The Sex Club
Jasmine Haynes
Published 2004
ISBN 1-931761-93-0
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright © 2004, Jasmine Haynes. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com
Email: [email protected]
Cover Art by Michael McGinnis
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
The echo of her moans faded through the open window into the dark summer night. The last tremors of her self-induced orgasm dissipated. Hot, she pushed the covers aside; then rolled to her side, tucked her legs to her chest, and hugged her knees. The tears that had dampened the soft hair at her temples now pooled in the corner of her eye; then trickled off the bridge of her nose to the pillow. Her belly ached as if she were starving, and a giant-sized fist squeezed her heart.
Lately, she'd taken to moaning loudly and thrashing on the bed, in the hopes that he'd get so turned on he'd have to join her in the bedroom. Instead, he turned up the TV volume.
How long had it been since he'd wanted her? It seemed like forever, but she thought of things in terms of an event horizon. The event that coincided with the last time they'd made love was her baseline mammogram, which she'd had done four years later than she should have. Which made October the last time they'd made love. Which made it nine months ago. My God, she could have had a baby in that time. Not that she wanted to become a mother at the age of thirty-nine.
No, she wanted him to make love to her more than once in nine months. She understood that the male libido declined after a certain age, especially when the male had been with the same woman for almost twenty years. She understood that he was tired after a long day at work, after finishing all the chores on Saturday and Sunday. She understood that he was just plain tired, a little bored with his job, a little bored with her, a lot bored with himself. It happened to many married couples. She wasn't expecting twice a day, not even twice a week. But nine months?
How long before that? They'd had sex on that trip to Germany. He'd taken her along on a business trip last February. Eight months. Oh my God, it wasn't that February, it was the one before. Which made it a year and eight months!
She couldn't breathe over the pain that suddenly seized her throat, her chest, every muscle, every corpuscle. He doesn't want me. To her, the thought was synonymous with saying he didn't love her. She didn't crave only sex. She wanted the passion, the fire, that overwhelming high when a man groaned; then whispered, "God, I think I'm going to die if I don't get inside you right this minute."
Without that kind of passion, she wanted to die.
The worst thing was, she couldn't tell anyone. Her friends would look at her as if she'd lost her mind. So, why haven't you left him? Why are you still there? Where are your guts? Leave him! Or at least take a lover.
Her guts were lying on the floor in a puddle beside the bed, ripped out by the TV's unbearable volume in the next room.
He wasn't a bad man. He didn't beat her, he did the dishes every night, he managed not to pee all over the toilet seat, and most of the time he left the lid down. He made her laugh until her sides hurt, and he knew something about everything, not the know-it-all kind of thing, just smart and well-read. He made her coffee in the morning, and he called her from work every day without fail. He was never late, he stopped on the way home for the milk she'd forgotten to pick up, and he never complained if all she had time to make was Hamburger Helper. When she was freaking out over something at work, he soothed her frayed nerves, talked her down, brought her tea, and rubbed her back. He was a good man.
So what had happened to them? He'd been her best friend for what seemed like forever. She could tell him anything. Then he'd stopped making love to her, not all at once, but a slow degradation of their intimacy, their friendship, their communication. He'd stopped wanting her. Worse, he didn't have a clue how important that was to her, and nothing she said made him understand.
They'd worked hard so that next year she would be able to retire to focus on her stained glass work. She now had a contractor who recommended her custom windows to his upscale remodeling clients. She had actually opened her own business checking account, and she'd been in the black for months. Their future looked bright. Financial freedom was just around the corner.
But what good was a flourishing business when you barely had the will to get out of bed in the morning? What good did it do to think about changing your life when you were absolutely terrified that no one else would want you either? That you'd end up alone.
Old.
And unwanted.
CHAPTER ONE
"So, what are you wearing tomorrow night?"
Sackcloth. "I haven't decided yet."
Debbie Carter hadn't decided on her attire for tomorrow night's bachelorette party because she hadn't decided if she was going. She wasn't sure she could take all the happiness, the giddiness, and the sexual innuendo. Well, where they were going, there might be more than sexual innuendo. A lot more. She was too damn tired to withstand it all. Not now, please, not now.
Stacy, her best friend and manicurist for the last fifteen years, shook Debbie's fingers. "Relax, will ya? Why are you so tense? Bad day at work?"
Bad day, bad year, bad life. Debbie knew she sounded pathetic, even if she hadn't said it aloud. Get a grip. Snap out of it. The most she could manage was a topic shift. "Don't you think it's kind of strange that Virginia's having her bachelorette party at a sex club?"
Stacy rolled her eyes. "She's forty-one, and she's getting married for the fourth time. What do you expect, a nice little girlie get-together that her grandmother could attend?"
"I'm not so sure about this. I mean, what goes on at these places?"
A wicked, evil grin curved Stacy's lips. "That's what we're going to find out. Did you tell your husband where we're going?"
