by Emily Tilton
But something in what he had seen, and something about Lauren’s email had stirred other thoughts and feelings—frankly, hot feelings. Ed couldn’t put let go of the idea, too, that he hadn’t just projected sexual ideas on the scene, and on the email.
Lauren had looked at the middle-aged woman in the pantsuit in alarm. Her eyes had said that this woman had the authority to do something to… well, to punish Lauren for looking at Ed on the sidewalk. And the woman in the pantsuit had herself worn an expression that seemed to say, Yes, Lauren, I am afraid you must be punished.
Then the email with no contractions—I am instead of I’m. Why? And why might Lauren not write back?
He had to wait outside the building into which he thought Lauren, the other girls, and the older women had disappeared for two hours, feeling foolish. He had almost decided to give up, and go to a museum for a little while just so he wouldn’t waste the day.
Then three girls in school uniforms, all of them looking to be Lauren’s age and accompanied by a middle-aged woman, emerged from the building. The doorman opened the door of a waiting limo, and the girls and their chaperone got in. The limo sped away uptown.
Ed suddenly wished he had a motorcycle to hop onto, to follow that limousine. He knew in his bones that the ‘schoolgirls’ inside weren’t headed to a career seminar, or an internship placement, or anything of the kind. Something about the doorman’s expression, even seen from across the street, seemed to tell him that. Most men, including Ed himself, would have a difficult time keeping their eyes off the pretty girls in the plaid skirts and white blouses, but the doorman’s smile had something in it that suggested a kind of knowledge: the man knew that these schoolgirls were going someplace where their uniforms would come off. More, Ed could have sworn that the doorman felt confident that he would be able to see the schoolgirls that way, too, when he wanted.
What the hell was going on in that apartment building? Ed had to try, at least, to figure it out. He crossed the street, breathing evenly to keep his manner calm. He walked confidently up to the doorman.
“Hi,” he said, smiling as if greeting a person he didn’t yet know, but planned to see almost every day from now on. “I’m Ed, the new fitness specialist.”
“Hi,” the doorman said, smiling back, one working man to another. “Are you taking over for Bill, or did one of the members make a special arrangement?”
Ed fought the urge to swallow hard, and answered smoothly, “It’s a special arrangement.”
The doorman nodded. Special arrangements must be common. “Word of advice? I don’t know if you’ll get your cock sucked today—that’s up to the girl’s matron. But if you want to keep the gig with this girl, and maybe get arrangements going with some of the other members, don’t forget to spank the girl for something. That’s how Bill got the regular job, and now he gets more blowjobs than anyone else who works here. The members make the girls blow him every time he does a personal training session, to thank him—all because the word got around that he spanks them to keep them motivated.”
Now Ed couldn’t keep the swallow back, and he knew his expression betrayed a good deal of surprise.
The doorman laughed. “Yeah, I know. It takes some getting used to. But I swear it’s the sweetest gig you’ll ever have. And…” the man’s face took on a slightly darker aspect, “…don’t even think of talking about it to anyone outside the building, right? You signed the confidentiality agreement. Don’t blow it for the rest of us, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled at the pun. “These guys—the members—they don’t mess around, when someone is out of line. Last year one of the limo drivers got drunk and talked big in a bar about all the blowjobs he got from eighteen-year-olds—didn’t even mention the club, or this building, but he found himself taking a permanent vacation to one of the members’ Asian offices.”
Ed nodded, his mind working furiously to figure out how to discover what Lauren’s role in all this might be, and what a member and a matron were. “So where do I go?” he asked, doing his best to make it sound like someone had told him to ask the doorman.
The other man frowned, and Ed could tell that suspicion had crept into his mind. When you made a special arrangement with a member, you didn’t ask the doorman. He needed a gambit. “Girl’s name is Lauren?”
“Oh, Mr. Killington’s girl. In Mrs. Fredericks’ apartment. Mrs. Fredericks knows you’re coming?”
