“You could have been expelled?” she wondered.
“Hardly. But I don’t like reckless blunders, idiotic diaries and overly emotional submissives who can’t maturely handle their own choices. I certainly don’t like casualness. Casualness breeds casualty. How many times has that been said of our venture here?”
She could feel an emotional intensity mount, coming from his body into hers. She was soothed perhaps by so much warmth but was wise to realize that he wasn’t finished punishing her. He had something personal in mind.
“You’re not finished making me pay, are you?” she whispered, cautiously ready to wince at his answer.
“No, I’m not. But the rest will be between you and me—and the few I handpick to help me.”
That sounded just like her lover.
Backing away, she looked into his eyes, peering through the darkness around them, having a difficult time focusing on his face with the bright light still burning behind him. As her eyes adjusted to the glare, she could see his anger leap out at her, a emotion she rarely experienced from him. Masters were rarely angry because their members were so obedient. Now, his anger simmered ominously just beneath his surface calm. They stared at each other for some time… until Thaddeus took her hand, and leading her through the apartment turning out the lights, brought her into the darkened living room. Moving toward the fireplace, he crouched down at the hearth and struck a match stick. Lighting the fire that had been laid earlier, there was suddenly a leaping blaze making Kate’s skin hot and her eyes burn from the brightness. Seeing Thad reach for something at his side, she quickly recognized her old journal, and her heart suddenly wanted to take the thing and clutch it to her—like it was a piece of her past she would lose forever. Instead, she watched motionless as Thad threw the book into the fire and the flames began to envelop the black of the cover. The pages blew open and turned yellow, then dark, then into gray/white ash. The two stared into the blaze and the glowing embers as the journal finally disappeared.
While the business of destroying her foolish diary seemed complete, she had the feeling that her punishment at his hands had only begun.
Seizing her, he whispered, “Close your eyes,” and with his hands to guide her, she relinquished to his will. To her great surprise she found no pain at all from his caresses, no slaps, no jolts, no gags or pinched clit or pulled hair, no punishment at all. There was just his hands loving her tenderly. Giving into the darkness, she took the caresses murmuring softly all the while as his fingers slipped into her hyped-up hole and her body began to feel the small beginning spasms leading her toward a climax.
Moving to the couch, he forced her head to his thick prick and she began an eager blowjob with lips first delicately skirting the engorged piece of meat, then sucking hard as her mouth swallowed the enormity of his cock. When he wanted her on him, he pulled her gently by the hair and she rose to straddle his hips letting the erection slide into her swampy warmth. Riding him, she grew delirious with sensation. His eagerness made his massage of her more vigorous, but there was no pain, just sexual release and, quickly, a bursting climax—his first, followed rapidly by hers.
Finished, she collapsed exhaustedly against his chest and breathed deeply.
“I thought you were going to punish me?” she finally ventured into the sleepy quiet.
“I will,” he said. “But I wanted you now.”
“You can punish me more like this,” she suggested lightly.
“Yes, and have you violating more rules, pissing off the masters, getting yourself purged, expelled and humiliated—I think we’ll go a different route.”
“So there is more?”
“Enough that you should forget about it now and enjoy the moment. I’ll crack down on you hard tomorrow and you’re not going to like it.”
She shuddered.
“Good, I’m glad you’re afraid,” he said. “You deserve it.”
He sounded so cold, even as his hand tenderly stroked her and his lips kissed her eyes. She waited to speak for a long time, almost thinking that her lover had fallen asleep. But knowing he couldn’t with her on top of him, she tried one last question. “Did Gillian really spill this to the media?”
“You think that?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said.
“No, Gillian Brahms came to me with the journal and offered herself for membership.”
Kate shot up, seeing Thad’s face clearly in the dimly glowing light.
“She what?”
“You heard me.”
“And will she be a member?” she asked anxiously.
“You know I can’t tell you, so don’t ask.”
Chapter Four
Gillian was on her way to court, moving hurriedly through the crowd toward the stone steps of the massive gray building. She almost stumbled in her three inch heels. She was dressed to impress a horny-eyed judge, sure half his decision depended on exactly how much cleavage she could reveal to the lecherous bastard. Gillian liked looking provocative in court, had even gone so far as to wear an almost miniskirt to file a motion before this judge’s even more lecherous predecessor, flashing the man a glimpse of her naked cunt when she bent over. The poor guy had a heart attack two weeks later while hearing a lurid prostitution case, of which Gillian had no part. But it was all deliciously juicy gossip that spiced up what was often a dreary business—especially when her work revolved around the dry facts of corporate law. She was sure that cleavage alone would do the trick this time.
Darting quickly into the ladies’ room just inside the courthouse entry, she found that she was alone. As she peed in her locked stall, she heard the door open and footsteps. Gazing down at her feet, she was stunned to see a pair of men’s Italian loafers beneath a pair of gray suit pants. Shocked, she looked above her at the very top of a man’s head. All she could see was a bit of sandy hair. He was leaning with his back against the stall door.
“Ms. Brahms?”
“Yes.”
