***
“How about lunch?”
Gillian looked up at her office door seeing the jauntily happy face of Mike Bellamy appear.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. She’d been utterly professional for three days with her newest client, hoping that he’d get the subtle message that she wanted to keep their relationship strictly business. Perhaps she needed to be more direct.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.
“No you weren’t,” she disagreed. It was hard not to be amiable with the man. Just keep it light, she thought, but remain at a distance. Maybe a little lunch wouldn’t hurt. There was the firm to think of, and this could simply be another business meeting.
“I’m that bad a liar?” he asked playfully.
“Yes, you are. I am swamped with work; what did you have in mind?”
“Bistro across the street. They’ll have us in and out in a half hour.”
She sighed. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“What? You and me, because of the court stuff?”
“I thought we’d been over this.”
“Had we?” He wasn’t remembering. Maybe she really hadn’t made her point. He’d screwed her twice, and certainly there were no promises.
“Maybe not,” she said.
She grabbed her purse, as her crotch instantly took a dangerous, engaging jolt. This was wrong and she knew it. It would be perfectly fitting to receive another message from the club any minute, but so far the floor at her feet and her desk looked clear of low landing cream-colored envelopes.
The bistro was packed and that was good—even though Mike chose a table in the corner as far from the other patrons as they could get. That worried her. She ate a bowl of soup, Mike a corned beef on rye while he washed it down with a German beer.
“You busy tonight?” he asked.
“No,” she started, “I mean yes.” She must sound stupid.
“Which is it?” he asked.
“I’m busy, very busy, and you have to understand that at least until this case is wrapped up, I’d rather not do this social thing with you. We need to keep our distance. If I haven’t stated that clearly already, then well …. now’s the time.”
“I see.” He seemed unconcerned. There was his hand on her thigh underneath the table, being not at all coy about moving under her skirt.
“Don’t you listen?” she asked, trying to sound annoyed.
“I think the distance thing is ridiculous,” he said.
“But the woman is saying no.”
“Is she really? You’re not stopping me.”
“You know I could hate you, but you’re so damned charming.” Why was he doing this to her?
“You find me charming? How sweet.” His hand was deep in her crotch. Finding her tuft of pubic hair, he pulled it with a sudden jerk.
“Ouch!” she whispered.
“Oh, did I hurt you?”
“Not really, but this is pretty shocking in a public place.”
“I know. It turns you on.”
She sighed exasperated, while wondering how she was going to end this lunch graciously. Mike’s playful fingers pressed their way more adamantly toward the center of her vagina and she found herself opening her thighs to accommodate his move. This was all too familiar. She half expected to smell that mysterious fragrance of her club master M, but that was noticeably absent. Nonetheless, the sensations rippling through her were astounding. Could she cum again in a public place, staring into the eyes of this impossible man?
“Please, you have to stop,” she whispered.
“Why would I do that when we’re both enjoying ourselves?”
“How about I just give you a blow job in the men’s restroom?”
“Oh, I like this better.”
“Really?”
She was gone, her body too enlivened to ignore the sensations burning so beautifully. She couldn’t struggle against them any longer. Falling under his spell, there was little way she’d wrest herself from this until Mike Bellamy had his way.
“You ever cum in public?” he asked.
“I take the fifth on that, but you can keep going,” she found herself saying.
He moved closer, scooting his chair beside her, driving several fingers in her snatch.
“Ah, yes,” the almost inaudible cry escaped her lips. The cum was building fast. Finally deciding not to fight it anymore, she wiggled against his hand, at last feeling a fluid orgasmic swell rise and fall and then wash away. Her whole body burst as he drew his fingers from her, and then settled into lovely warmth she couldn’t help but communicate to her client.
“We have to stop this,” she murmured.
“Why? Are there some commitments I don’t know about? Who are we hurting? I promise I’ll keep it light.”
“You’ll promise me, never again, Mike Bellamy. I can’t seem to say no to you and that’s not good.”
“You’re not used to surrendering to men, are you?”
