After cumming, Vitorio reached with one hand at her labia and jerked the clamp. Then twisting the screw to open the prongs, she was free of it. The last sensation was a spike of horror, bringing tears to her eyes as the blood moved headlong into her pinched flesh.
“Don’t ever balk, bitch. Not ever again. Your membership can still be revoked, and I’m just the one to do it.”
She heard every word that he said and was grateful that she didn’t have to reply. Vitorio was almost at her door by the time she finally caught her breath. Hearing it close firmly behind him, she listened for the sound of silence to ease the tension in the air so she could, at last, relax.
Chapter Eight
Gillian remembered not to wear panties just in case she was caught by a member of the club, unaware. That wasn’t a particular problem for her, but doing this because a secret sexual society demanded her naked crotch was something that would work on her brain all day. She wondered as she lifted her skirt to sit on bare skin if there was a member watching, and if it would impress them with the sincerity of her purpose. Membership became more dear to her each hour. Every time her mind wandered to the evening on the bar stool her body quickened. Who was the man behind her? And who was the man in front? That one seemed familiar. After some days, she suddenly remembered the balding-bearded guy at her cunt. A lawyer too. And a fierce litigator. She won a case against him, and with that recollection, she realized her membership might often bring her into the company of men she’d bested in court. Would it complicate her life, or only make it more arousing? So far, she seemed to have passed their tests, the memory of these wild moments returning often to tantalize her mind. The haunting question that remained was the identity of the man behind her in the bar, the one with his hand at her bottom, his fingers helping to bring her off at her ass. She saw nothing of his face, but she remembered the scent of him—like the man in the courthouse bathroom—his distinctive aroma was one she would never forget. Who was this mysterious M?
Gillian was not a particularly patient woman, but she was practicing the art. The club moved on its time, not hers, and it seemed that just when she was forgetting about their influence over her, when her daydreams of another encounter were ebbing away—if only for an hour or two—the next instructions came—again, striking her like a thunder bolt out of the blue, just when she least expected and was least able to respond.
Her lunch at the Café Sombrero oozed with erotic implications; her date the scheming, but delightfully charming Mike Bellamy—a business man of some reputation whose Bellamy Ltd. was fighting off merger moves by a competing company. If she weren’t committed to the club, she would have gone to bed with him in an instant. But, though she’d not been directly forbidden other sexual partners, she took the rules outlined in Kate’s informative diary at face value, and decided not to chance threatening her admittance with a casual liaison.
“Mr. Bellamy, I think the counter-suit might well work,” she opened their business conversation. “It’s a risk I’d advise you to take.”
“I can’t lose this battle, Ms. Brahms, and when I place my trust in an attorney, I don’t expect to be disappointed.”
“My firm will handle what you need. That is a promise I can make. And while I can’t predict the outcome, I know of no better lawyers to influence the result.”
“Good. That’s what I expect when I hire someone: confidence.”
He was a man to make her heart take notice, but there was a devious scoundrel behind all that charm. That intrigued her, even though she needed to keep her distance.
“You have more than confidence here, Mr. Bellamy. You have lawyers who know what they’re doing in the conference room as well as a court of law.”
He nodded. There was a boyish charm, a reckless, maverick spirit, and glowing amber eyes as seductive as any she’d seen in some time.
Midway through her meal, the waiter arrived with a message for her—more than a message, it was a note from the club on the same brand of crisp paper, inside the same style of cream envelope which had been slipped to her in the courthouse restroom.
“Excuse me,” she said smiling, while hoping Mike Bellamy didn’t notice her nervous fingers.
“You’ll dance at the Cat’s Meow near the Harbor. Let’s not disappoint the membership with something tame. Friday 10:00 pm.” M.
Gillian stared at the message much too long.
“Something wrong?” Mike asked.
“No, no,” she practically stammered, looking up nervously.
“Do you have to go?”
