs.
“Thank you, my friends, for sharing your work,” he said. “Now it is time for our monthly celebration—and I think you will be pleased to meet our new members tonight.”
Amazing. There was actually a little club that met down here. Who could it be? People from the Classics department? Some weird literary geeks? Chelsea crept down the stairs as quietly as she could toward the crack of light spilling from the door. Holding her breath, she peered through—and almost dropped her purse in amazement.
A massive, candle-lit room spread before her. On sofas of faded red velvet, a variety of strangers sipped champagne, exchanged books and chatted pleasantly amongst themselves. The men and women seemed to range from their twenties up to their sixties, yet their identities were impossible to decipher.
All of them wore masks.
Heart thudding with excitement, Chelsea peered closely at an attractive brunette who sauntered by in a clingy black dress. The woman was braless and her stiff nipples protruded through the thin fabric. Chelsea was surprised to see such a flagrant display in such an elegant setting. As she looked around, she realized many of the people wore risqué clothing—and that large nude paintings adorned the walls of this secret room.
Chelsea’s heart hammered wildly in her chest. She knew she was spying on something she was not meant to see, yet a mix of curiosity, fascination and forbidden arousal rooted her to her hiding spot.
; Several of the guests approached her door. She shrank back, but they only helped themselves to small cakes at a nearby table.
“—always thought Marlowe didn’t get the recognition due him, it’s always Shakespeare, Shakespeare, Shakespeare,” one groused.
“Don’t I know it. And Ben Jonson? Scarcely a student who’s heard of him. Disgraceful, I tell you…”
Their conversation faded as they left the table. Slowly she exhaled, watching a young-looking blond guy kneel to rub an older woman’s feet. Was this some kind of academic orgy? Or just a party? Some of the revelers wore evening wear, sipping champagne in their gowns and tuxes, but others sported decidedly revealing clothing. One man was bare-chested above his leather pants, while another woman wore a short, transparent dress that looked more like lingerie. A masked and naked girl walked by, carrying a tray of champagne glasses. That answered the question, Chelsea supposed. She had stumbled upon some kind of exclusive sex party for academics—and not just on campus, but in the very bowels of the library! She caught her breath as an older man with a mane of white hair pulled the naked girl onto his lap and casually played with her breasts. She couldn’t be quite sure with his eyes masked, but he looked exactly like her favorite science fiction writer.
An odd sensation crept up her skin, as if someone had spotted her through the cracked door. She glanced across the room.
A young, masked man was watching her. About six feet tall, he stood apart from the surrounding guests. Beneath his black Lone Ranger mask, a firm jaw and sensually full mouth promised the knowledge of the art of pleasure. His thick and glossy mane of wavy chestnut brown hair was artlessly rumpled, as if he had just finished bestowing that pleasure on one very lucky girl. His dark eyes burned into her through his mask.
Her throat tightened with fear and she jerked back with the impulse to run. Somehow she was unable to break his gaze. Slowly, she realized he was not going to alert the other guests. A hot, excited flush swept through her body as she struggled with the mysterious conviction that this man was someone who could understand her. He was masked, yes, but the proud stance of his shoulders and that luxuriously tousled hair conveyed a physical promise she wanted very much to explore…
The door abruptly swung open and a woman in a jeweled, cat-eye mask stood before her.
“Good evening, Chelsea,” Professor Deveaux said.
Chapter Two
“I…I don’t understand.”
Chelsea held a cool damp towel to her burning cheeks. She was sitting in a leather wing chair of the special collections room as Professor Deveaux calmly handed her a glass of ice water. A dozen conflicting thoughts battled in her mind—should she call Campus Security? Would Professor Deveaux punish her for spying? Should she join in? And how could she see that beautiful brown-eyed man again?
“It’s a club, ma chère, nothing more and nothing less,” Professor Deveaux said easily. “You’ve belonged to clubs before… This is no different.”
Professor Deveaux wore a floor-length black silk dress with pearls. She looked refined and sophisticated, as if she had just come from the opera. Nothing about her indicated that she had just participated in some kind of academic sex game—save for the fancy cat’s eye mask now resting on a nearby desk.
Despite her flustered state, Chelsea gave her a skeptical stare. “No one’s ever been masked and naked at the clubs I’ve joined.”
Professor Deveaux fixed her with a cool gaze and merely smiled. “Evidemment. But we are a bit different, Chelsea. We are the Society of Erotica Authors. Erotics Anonymous, as we lovingly call it.” She smiled kindly to show she was jesting. “Once a month we get together to discuss our work…and then we enjoy a special kind of party.”
“You mean an orgy.” Chelsea heard the disapproval in her voice but couldn’t take it back. She inwardly cursed, hoping she hadn’t just offended the professor of her most crucial class.
Professor Deveaux shook her auburn head. “No, it’s really not the same. Personally, I prefer not to make love in public. We may be a little risqué to outside eyes but that is because we seek to create an erotic environment. Those who do prefer sex games are welcome to them, of course, but our meetings are more elegant. Sex clubs are nothing special—they are everywhere. What we do is provide inspiration…and that’s much harder to come by in today’s world, n’est ce pas?”