“Your initiation into the club will be brief and intense. After your court session today you’ll follow the instructions in this note to the letter. Disobedience is cause for an immediate termination to your initiation and you’ll have no further opportunities for admittance.” Slipping a small envelope between the side of the stall and the door, she caught a quick glimpse of the man’s hand and the pinky ring with red stone and the filigree that Katherine McPherson described in her journal. Taking the envelope, she looked for another glimpse of him as he passed, but it was all such a blur, nothing notable crossed her field of vision and she was left by herself in the anxious silence he left behind.
This day of all days was the worst imaginable for sex and initiations, despite the fact that just staring at the note gave her an intense erotic surge that ended right inside her throbbing pussy. Regardless of being late to court, she tore open the envelope and read the instructions.
On the 8th floor of the Nash Building, 6th and Bridge Street, room #216, have sex with yourself before the camera. Your initial submission of assets for our consideration should be no less than one hour. M.
The sexual jolt worked on her crazily, through a flirtatious conference with a judge, opening testimony in a land fraud trial, and a drawn out presentation that delayed everything in her afternoon. That jolt of anticipation would end up canceling a meeting and threaten her relationship with a new client, but it was something she had to answer. From the moment she read the instructions she knew she’d become owned by something she didn’t understand but certainly needed. Who was this mysterious M? Her mind kept roving back to the single initial every time there was a lull in the trial. By the time she was finally free to cancel her next appointment and find the building at 6th and Bridge St., she was a bundle of sexually charged nerves. Her pussy was so wet, she was sure there’d be a stain on her skirt showing through. Rather than embarrass herself later, she drove to Bridge Street with her skirt almost around her waist, and her spasming cunt against the seat. The leathe
r would wipe clean.
The neighborhood at 6th and Bridge was marginal, but not a place that made Gillian worry. As she entered the Nash Bldg., she wondered how many eyes were watching her now, if she were being watched at all. Certainly someone would be aware of her compliance with the club’s first instructions. Likely the man in the restroom with the deep voice, and the black Italian loafers, gray suit and red stone ring. She imagined him being in the room when she arrived, but on opening the door of room #216, she found there was nothing to see but a single chair and a video camera ready to record.
“Have sex with yourself …” She had the note memorized.
Staring inside, she waited to enter, her insides strangely prickly, though her mind was hesitating.
The old brick building had been renovated some time ago, and though the wearing carpet and dingy paint called for another facelift, this structure would probably not have one—not in this neighborhood. Gillian ran her hand against the door frame and took a deep breath of the air inside the room—slightly musty she decided. The natural wood frame doors and coved ceilings warmed the mood, the way these same structural details warmed her own half-restored apartment. Unlike most empty offices this one was not sterile—as though there had been life and action in it just recently and the echoes of voices were still ringing in the air.
Gillian eyed the simple ladder-back library chair for some minutes, then looked toward the camera perched at the top of the tripod. Finally stepping inside the room she locked the door behind her. The physical sensations—now so raw—compelled her to act despite her fears. Her mind brewed with questions that remained unanswered. Still, she had to do this. What eyes would see her? What fate was she writing for herself? To whom was she giving herself the way Katherine McPherson had given herself three years ago? She remembered the timid Kate becoming a sensuous woman of grace she could only admire, and how that grace led from one amazing personal and professional triumph to the next.
Gillian’s life was owned by a recklessly driven pursuit of dreams she created in her teens that meant little to her now. If Thaddeus Chamberlain had only known the real woman inside her, if he’d had some clue to what resided in her fantasies and nighttime masturbations, he would have jumped on the chance to give her entrance into this secret society. But he didn’t know. He couldn’t have known by the public face she gave the world, that false public face. Because of that, she’d given up hope of seeing this day, long before the man in the ladies’ john.
Six weeks and now this weird moment and the choice she’d make.
The switch on the video camera was easy to find. Turning it on, she listened for several minutes as the soft whir of the machine got inside her brain as though it were music to arouse her.
In the four hours between her shocking bathroom contact and this moment, she’d been ravaged with sexual heat. In the car, up the elevator, and to the door of the room, it kept driving her forward. And, yet, now, about to begin the most outrageous act of her entire life, it seemed that all that heat had vanished as if a thief had suddenly crept inside her body and stolen it away. She could hardly move; her body heat replaced by cold chills.
Gillian waited in breathless silence for some minutes then moved in front of the chair. Should she speak? Or simply act? Or maybe just run away? As her hand went for the buttons of her suit jacket, she trembled nervously, then began to undo the two that remained buttoned. As the coat fell off her shoulders, she let it slide to the floor without thinking of it again and then reached around her middle to find the zipper of her skirt. Her bare breasts swayed against her chest and she thought of the eyes that would see these beautiful swells of feminine flesh, and her tiny nipples tighten from the chill in the air. She looked into the camera almost blushing with embarrassment; but then went boldly on, pushing her skirt off her hips, and letting it fall beside her jacket on the dusty floor. Just the thought of the men that would see this video invigorated her as a woman of power—and yet, with a stroke of sheer genius, she was prevented from taking real control. At any moment, any second, out of boredom or displeasure or apathy, they could turn off the video—end her power to woo them just that quickly. This was the command exhibitionist performance of her life.