“No, not right away.” She smiled, soothing over the physical signs of titillating fear that suddenly skyrocketed through her body. She took a drink of wine and then another—casually, then relaxed back in her seat with a poised expression on her face. Friday was three days away. And now, while she and Mike Bellamy shared an easy conversation about his company’s need for her services, she found her foot glancing off the man’s leg—an almost unconscious move she might have made a dozen times at such a point in a new relationship—personal or business. Now, it seemed to soothe her, as though a sign of taking control when she felt vulnerably wide open.
“How about dinner, perhaps, the end of the week?” he asked her. “I have tickets to a show burning in my pocket.”
“Which one?” she replied, delighted for the invitation.
“Hell, I don’t know,” he almost looked embarrassed by the question. “My secretary can’t go, so she dropped them on my desk, and until I met you, I couldn’t think of anyone I really wanted to take. I’m sure it’s a decent musical. She has very good taste.”
“Sure. If you don’t mind mixing business with pleasure,” she replied.
“I have no problem here, as long as it doesn’t hamper your objectivity.”
“Never. Only if you were on the opposing side.”
“So, you have no current romantic entanglements, Ms. Brahms?”
“Gillian, please.”
“Gillian.” He sat back with the same sort of sparring wary attitude that she displayed—they were just two pros doing what they do best in sexual conquests as well as business.
“No entanglements, Mike, and I’d love to go with you. Just understand, I never sleep with a man on a first date.”
“Oh, and frank, too, I like that.”
“I don’t believe in leading anyone on,” she explained. “When I want something, I go after it, sexually or otherwise. But I’m always careful at the beginning of any new association.”
“Wise woman.”
There was just a flicker of dishonesty grabbing her in the stomach as she talked about sex and informed him she had no entanglements. She wasn’t sure what to call her relationship with the club. Certainly one date would be innocent enough.
“I’ll see you at seven on Saturday night.” He gave her a long searching glance, his eyes having the ability to reach deep inside her, as though they were probing for answers to questions he hadn’t even asked. Unnerving, but intriguing. “Now, I am off to save my company.” He suddenly shot up from his seat, and with a hand touching her shoulder, the business meeting was over with this very personal gesture.
***
The Cat’s Meow. The sound of it was sleazy, and the look of it even more dreadful. And yet, the shudder that raced up Gillian’s spine as she walked toward the bar electrified her from crotch to ass to buoyant breasts. She wore the trashiest clothes she owned, a black micro-mini that hardly covered her ass, a tiny thong—she found that more provocative than nothing at all—and covering her tits was a thin white T-shirt, her nipples pressing against the fabric and looking like small headlights. And how her breasts swayed underneath the coat while she was walking down the street! Too bad it was too chilly to go without one. With her golden tresses wildly flounced and her make-up heavy, she felt like a whore walking the street.
The idea of the dance lured all her most exhibitionist inclinations, though she’d never done anything quite so provocative as this w
ould be. The Cat’s Meow was not a place for casual dancing. It was only girls on stage, wiggling asses and tits, with lewd smiles and eyes that gleamed like playful kittens. When she announced to the host in front of the bar that she wanted to take the stage, the hefty man took one glance at her and smiled.
“As long you want, miss.” He gave her a rude pat on the fanny as she passed by. Obviously she came here to be sexually harassed.
Gillian sat for nearly an hour at a table by the stage, drinking tequila, occasionally sucking on a slice of lime. Her legs were crossed, the bare flesh of her thighs and ass exposed high up her flank. The sleek tanned leg was encased in garterless stockings with two inches of lace exposed.
She watched a dozen other girls dance, restless, yet to their moves. A half dozen exotic dancers came on to her and she gave them no reason not to be there. Her mouth watered with the thought of burrowing her face between two perfectly formed female breasts. The tiny shining thongs that covered bare-shaved pussies teased itchy fingers that wanted to reach out and stroke those undulating cunts. With one woman’s ass moving toward her face, the burst of desire worked on her bi desires like a woman’s lips kissing hers.
One hungry shudder after another made her sway her cunt against the chair, and yet, for all the prickly arousal, her body was still mute, scared to rise to the stage herself.
“Anytime, miss,” the host whispered in ear. It was nearly eleven and her legs were still weak, her heart still pounding anxiously and her cunt alive and wet.
