by Alison Tyler
While I stared, the waitress left and returned with two glasses of champagne. I sipped from my glass, and continued to observe my surroundings. Jack hadn’t taken me here to dance. I was sure of that. But he’d given me no clue as to why we were here. And then slowly, I started to get a picture.
Across the room was a large group, three couples, the men slightly older than the women, perhaps in their fifties, while the women were early forties and very chic. While I watched, one of these women stood up to dance for her companions. Sensuously, her hips rolling like the waves in the ceiling, she undid her dress and let it fall away. In moments, she was down to a black bra and panty set, her heels, and her long blonde hair. And she was reflected in the mirrors on the wall, a goddess, a vision, so striking in a sea of black.
Jack watched her, and then watched me watch her. And then, as if on cue, several other women nearby began to shed their clothes. One after another. A rippling effect. The hostesses were there to scoop up the belongings, to hang them on hooks behind the bar. But the vision was mesmerizing.
The men dressed. The women stripping down.
So elegantly. So slowly.
Jack’s hand rested on my knee. He leaned in close and gave me another kiss, and then he led me onto the dance floor and under the mirrored ball.
Some of the women still had their street clothes on, but most were down to the most delicate, dainty underthings. Paris is definitely the lingerie capital, and these women—all French, apparently, from the snippets of conversation I could make out—were doing their part to advertise the finery of their city.
Jack didn’t seem to be paying any notice. He danced with me, protecting me with his body when people moved too close, keeping me precisely where he wanted me. The music was surprising. I’d have expected a heavy techno beat. But what we got was pure rock. Aerosmith. The Stones. Robert Palmer. T. Rex.
Suddenly, the lights in the room, already dim, seemed to dip even lower, and I felt a noticeable change. Jack had his hand on me, tightly gripping my shoulder, and he moved me back to the crimson love seat where we’d started.
Was the room emptying?
Had people left?
I looked at Jack, waiting for him to explain, but he didn’t say a word. Now, I tried to pay more careful attention. Glancing around the room, I realized that the group of six, with the sultry blonde who had led the impromptu stripping, had disappeared. So had a few of the other couples I’d been watching. Then finally I saw that couples, or groups of couples, were heading down a corridor, turning around a corner and disappearing.
Jack had his arm around my shoulder. He seemed fine with staying exactly where we were, sipping fresh glasses of champagne and watching the last few couples on the dance floor. Now, every girl out there was down to some form of underclothes. Camisole and tap panties. Thong and demi-cup bra. A range of items in a rainbow of colors. The men were all fully dressed, which added a further element of intrigue to the situation: what was going to happen next?
When I gazed around again, I realized I was one of only a handful of girls who still had clothes on. But Jack wasn’t pushing me. Wasn’t saying anything at all. He seemed content to be an observer, watching for once, an audience member rather than a player.
My mind was so filled with queries, I missed another important segue. The one in which two couples made the first plunge onto the mattress. One was the sultry blonde and her older partner. They’d returned from wherever their adventure had taken them, and now, the man seemed intent on matching the woman’s exhibitionist streak. I sucked in my breath as he slid her panties down her long, lean legs; as he bent down between them and began to lick her. Another couple from their party was close by, helping. Removing the woman’s bra. Stroking her hair out of her face.
She was the star right now, and we all watched. Wet as she became wet.
Breathless, as she became breathless.
The blonde on the bed seemed to swoon in pleasure. Her long hair was beautifully arranged on the pillow, spread around her head like ribbons of gold. The sheets on the bed were satin, and black like the roiling ceiling; black water, churning under her pale skin.
Her body was made to be adored, tight muscles, flat stomach, and those long, lean legs. She still had on her heels, which made her look extra sexy. As if she couldn’t be bothered to take off her pumps. That’s what I thought at first, but then a man came forward to the foot of the bed, and he bent and cradled one of her feet in his hands and began to slowly tongue the leather of the shoe. My heart pounded.