She stood before the camera now, nearly naked. Her crotch surrounded by stockings and garters and garter belt which was surely the target of the camera’s eye. She was still trembling nervously, but soon finding a sweetly sensuous sensation beginning to warm her between her thighs again. This wasn’t the raw pounding heat she had felt in the middle of court, or on her way to Bridge St., or even as she stood at the doorway. This was more subtle, something to enjoy, not fear. If she could only remember to think of the camera as the eyes of a hundred men, then she could think of arousing them, letting her body give her her heart’s desire, if only …
Your initial submission of assets for our consideration …
Would they be pleased?
Thinking as a whore might think, Gillian began to play for the camera, beginning with her breasts. Her polished nails in a shocking shade of red, ran delicate circles around her aureoles, then two, her thumb and index fingers, squeezed the nipple. Dampening her fingers with her tongue, she made the nipples wet and blew a soft breath of air on them, watching with her head cocked to the side as the two buds began to clench tight. These small erections snapped orders to her cunt, and it began to move in lurid motions as one hand drifted toward the center where the tuft of hair was still matted to her skin. The long fingernails began to comb the kinky locks until they puffed into a cottony soft down that would tingle at the mere touch of her hand.
She opened her shaved labia for the men behind the camera’s eye, giving them their first peek at the wet purple between. Seething with a sexy snarl, she played the perfect pin-up, the saucy showgirl, the teasing flirt—though she held back none of her charms. Rubbing the side of her clit, she felt the quick jolt of spasms shock her with their sudden rise. She was in danger of cumming too soon, that they’d only seen a small fragment of her sexual assets. Pulling her hand away, she turned around, placing two hands on her bottom and squeezing the flesh as harshly as she could until she groaned. Her hips rocked. All the while, she was spreading her cheeks, letting these hundred men get their first glimpse of her puckering ass hole. For a time she looked back over her shoulder as if she was beckoning a man to come to her. And, as though she could feel real hands running over her skin, her dance became more pronounced. She sighed and drifted and slapped her ass and began poking her anus with one finger and then another. Placing one foot on the chair, she bent over as far as she could go, as if pushing her ass in their faces and making them eat her out. Her hand came down on her ass again, and on her anal hole, and against her thighs with a brisk motion that made her skin sting.
Finally, sitting in the library chair with her ass at the edge of the seat, she leaned back, knees bent with her high-heels on the wood. With her whole cunt exposed, the smooth-shaven skin gleamed warmly, reflecting the light. Some of her juice made its way to her mouth where she sucked it off her fingers, like she’d suck a cock if one were there. The longer she played with herself, the more her body replied and her face took on the molten, driven look of abandonment. Lust was on her lips and in her eyes. She was living in her own wetdream. Rubbing her clit again, there was another orgasmic surge building fast and this one she couldn’t stop. Head dropping back, tits arched toward the ceiling, she came, jerking hard against her hands, her ass bobbing on the wood, her feet dislodging from the chair so her whole cunt was widespread and glistening with juicy nectar. She tasted it over and over and rubbed the creamy substance into her breasts. Spasming more, she fucked the chair with her ass until the last sensations died away.
Time was not up, she was certain of that, though her watch was in her purse and she had no idea how much time had past.
Spying a ruler lying on the window sill, she snatched it quickly, her mind suddenly thinking the most vile things. Kneeling on the chair before the cam
era, before the hundred eyes of men watching her show, she reached back with the flexible wood and began to spank her ass. She took the paddling quite well, letting the painful stinging ignite more desire. When the heat became too scorching she backed off, but only to began again, until her whole ass, both sides, was red hot. Then, too hot to stop herself again, she leaned forward into the back of the chair to bolster her, and rubbed herself off again, letting her gentlemen friends see what lust looks like from the back side. At the very end, three fingers found their way inside her ass, and she came with them jolting her like a cock.
Gillian remained on the chair panting breathlessly. There was the whir of the camera behind her, and the sound of her own breathing, and an awesome quiet. She was quite finished, there was no more for her to say or do … what more could they expect of her? What else could she possibly give them to judge her worthiness for the club? For a time she soothed her ass with the palm of her hand, and then hearing something outside the door, she stared toward the frosted glass panel. Seeing the form of a man standing there as though he could see inside, she jumped up quickly and turned off the camera. The door was locked, and yet there was an instant of fear that supplanted all her physical exhilaration. Her body was growing cold and her mind was filled with doubt. Dressing rapidly, she was only slightly relieved to see the shadow at the door disappear. What if the man were outside waiting for her? What if? Her mind raced. She grabbed for her purse and cautiously peering outside, she saw no one in the corridor. In the distance she could hear the sound of someone typing on an old manual typewriter, and the sound of the busses in the street and a car honking. A lively conversation sprung up in the room just across from the elevator. As she slipped inside on her way to the first floor, she breathed a sigh of relief. Though that relief didn’t really take until she was in her car and half way back to Kate McPherson’s apartment.
Masters of the Club Page 3