She nodded to the man. With her own body moving in time to the music, the fright and the fantasy surged again. Looking toward the stage, there was the hand of a slim brunette reaching out for her. Her eyes pleading with her passionately.
“Join me,” she mouthed. Gillian couldn’t hear her voice, but she saw the naked lady’s lips move. And with her eyes locked on hers, Gillian’s reluctant body began to reply. As though she were in a dream, she rose, taking three stairs to the top of the stage. At first she danced self-consciously, her breasts barely moving, her hips and quivering thighs focused more on her naked friend than the audience around them. Though they didn’t touch, as the music got inside her, a nastier tango began, a perfect unison and counterpoint of hips gyrating with hips, and pushed out fannies and breasts getting acquainted over a soft rock melody with a heavy beat.
“Take off your T-shirt,” the brunette’s red lips mouthed the words. Then, with hands reaching out to pull Gillian’s shirt from the skirt, a wave of excitement shocked her system. Gillian finished where the girl left off, taking the T-shirt over her head and tossing it off stage. Her breasts bared, she stared into the audience as she continued the dance, finding that each gaping customer gave her reason to wiggle herself toward their eyes. Were their dicks stiff? Their hands in their laps rubbing their crotches?
Gillian ran her palms along her body, over breasts and down her torso, while the jeering men called for her to strip away her skirt.
“Let’s see your ass!” one man bellowed.
The thought of pleasing him made her bold. How could she disappoint those lusty, wanting eyes? Turning around, she bent over so he could see the crack of her ass. Running her hands along her cheeks she squeezed them firmly, jiggling the flesh.
“Take off the skirt!”
She heard that voice like a command, and her hands responded to the order—if not her warring mind. Despite her daring, she trembled every second. Each minute on stage held her on the fine edge of scared to death and giving them everything. But more shouts, more jeers, more anxious eyes, and hot looks at the dancing brunette, her fingers finally found their way to the waistband of her skirt. Slipping them inside she began to slide the thing down her hips until it finally dropped to her feet. She was wearing nothing but the thong and stockings and her dangerous four inch heels. A thrill of victory and terror made her bolder still. Running her hands along her thighs, she let the pleasurable sensations work against her fear. For a time she cupped a breast in one hand, her cunt in the other, and fucked herself with nasty moves that had her audience screaming for more. Dollar bills landed on stage; the music pounded in the back of her mind. Horny bastards leered and whistled and called for her naked pussy.
She vowed it wouldn’t happen … not yet, her mind was screaming NO! But wasn’t it what she really wanted? Wasn’t full exposure, full power her finest objective?
She teased them for a while, toying with the slip of material as though she were hanging on to her virginity. But then there were hands on her from behind, the brunette’s, fondling her tits, moving their way down her torso to her thighs, and snapping the sides of the thong to encourage her on. Gillian shuddered, delightfully losing herself in the pleasure.
“Yes,” the girl murmured in her ear, tickling the hair on the back of her neck, sending a shiver to her toes. The brunette’s breath was sweet, not stale like the air in the smoky bar. And as her hand slipped inside the triangle of cloth, a sudden jolt of desire swept Gillian’s body making her ride those sweet fingers like she was fucking them. Losing all sense of where she was, her own hands reached to her sides and the thong was quickly at her feet and kicked to the side. Totally nude, in her stockings and heels, she danced. Her half-shaved pussy pulsed, inviting a daring man to come too close. She spread her ass for them and played with a molten clit as though she was going to cum.
Suddenly, she was alone on stage—the brunette dashing to the sidelines. With a spotlight burning on her skin, she gave up one last dreadful worry, and danced on. As a gentleman’s lusty slut, these adoring eyes satisfied her body and mind with their unbridled appetites.
When the lights went out and the music died away, her dance was over. Running toward the back of the stage, she slipped through a door, unsure where she was going.
“Ooo, my,” her brunette lover greeted her. “You were wonderful!”
The girl kissed her lips and then rushed by her on the way to somewhere else, leaving Gillian to wonder where she should go next. Her clothes were still in the bar and she was naked. Everywhere she turned there were dancers—half nude, completely naked, those dressed in a fancy costumes, and then herself, parading around in nothing but her stockings and heels.