A hostess brought me a fresh glass of champagne and I looked over at Jack, surprised, but he only winked. Had he ordered more? I hadn’t noticed. There were too many things for me to focus on at once. The music continued in the throbbing, sexy vein. Prince, now. A low rumble. A sultry groove.
Couples had taken all of the love seats, making out as if we were in somebody’s parents’ high-end rec room. Limbs overlapping. Nestled together. But when I looked at the center of the room, I saw that there were more people on the bed now. Were they all from the blonde’s original party? Or had strangers joined in? Things were happening too fast for me. Or maybe it was the champagne. I had that waking dream feeling—a sensation I got with Jack quite often—my eyes unable to take in everything that was going on at once.
Because right next to us, on the couch to our left, a woman was giving her boyfriend a hand job. When had that happened? When had she gone on her knees next to him, and undone his black slacks?
Her hand job progressed naturally to a blow job, her mouth open and hungry, drawing in her partner’s cock.
Jack seemed charmed by my wide eyes.
“You like?” he asked softly
I nodded.
“Are you ready?”
And now I paid attention. Jack was giving me a clue, getting me set.
“For what, Jack?”
“For the next level.”
Like a video game. You make it to the higher level if you pass through the challenges on the first. But unlike in a video game, in which you progress upward, Jack took me by the hand, walked me across the club, and led me down....
The club seemed to be carved from stone. As we made our way down a spiral staircase, I immediately recalled a previous trip to Paris. A visit to the famous catacombs. The air grew colder with each step we took, and Jack tightened his grip on me, making sure I didn’t slip in my heels.
The staircase was tight and narrow, and I felt as if we were journeying underwater. A chill ran through me until we reached level number two. There were beds here. In every nook. Every corner. Satin-sheeted mattresses. Lounges in velvet. In fact, there was hardly any floor space not taken over by some sort of area in which to fuck.
And people were fucking.
Jack let me press back against him, so that we were as flat against one wall as we could be, and I could feel how hard he was through his slacks. I experienced a wave of gratefulness that he had not made me strip upstairs. That he had not positioned me on one of these beds. But I also felt lust flow through me. The players were beautiful. That was the common denominator. Some older, some my age, but all so elegant. Well-coiffed hair. Gym-hard bodies.
Even with all the fucking going on around us, there was nothing seedy about the place. How was that possible? I didn’t know. I just watched. Listened. Heard the moans and sighs. Noticed when the voyeurs would shift their attention from one sofa to another. You could almost chart the sexual energy in the room. As one group reached a fever pitch, others hurried to witness the explosions. And then, of course, another bang would go off like firecrackers in a different part of the room, and all would rush over to see. To be part of the excitement, if only vicariously.
“What do you think?” Jack murmured, hands around me, holding me tight.
I didn’t have words to tell him. I would have stood there, jaw open, eyes wide, for hours. This was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Because in so many ways, it didn’t feel real.
“Answer
me.”
I turned to look at him over my shoulder.... What was he asking? Did he truly want to know how hard my heart was pounding? Or was he trying to determine whether or not I was ready to join in? To dive in amongst the sensuous, writhing bodies. To find my own place on a mattress in a corner. Nobody else was talking. Everyone seemed as hypnotized, as mesmerized, as I felt.
“I don’t know what to think.”
“But you like it?”
“Yes, Jack.”
“Who do you like best?”
I scanned the closest beds, the nearest lounges. There were so many pretty connections taking place near to us. Two gorgeous girls working the same man. Two men helping themselves to the parted thighs of one young redhead.
“Them,” I finally said, locating one of my more pedestrian fantasies. The men were slightly older than their female partners. One had his girl in front of him, and was pulling on her hair as he fucked her.
“Yes,” Jack sighed. “That’s nice, isn’t it?” As if he were commenting on a sip of good wine. Nice.