She'd thought about mentioning their destination, wondering if the idea would somehow get his motor running. She'd chickened out for fear that it wouldn't. She couldn't stand another rejection, even if it was nonverbal and subject to her own interpretation. "No. Men are sworn to secrecy about what happens at bachelor parties, and women should do the same."
"Jeez, everyone knows what goes on at bachelor parties. Some little hottie with big tits jumps out of a cake and goes down on the groom."
"Do they?" She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. "How do you know?"
Stacy winked. "Someone always tells, if the inducement is right."
Debbie knew what inducement Stacy had used. Forty-five, with a body and face that looked ten years younger, she didn't hide the fact that she was a woman at her sexual peak. With her hair dyed a red-gold, D-cup breasts, and a sexy laugh that turned men's heads, Stacy attracted the opposite sex like honey. Debbie admired her for it, though she avoided looking in the mirror when Stacy was standing next to her. Not because of the hair or the breasts or the full lips. No, it was the sparkle that glittered in her friend's green eyes. That was what men wanted. They looked at the body, listened to the seductive laughter, but they approached because Stacy was so ... alive. No one gave a damn about her age.
Next to her, Debbie felt ten years older instead of five years younger. A
nd fifty years used-up. Her dull, straggly blonde hair needed the split ends trimmed and could do with a highlight. Her blue eyes seemed to have faded to gray, and while she wasn't fat, she looked just plain limp.
"Come to my house first. I've got the perfect outfit for you."
"You know, I really think I'm going to skip this one." She wasn't good at mingling. She wasn't good at being passed over. She didn't have Stacy's liveliness, and she couldn't stand being the wallflower next to her friend. Not again. Not in her current frame of mind. Her husband wasn't the only one who found her boring and undesirable. All men did. God.
"No." Stacy scowled. "You are not skipping this."
Debbie tilted her head at the sharp tone. "I'm not sure I can handle it."
Stacy's fingers tightened on hers. "You deserve this. And I'm going to make sure you have it."
Her sudden intensity made Debbie's heart race. "Have what?"
Looking down, Stacy suddenly seemed to realize she'd stopped filing Debbie's nails. She started once more, accidentally getting too close to the cuticle and filing the skin away. Debbie winced.
"Oops, sorry." Stacy dabbed at the little spot of blood with antiseptic. "Anyway, I'm just saying you need to have a little girl-fun. We're going to gawk, and we'll have something to talk about for the next few months. Please come."
It was a little strange the way Stacy now talked to her fingers, and Debbie was convinced something odd had been in her tone, but the party had been planned for weeks. There would be just the four of them. Stacy, Debbie, Virginia, and Karen. Years ago, they'd met at the company they'd all worked for in various departments. Eventually, they'd moved on to new jobs, new careers, new husbands and lovers--except Debbie--but they'd kept up the friendship, getting together at least once a month for dinner and girl talk. Sex talk. Though lately, Debbie had found herself increasingly unable to join in the fun, and sometimes, on the way home, she'd had to pull off to the side of the road because she couldn't see past the tears.
Which was totally pathetic. She'd made her bed, she'd stayed with her husband, she'd chosen security over passion and fire. She had to stop being so damn sorry for herself about that decision. If she wasn't careful, the inscription on her tombstone would read, "She pitied herself to death."
"You don't have to do anything, Deb. I know you're married. But you're not dead."
Not yet, but so very close, the way she was feeling these days.
"There's no harm in looking. It's a girls' night out."
Girls' night out. Just for fun. Something they could shock themselves with having done. A taste of the wild side. It couldn't hurt her husband. He didn't really care anyway. In fact, he'd be glad she wasn't scrutinizing him across the dinner table wondering if tonight would be the night. Maybe it would ease the pressure on him. On her. With less pressure, who knew what could happen between them? "All right, I'll go. What time do you want me at your place?"
"Seven. Aren't you even going to ask me about the outfit?"
"No. I'm giving you carte blanche."
Stacy sat back, regarding her, once again forgetting to file. "Wow. That's trusting."
Actually, it was scary as hell. Stacy had an awesome--and somewhat revealing--wardrobe.
Patting her hand, Stacy went on, "Well, don't worry, I won't give you something that doesn't fit your boobs. So tell me, how's everything going with your contractor?"
"Oh my God. Stephen knows tons of people that are interested in my windows. I've done over seven pieces. Really big stuff, not sun-catchers. Thank you so much for putting him in touch with me." Debbie felt her enthusiasm rise and her spirits lift. The only thing that gave her any joy these days was working a beautiful piece of glass. That was truly the only time she felt in control of her life. Stephen, though they'd only emailed, had done a lot to help her feel that way. "You know, by the end of the year, if this keeps up, I might be able to quit work."
Stacy did a final buff. "That's great. I'm so happy for you. You deserve it. Now, I'll pick out your polish while you go wash your hands."
"Don't choose anything too outrageous."
Stacy smiled another wicked, evil grin.