“In here.” Someone pushed her toward a dressing room and she practically stumbled inside.
Except for mirrors, a rack of costumes and trays of make-up, the room was empty. When someone abruptly killed the lights, she felt a hand at her back and warning lips at her ear.
“You want membership in my club?” a man’s breathy voice whispered.
“I do,” she answered, trying to remain calm—though her heart was beating fast, and the body joy that had begun on stage was rising instantly from his gentle touch. Reaching around her, he had his hand on her naked cunt, teasing the hair with his fingers, running them between her lips to find the hard and throbbing clit.
“And you’re willing to do anything to gain admittance?” he spoke again.
“Oh, good god, I am.” She would say anything at that moment to have him keep fondling her, and yet it was all true. Desire bounding through her limbs climbed higher each second in this dark captivity. She recognized the familiar scent of her captor, and breathed deep. She would come to associate this heady perfume with sex and lust and cumming. Gillian was close to a climax, as the sensation that began on stage now mounted rapidly, with this stranger’s fingers doing wonders with her clitoris.
“Ah, my yes ….” she whispered softly, laying her head against his muscled chest, feeling him breathe next to her.
“You’ll behave like a slut?” he asked. Each word he spoke delivered her more completely into his hands.
“Yes.”
“And cum on stage if I tell you to?”
“Yes, anything.”
“And get gangbanged by a dozen masters, if that’s what I choose?”
“Oh, my yes.” She could use a dozen right now.
“Are you prepared to submit your body to me, Gillian Brahms?”
“And to a lash, if that’s what I desire?”
“I would.”
“To being bound and dildo fucked, your ass reamed, your sanity in doubt, your life not yours anymore, but mine?”
“Yes, yes please.”
She heard him chuckle at that reply.
“You’re a cheap whore, Gillian Brahms,” he said.
“I am,” she had to agree. His fingers took her to the very edge, rubbing lightly and then vigorously. “Oh, please bring me off,” she whimpered mournfully.
The stranger suddenly withdrew his hand and backed away.
“Oh, please, no,” she almost turned around.
“Freeze,” he ordered her otherwise. “You bring yourself off now.”
The command was clear, but not what she wanted. She wanted him, not her own toying relief. Oh, yes, her fingers would suffice, but it was not enough. There was too much desire, too much passion for just a simple masturbation. She needed his dick in her cunt, his balls bouncing on her pubis, his hand slapping her rear end, all his masculine heat pouring into her. She wanted a hard, fast, full-throttle fuck. But that was not what her master wanted.
With just her hand bringing her off this time, the man waited in breathless silence for her groan, for that small shiver of contentment as she took off the top of her lust.
Gillian murmured deeply as a quick, bright orgasm swelled in her belly and traveled through her crotch. If only he would touch her again, just one tender touch, one stroke of his animated hand, a single feel of those skilled fingers. Instead, she felt utterly alone in the near empty room, her back to a man whose face she’d never glimpsed. She’d know him only by the redolence of his body, the alluring aroma of his perfume. Sex, she’d always think sex when she smelled the distinctive scent of him.
“You’re off to a rocky start in your initiation, Ms. Gillian Brahms,” she heard that lush voice again. He could sound so stern. “Obedience is paramount in my club. Don’t give us cause to punish you as McPherson is being punished. Our secret society it about satisfying desire, about sex and fantasy, and surrender to every carnal pleasure imaginable. It is about gentleness and the snap of a whip, about screams of pain and that deeply felt agonized groan at the moment of orgasm. It is about diving into your darkest secrets and making them come alive, bringing them into the light of day and parading them before the eyes of men who want nothing more than to provide you with ultimate pleasure. You have all that within your grasp, Gillian Brahms. There is physical stimulation and pleasure waiting for your practiced obedience to our laws.” He paused for a moment, Gillian just a second from whipping around to see the man’s face. Her curiosity over his identity made her think recklessly. “You know a good deal about the law, so I hear?”
Masters of the Club Page 6