But the one thing I realized as I looked around the room was that nothing actually kinky was occurring. There were no bindings. No blindfolds. No cuffs. Just sex. Overlapping bodies. More than ménages. So that when Jack undid his slacks and pushed me forward, when he found a space for us on the nearest vacated sofa and lifted my skirt, when his hand came down automatically on my ass, the crack of the sound brought all eyes to us. Drew a crowd around us, right from the start....
Jack didn’t spank me in any “normal” way. He didn’t pull my panties down slowly, to make me feel truly exposed. His hand met my ass because… That’s the only reason: because. The sound of the connection, the response I gave him. This was straight sex for us. Vanilla sex. With me in front of him bent over, and him behind. We were both still fully dressed, which made us an aberration from the start. But it was the fact that he was spanking me that drew the people in.
I kept my head down, arms locked, eyes closed, trying to get through the feeling of being on display. Trying to tell myself that we were simply one more couple in a very busy couples’ club.
The voyeurs came closer when we began fucking. They seemed drawn to us. And in moments I felt hands on me. Tentatively at first. Fingers slipping over my face, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. Then hands on my arms, and interlacing my fingers. And I couldn’t help myself any longer. I had to open my eyes. I had to see what was going on. If I kept my eyes closed, I could pretend that Jack and I were by ourselves. But once I opened my eyes, once I committed to the situation, my heart began to pound. There were couples close by. Truly close, so that their heat became my heat.
People spoke to me. Spoke to Jack. And he responded, although I couldn’t. They were all talking in French. Whispering to us. Praising us, I would guess, from the expressions on their faces. Jack could answer. Every so often, he’d respond. But I was lost in my world, not fathoming a word.
Jack kept up the rhythm, fucking me hard, letting me know how turned on he was by the speed with which he took me. There was no going slow right now. No lingering. Jack put both of his hands on my waist, pulling me back into him, and he came.
I could see that another couple—no, a foursome—nearby was drawing away part of our crowd. Ricocheting fireworks, like I’d thought before. But many of the group stayed close by, as if wanting an encore. Or hoping for something else. Something different. We’d surprised them. That was clear. I could tell from the hungry look on the audience’s faces that we had given them only a mere taste of what they hoped for.
And Jack, like any good ringmaster, wasn’t going to disappoint. I glanced over my shoulder at him when I heard the sound of his belt being pulled free.
“Tuck up your dress,” he said, but before I could, some helpful hands did the deed for me, pulling the hem of my dress high up to my waist. I felt something inside of me snap. The fear faded, leaving only lust in its place.
My panties were down, but not off, and Jack waited for a blonde near my side to pull them over my heels. Had he said something to her, or did she just know? The people nearby moved back a little, to give Jack space—even in a place where space was the one commodity not readily available.
“Ten,” Jack said, and I felt myself attempt to get ready. Muscles tightening automatically, and then slowly starting to relax as he made me wait.
A girl moved closer to me, so close that she and I were face-toface. She cradled my face in her hands, and I knew she could see Jack over my head. She knew when he was going to strike, and she kissed me at that very moment. Kissed me sweetly, softly, so that pain met pleasure in one brutal moment.
Ten. Ten’s nothing. Ten’s cake. Or icing.
If Jack had told me to count out ten in the privacy of the hotel, or back at home, or even in a car, the concept would have been laughable. A game of pat-a-cake that Jack never would have thought to engage in. Ten wouldn’t even have counted as foreplay in our world.
But ten strokes of Jack’s belt in public, with a stunning stranger touching my face, kissing my lips...that was different. That was intense. Enlightening, even. We were in this underground world filled with the turbulent motion of sex and bodies. Moving to the erotic soundtrack of moans and sighs. Witnesses to the bliss of nearby players, their sounds echoing, reverberating around us.
And then there was Jack and his belt.
Punishing me, or pleasuring me?