Ed took out his phone and glanced at it, as if checking his calendar. He saw that it was nearly eleven. “Uh-huh,” he said. Taking what felt like his whole life into his hands and his words, he said, “Eleven o’clock appointment in the fitness center. Where’s that?”
The doorman nodded. “Tenth floor. Mrs. Fredericks doesn’t forget stuff like that, but if she doesn’t bring Lauren down, there’s a house phone in there. Just dial…” he pulled a little spiral notebook from his breast pocket, “…1254.” He glanced at the bag in Ed’s hand, and Ed thanked God he had thought to bring the prop along. “The men’s locker room is to the right, when you get into the gym. If you see anything going on in there, best just to ignore it until you get a feel for how things work around here. Members and guests are allowed to bring the girls into the men’s locker room, and to enter the girls’ whenever they want.”
“Thanks, man,” Ed said, and pushed through the revolving doors.
* * *
Thankfully the fitness center was right across from the elevators. Through the glass wall Ed could see two sights that made him swallow hard: Central Park, gorgeously laid out before him, and an even more gorgeous set of five young women, none of them with auburn hair and so none of them Lauren O’Hara, out of their uniforms and in their very skimpy gym clothes, hard at work on treadmills, stationary bikes, and stair-steppers of various kinds, exercising their incredible bodies as they looked out at the view. To the side, in what seemed to be a small lounge area, three of the middle-aged women who must be the matrons, sat talking, paying their lovely charges scant attention.
Ed knew he should turn around and go back down to the lobby, tell the doorman that he had gotten the day wrong and hope that the man would find no reason to mention the ‘new’ personal trainer to anyone—least of all the members, whatever that meant. But although he had no idea what he meant to do with the information he gleaned here, he knew this moment represented the only opportunity he would ever have to gather it. He walked into the fitness center through the glass doors, trying to look like he owned the place. He turned right, saw the entrance to the men’s locker room, and let his steps carry him there.
Then, just before he passed through the doorway into the blind space where a wall shielded the naked goings on in the changing area, he noticed that one of the matrons sitting in the lounge area was the one in the pantsuit from the sidewalk two weeks ago. After that, as he entered the locker room, his ear caught the name ‘Lauren’ spoken by a masculine voice, in the midst of a sentence the rest of which he didn’t catch.
Ed could see a row of sinks, and several bays of lockers, with long, broad benches placed in the middle of each bay, for the locker room’s denizens to put their things and to sit and put on shoes and socks.
And, it appeared, to bend girls over, take down their workout briefs and their panties, and fuck them. The girl—not Lauren, thank goodness, or Ed thought he might have given himself away with a shout or an angry command to get off the girl over whom he now realized he had taken some sort of responsibility. The relief he felt at verifying that the other girl—the one bent over under the slow thrusts of the well-built middle-aged man—was not Lauren O’Hara told him that.
Ed darted his eyes away and headed to another locker bay, not sure what to do but knowing that he must take the doorman’s advice and not pay attention to this rather attention-grabbing spectacle.
But the man’s head turned before Ed could enter the next bay and be lost to his view, Ed could see in his peripheral vision. He knew that it would be almost equally awkward to ignore the arousi
ng scene of semi-public sex between an older man and a gorgeous ‘schoolgirl’ as it would be to stare. His heart beating rather quickly, he glanced over as casually as he could.
The man fucking the girl winked. “New trainer?” he asked.
“Yup,” Ed said, his mouth going dry. “Ed.”
“I’m Mr. Graves,” the silver-haired man said. “This is Jessica. Jessica, say hello, darlin’.”
“Hi,” Jessica said in a strained voice, turning her pretty face, red with a deep blush, to Ed.
“Nice to meet you, Ed. If you don’t get a blowjob from the girl you’re here to train, you just let me know, and I’ll have Jessica here blow you, okay? I like to make sure all the new guys get a chance to enjoy themselves.”