* * * *
"Damn, it looks like someone's house." Karen had moussed her blonde hair to the size of a nun's habit. The bouffant slapped Debbie in the face as Karen leaned between the front bucket seats.
"It's a veritable mansion." Virginia, seated next to Karen in the back seat, rolled down her window. For the outing, she'd worn a peach silk suit, the skirt covering her to her knees. Next to Stacy, Karen, and Debbie, in her sexy borrowed skirt and blouse, Virginia looked like a maiden aunt. Yet this place had been her choice, though Debbie thought a sex club was way out of character for Virginia.
Set amidst a grove of Eucalyptus at the end of a long, sloping drive, with the moon providing the only illumination, the house looked like something out of a Vincent Price vampire movie. It was a hulking behemoth over three stories high, with dormer windows at presumably the attic level. No lights filled any of the windows. No valet parking attendants swarmed about the wide stone porch. In fact, not a single living soul moved, not even a curtain flickered.
Karen, the youngest of them at a mere thirty-five, lowered her voice. "You know, this place creeps me out."
Stacy huffed. "It's private. And exclusive. What did you expect, floodlights and a marching band?"
Debbie didn't find the mansion creepy. Excitement rippled through her at the sight of it. Its mystery made her blood pump faster, her nipples harden, and moisture gather between her thighs. The darkness beckoned, promised secrecy, passionate encounters, and fantasy fulfillment. Just fantasy, she didn't have to do anything. Observe, pretend for a little while. Jaywalk over to the wild side for a night. The clingy black top and skirt Stacy had loaned her, the high heels and stockings with garter belt, all fit her blossoming mood. She'd walked out of her home with the promise to herself that something spectacular was going to happen. Something that would change her life. Something that would make her feel alive. This was a night for magic and a house that invited it.
She looked hot in the borrowed outfit. More importantly, she felt hot. And some gorgeous man was going to hit on her.
If she let this chance pass her by, she'd never have the courage to try again. People usually didn't know the pivotal moments in their lives until they'd already happened. But Debbie knew this was her moment.
"I think we should go to TGIFriday's," Karen said.
"No," Debbie said, and they all turned to stare at her. Stacy put her foot on the brake. Debbie wasn't a leader, she was a follower. She'd always voted with the majority. This time she didn't care what the majority wanted. She only knew what she was going to have. This one night. "No one's backing out now. We're going in, we're going to shock ourselves silly, and we're going to have fun. Got it?"
After a few brief, stunned seconds, Karen piped up with another comment. "But it's way the hell out in the middle of nowhere." They'd driven forty-five minutes out of town. "Why aren't there any other cars? What if this is some sort of sex slave place where they never let you leave again?"
Virginia snorted. "You wish."
Debbie did wish. For something, anything, even sexual slavery. There could be far worse things. Like masturbation. Unless maybe you were doing it for someone else. A little thrill zipped right down to her clitoris.
"Who's got the invitations?" Stacy took one hand off the steering wheel and waggled her fingers, her perfect French manicure gleaming in a shaft of moonlight falling through the windshield.
"I don't get this invitation thing."
Stacy gave Karen another exaggerated sigh. "We've been over this how many times? It's invitation only the first time. After that, women are allowed in groups or singly without it. But men always have to have one or they don't get in."
"They don't let men in? What's the fun in that?"
"I didn't say no men allowed. I said that with men, the invitation is always required. That exclud
es horn-dog frat boys who don't know a clitoris from a hole in the wall."
Karen shrugged, her hair bouncing. "What's wrong with frat boys? They have stamina."
Stacy rolled her eyes. "She is sooooo young."
Virginia pulled the stack of cream-colored envelopes from her purse. Stacy took them with a flourish.
"Now, ladies, here are the rules. We don't use real names. We do use condoms. They have little bowls of them all over the place. Like candy dishes. We say no to whatever we don't want, and we say yes to whatever we do. If somebody bugs you, you tell an attendant and he or she bites the dust. Got it?"
Karen stared at her wide-eyed. "Have you been to this place before?"
The corner of Stacy's mouth lifted. "How do you think you got the invitation?"
"You slut." Admiration laced Karen's voice despite the epithet. She turned to Virginia beside her. "You haven't said anything. You're getting married on Sunday. You can't touch anyone."
"I'm not married yet."
"Oh, double slut." Karen's voice rose. "We're supposed to be watching, not doing. What about you, Debbie? You're not going to touch, are you?"
"Of course not." Maybe.
My God, was she really considering adultery? No. Of course not. She wanted to be titillated. Excited. Wanted to pretend for one night that she was gorgeous, sexy, and desirable. She wanted to add to her store of fantasies that could be dragged out in the middle of the night and put to good use when she was going mad for an orgasm.
The night was ripe with possibilities.
* * * *
The parking garage turned out to be under the house. Porsches, Jags, and BMWs proliferated in the underground lot. Sex appeared to be for the rich, at least here. Debbie's excitement threatened to bubble over. Candy dishes with condoms. She could only imagine what other illicit activities were happening above them.
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