The answer to that depends entirely on how you look at what Jack and I did together. For me, of course, the definition was one and the same.
I counted, slowly, softly, and the girl counted with me in French:
One—un.
Two—deux.
Three—trois.
Giving me ten kisses for the ten strokes. Her lips were heavenly soft but she didn’t try to increase the passion between us. She gave me sweet, chaste kisses on the lips each time Jack landed a blow on my naked skin. And somehow that made everything even more surreal than it already felt. If she’d gripped me tightly, if she’d touched me with possession, that would have been almost expected. Another Dom in our midst. But her fingertips were as light as her lips, and she seemed content to simply coexist with me, partake of the blows as more than a witness but less than a participant.
How had she found us?
Had she been watching us? Had she seen us on the dance floor, or cuddled on the sofa? Or had she simply been drawn over when Jack first let his hand smack against my ass? That sound a striking call to all submissive souls.
Come. Join us. Seek out what you crave.
I tried my best to stay focused in the moment, tried to pay attention to the girl’s heart-shaped face, to the candy taste of her lips, to the way her caramel-colored hair fell into her blue eyes. We reached ten. Ten smarting blows on my upturned ass, before Jack slid his belt back into place. There seemed to be a collective sigh around us, as if people were sad that the show was over. I wondered if it really was. If the curtain had come down on us. Or if Jack was simply preparing for the next step.
I felt his hands on me, pulling my dress back into place, grabbing up my panties. The girl sat down on her haunches, watching warily. More feline than she’d seemed before. Showing off power that I hadn’t recognized at first. She didn’t seem to like the fact that Jack was moving me away from her, standing between us. Jack didn’t pay her the slightest bit of attention.
He gathered me up in his arms, blocking out the crowd. From the look on his face, he didn’t seem disturbed that I’d kissed the girl—or been kissed by her—but he also seemed finished with the exhibition. Jack had me in motion, hustling me back up the stairs, telling the hostesses we were ready for our coats—I made out those words—and then handing over money.
Then we were out, into the night, walking through the darkened streets of Paris. Walking hand in hand, as if we were a normal couple. Lovers out for a midnight stroll.
Yes, Europe transforms me.
But not as much as Jack does.
&
nbsp; ABOUT THE EDITOR
CALLED “A TROLLOP WITH A LAPTOP” by East Bay Express, and a “literary siren” by Good Vibrations, Alison Tyler is naughty and she knows it. Ms. Tyler is the author of more than twenty explicit novels, including Learning to Love It, Strictly Confidential, Sweet Thing, Sticky Fingers, Something About Workmen, Rumors, Tiffany Twisted and With or Without You (Cheek). Her short stories have appeared in more than seventy anthologies and have been translated into Spanish, German, Italian, Japanese, Greek and Dutch.
She is the editor of thirty-five anthologies including Heat Wave, Best Bondage Erotica volumes 1 & 2, The Merry XXXMas Book of Erotica, Luscious, Red Hot Erotica, Slave to Love, Three-Way, Happy Birthday Erotica (all from Cleis Press); Naughty Fairy Tales from A to Z (Plume); and the Naughty Stories from A to Z series, the Down & Dirty series, Naked Erotica and Juicy Erotica (all from Pretty Things Press). Please visit www.prettythingspress.com.
Ms. Tyler is loyal to coffee (black), lipstick (red), and tequila (straight). She has tattoos, but no piercings; a wicked tongue, but a quick smile; and bittersweet memories, but no regrets. She believes it won’t rain if she doesn’t bring an umbrella, prefers hot and dry to cold and wet, and loves to spout her favorite motto: “You can sleep when you’re dead.” She chooses Led Zeppelin over the Beatles, the Cure over the Smiths, and the Stones over everyone—yet although she appreciates good rock, she has a pitiful weakness for ’80s hair bands.
In all things important, she remains faithful to her partner of over a decade, but she still can’t choose just one perfume.