Ed didn’t think he could muster any words other than “Thanks,” which he said, nodding. Mr. Graves turned his attention back to Jessica, gripping her a little harder around her waist and moving more urgently inside her. The girl cried out, her face to the bench, and Ed went into the bay where he had been heading, opening a locker and doing his best to make standard locker room sounds while he listened to the sex in the next bay, hoping whatever conversation he had overheard might be renewed. So that he wouldn’t seem to be doing anything not in keeping with his stupid cover story, he got changed into his workout clothes.
He heard only Jessica’s submissive cries, alongside the moist slap of cock in pussy, for several moments. Then Mr. Graves said, “You’ll be kind to Lauren, darlin’, won’t you? That whipping she’s going to get for playing with herself will be pretty severe. If Mr. Killington pops her cherry and fucks her ass tonight after he punishes her, too, she’s probably going to need some comforting, and you may sleep in her room if Mrs. Fredericks says it’s okay.”
The tone of his voice, and the way Jessica’s whimpers and moans responded to his words, made it clear to Ed that Mr. Graves meant all this as dirty talk, to arouse him and his schoolgirl while they fucked. It seemed to have the desired effect, too: Mr. Graves gave a grunt, Jessica cried out, and the sound of thrusting ceased.
But its effect on Ed, who sat on the bench taping his ankles though he didn’t actually need the extra support at all, was very different.
“Alright, darlin’,” Graves said, a few moments later. “You go have your workout. I’m sorry I interrupted, but I couldn’t resist when I saw your cute behind through the window.”
“That’s alright, sir,” Jessica said. “I’m glad I could please you.”
Faced with the prospect of questions he couldn’t answer, Ed ‘remembered’ at that point that he had gotten the day wrong, pulled on his jeans, shoes, and socks, and headed for the exit.
“Something come up?” Mr. Graves called.
Ed turned around with a smile. Graves was sitting on the bench, with Jessica on his lap. “I got the day wrong, looks like.”
“You sure you don’t want Jessica to show you what she can do, before you go?”
Ed forced a smile onto his face as the blond girl gave him a smile of her own, shy but clearly ready to obey the man to whom who must somehow belong—as Lauren must belong to this Mr. Killington.
“No, thanks. I got myself all messed up—I’m already late for a session uptown.”
As he hurried out of the building, giving the doorman the same explanation, his mind whirled, desperately trying to find some way to use what he had learned to… to what? He had heard about sex, and seen sex. He had heard about spanking, and paddling—and that Lauren would receive a severe punishment for… Ed’s cock swelled at the thought.
Could he do anything? Should he try?
He had to talk to Lauren at least, somehow, and find out whether she had consented to whatever the hell was going on in the beautiful Fifth Avenue apartment building where schoolgirls, it seemed, learned grownup lessons.
Chapter Fifteen
Mr. Killington left his office early, to come to Mrs. Fredericks’ apartment and punish Lauren for masturbating without permission. He found her, as he had specified in his email to Mrs. Fredericks, naked in her bedroom, shaking like a leaf as she waited to be taken to the bathroom for the enema that would precede her belt whipping.
Lauren had sobbed and sobbed when Mrs. Fredericks walked in on her that morning and made it instantly clear that the punishment for illicit self-pleasure would be of a kind calculated to make Lauren keep her hands where they belonged from that moment on. Still, when the email arrived from Mr. Killington, the news that at 4:30 that afternoon she would have a punishment enema and then a belt whipping made her weep even more, and plead with Mrs. Fredericks to ask her owner to reconsider.
Dear Mr. Killington, Mrs. Fredericks had made her write, I am so sorry, but I made a mistake this morning. My private parts felt very needy, and I touched them, inside my panties. Mrs. Fredericks came into the room and found me with my hand between my legs. I know I must be punished, but I hope you will take into account that I have been trying very hard to behave myself as modestly as possible, and Mrs. Fredericks has only had to spank me twice since my paddling, and only for grammar, and Jessica gets spanked almost every day.