Chelsea frowned. “Inspiration?” It sounded like a euphemism to her.
“We cater to each other’s fantasies. That is the secret of our work, no? As artists, we cannot turn out the same old clichés on the page… We must write about the secret, embarrassing desires we all dream of.”
Something wild and strange stirred inside Chelsea. That was her theory on erotic literature exactly. “I agree,” she said slowly. “But…how do you cater exactly?”
“By maintaining a network of beautiful Muses. Many successful people belong to the Society, Chelsea. We are able to provide things you can’t imagine.” The Professor stroked her hair. “We provide the perfect Muse that every erotica writer seeks.”
Despite her confusion and fear, Chelsea couldn’t help but think of her Jonathan Danvers fantasies. Wasn’t he her muse in a sense? She had never considered it that way before, but her writing definitely improved when there was an unattainable man to fuel her fantasies.
Her cynicism prevailed. “Are the Muses…prostitutes?”
Professor laughed. “No. How vulgar. They are merely beautiful friends with an interest in sex, like ourselves.” She leaned over and looked into Chelsea’s eyes. “It is not all sex with us,” she said, stroking a loose blonde strand behind Chelsea’s ear. “We are a literary network with publishing contacts you could only dream of.”
“I thought I saw…” Chelsea’s tongue tripped over the famous name of the science fiction writer she had seen.
“Yes, we have members of considerable renown. That is why we are very selective in our membership. Though we wore masks tonight, that was an exception. To join, you must first pass a series of initiation tests, and then take a vow of secrecy.”
Chelsea shook her head, trying to digest all this heady information. It almost sounded as if Professor Deveaux intended her to join. And yet why would she, an undergraduate writing student who’d never published anything, be invited to join such an exclusive and secretive club?
“Chelsea.” Professor placed a finger under her chin and looked into her eyes. “It is no accident that I directed you to the library tonight to find the Danvers manuscript. It was the first test. You told me of your obsession with his books. I wanted to see if you had the boldness and spirit to pursue your passion for his work…and the curiosity to discover us.”
A shudder of shock and delight rolled through her. “You mean you wanted me to find you?” Chelsea whispered.
“Mais, bien sur. You are a natural for our society, Chelsea. You have not only the literary talent, but the sexual adventurousness as well.”
Chelsea’s head swam. Her first impulse was to tell Professor Deveaux that she was insane. There was no way she could go to sophisticated parties with famous writers where some people went naked and other people discussed literature she had never even read. And yet, at the same time, what could be more exciting? She was bored by campus life, bored by frat parties and college boys and weekends in the dorms. Not only could this be the ultimate boost for her career, but it could be the social network of her dreams. She’d be associating with intelligent, successful artists—people she would never meet on her own.
Besides, this was Jonathan Danvers’ alma mater. If this campus boasted a secret society of erotica writers, he had to belong to it. He was the most famous erotica writer around for miles. If she joined the Society, she might actually have a shot at making her hottest fantasy come true.
She thought of the masked dark-eyed man below and swallowed. He had been the right height, with that same gorgeous dark hair… Could that possibly be him?
“What would I have to do?”
“There would be a series of tests, Chelsea, to prove your suitability and commitment before being initiated at our Valentine’s Ball. But trust me when I say that you will find them quite pleasurable.”
* * *
The next night at ten o’clock, Chelsea stepped out of her dorm to find a silver limousine waiting for her.
No driver stepped forth to open her door or usher her inside. After an awkward hesitation, she opened the door handle and climbed in. The warm and darkened interior was an inviting contrast to the cold January night. As she sank back into the cushioned leather seat, the limo pulled away and began the winding journey through the campus. No music played; the driver remained silent. Chelsea clutched her long, black leather trench coat around her and watched the lights of her dorm recede.
Her instructions for tonight had arrived via an anonymous email that morning. It ordered her to dress in a short skirt with no stockings, the top of her choice, and a long coat to cover it all. Her destination was a popular bar right near campus. Tomorrow she was to write about the night’s events and submit her story to the same email address.
Her mouth was dry, her bare thighs were shaking and her panties clung to her wet sex. She was almost sick with trepidation at the mysterious initiation test she faced tonight—yet she was more deeply aroused than she had ever been in her life.
The selection of the bar startled her. It was a dark and malty dive, packed to standing room only every night of the week with students. It was the least erotic or elegant locale she could think of. So why would the Society ask her to go there? It didn’t make sense. All the same, she was determined to fulfill their instructions. All last night she had tossed restlessly in her bed, thinking of the sexual and professional benefits membership in the Society could bring her. Not only would the literary contacts be amazing, but it would be a relief to associate with people who viewed sex as an adventure and an art—not a beer-fused hookup between two students who wouldn’t even acknowledge each other in the dining hall the next day.
Erotics Anonymous - A Strangers in the Night Story Page 2