But Mrs. Fredericks had shown Lauren her own email, which made Lauren’s heart quail in her chest.
Dear Mr. Killington,
I am sorry to have to tell you that I found Lauren masturbating in bed this morning. She had thrown back her covers and raised her nightgown, and she had both hands inside her panties, one in front and one behind. She had her eyes closed, and was doubtless picturing some lascivious scene as her hips moved in a shameless enactment of it, seeking illicit pleasure by her own devices. A lewder spectacle could scarcely be imagined. Lauren has behaved herself admirably for the past few days, but I am afraid I must recommend that you punish her personally this evening, and with great severity. I permit masturbation in my apartment when a girl’s owner specifies it as part of her training in keeping company, but as you know I require written notice from the owner, and so I must assume that Lauren’s onanism this morning violated your rules and mine. I think it best that she learn not to consider renewing the vice. I am as always,
Your humble and obedient servant,
Mrs. Anita Fredericks
Lauren had begged the matron not to send this email, but in vain. “You should have thought of the consequences before you raised your nightgown, you little slut,” she said, flashing fire from her gray eyes.
Mr. Killngton’s reply had arrived ten minutes later, in both their inboxes.
Dear Lauren and Mrs. Fredericks,
Lauren will receive an enema this afternoon, followed by a belt whipping on her bed. I have given our theater tickets to another member of the club. Lauren should be naked, in her room, at 4:30.
Yours,
John Killington
On reading it, Lauren had given a cry of grief and fear. Mr. Killington had said they would see a Broadway show sometime soon, but she hadn’t known it would be that night—and now she had ruined it, and she would have… She had bit her lip, unable even to form the terrible word in her mind. Mrs. Fredericks had changed back into her consoling character, then. “Do not worry, honey,” she had said. “It will be hard, but you will learn your lesson. You know you need this.”
Did she know? Did she need it? Had she wanted to be caught touching herself? As she waited, trembling, for her owner’s arrival, Lauren couldn’t stop asking herself the question. If she had wanted it, sort of, that morning in bed as her fingers moved gently and naughtily in and out of her virginal pussy, she didn’t want it now that her bottom would pay such a terrible price for her pleasure.
She had asked, red-faced, at the end of dinner the previous evening, if she could play with herself that night.
“Sir,” she had said timidly, so very conscious of the lingerie she had now worn on five of these elegant evenings out, “Mrs. Fredericks says I’m doing a good job being, you know, modest and well-behaved, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” said Mr. Killington, smiling.
> Lauren felt her cheeks go pink. Since the night in the penthouse, she had not been allowed to masturbate, though her pussy’s bareness, whether in her schoolgirl panties or in the lacy white thong, seemed constantly to remind her of the pleasure she had known on the bed, with her owner’s cock between her lips. That morning, Mrs. Fredericks had waxed her down there for the second time, and all day Lauren had had a hard time keeping her hands away from the area, when she went to the bathroom.
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “May I please touch myself tonight?”
“No, Lauren, you may not,” Mr. Killington said. “You had an orgasm earlier this evening while you fellated me in your bedroom. You’re learning to respect my wishes, and it is my wish that you get used to waiting for your pleasure. Are you ready to have me in your bottom, when I choose to put my penis there?”
Mr. Killington had asked this question each time he took Lauren out in one of her beautiful dresses and her lingerie, to yet another expensive, elegant restaurant. Each time, he had asked it without bothering to whisper, and each time Lauren had swiveled her head to see who had heard, cheeks flushed and heart pounding.
She had heard from Jessica, and then from other girls, who constantly discussed such topics on their private social network, that the question in a certain sense came from the club itself. Like many comparable matters—such as the precise technology used to choose the girls and whether they really could leave anytime they wanted, as the owners maintained, as long as they accepted a farewell paddling—this aspect of the girls’ lives had never received explicit confirmation from an owner. It seemed, though, to have been devised by the club to ensure that, when an owner took his schoolgirl’s virginity, it would be consensual.