“No, no, not at all.” She was suddenly flustered and a little dazed. “I’ll see you at our conference tomorrow,” she stammered, “now I have to go.” Not letting his protests get to her this time, she quickly excused herself and fled to her office.
There was a cream-colored envelope on her desk when she returned from lunch.
“Who brought this?” she asked her secretary.
Lina shook her head. “I have no idea, I just got back myself.”
Fingers flying to find out her latest instructions, she instantly gulped with nervous anticipation.
“Clear your weekend. A car will come for you at your apartment. Friday at 5:00. You will not return until Sunday night.”
Chapter Fifteen
Gillian’s apartment was buzzed at 4:55 Friday afternoon. It was a breathless June day, too hot for so early in the summer. There’d been a thousand concerns in her mind as she flew into her apartment at 4:30. She’d hoped for a calming glass of wine or time to sit and meditate, or maybe even take a hot bath. But things with the Bellamy lawsuit kept coming up all afternoon, and by the time she finally got out of the office—on her self-declared vacation—there was no time at all for anything but a quick shower, a change of clothes and a fast blow-dryer to her hair. Still, she felt sticky afterwards as though she’d not bothered with any of that. Obviously the air-conditioning in her apartment was on the fritz. She was about to call the landlord about having it fixed when the buzzer rang. Two seconds later, the phone rang, and she had no idea which to answer first. Flustered, she buzzed her unknown chaperone quickly, then picked up her cellular, answering with a terse, “Hello”.
“Gillian?”
“Who is this?”
“Mike. Mike Bellamy.”
He didn’t sound like himself.
“I’m sorry, Mike, I have to go.”
“Go where?”
“I’m on vacation, and if I don’t scoot right now, I’ll miss my …” she stopped. Good lord, what was she going to say? “I’ll miss my ride.”
“Ride?”
“The taxi, he’s buzzing again. Gotta go.”
Damn if he wasn’t insistent.
Flying down the stairs, she stopped abruptly on reaching the front lobby and walked with a casual ease into the afternoon heat. She wore a simple summer dress, short, flared skirt, cut-out shoulders, buttons down the front and dangerous high heels—skimpy sandals adding more than three inches to her lithe and graceful figure.
On the street, she noticed the back door of a tan Mercedes opening toward the sidewalk, and she moved inside knowing this was for her. Like a limousine there was dark glass separating the back seat from the front.
“There’s a blindfold beside you,” she heard the driver though a speaker. “Put it on.”
With nervous fingers, Gillian took the soft black leather blindfold from the seat and covered her eyes. The fit was snug, sealing out any hint of light. Moments later, the car drove off, making several turns through city streets fin
ally coming to an abrupt halt. The door to her left opened and closed, and Gillian realized someone had entered the car. The physical aroma of the secretive M immediately made her quake like jelly, nerve endings sizzled. Driving off, she waited anxiously for him to speak.
After riding some distance in silence, he finally whispered, “lift your skirt.” She immediately complied, feeling the cool and the heat of the leather beneath her caress her naked private parts. “Now to the edge of the seat, your arms behind you.”
Scooting forward to obey his command, she felt a wild surge of energy as if birds were taking flight in her tummy. Unable to get her bearing by sight or touch, she was momentarily dizzy. But Gillian’s uneasiness fled quickly as she felt a collar snapped around her neck, and noting a bar extending from that collar, found her wrists were being drawn into tight cuffs affixed to that bar at the middle of the back. Pushed back in the seat, she discovered her confinement both aroused and grounded her. Though she was scared, her odd imprisonment felt curiously safe. She was putting her life in the hands of this master not bothering to worry what horror that might actually mean. When M’s hand reached to the buttons of her dress and began to undo them one by one, the shiver inside was definitely more sexual than fear. She met his warm hands breathing deeply, hoping she’d feel him caress her. Yet, all they managed to do was tickle her from her tits to her crotch as they worked their way down her dress.
He said nothing.
Moments later he brought a metal flask to her lips.
“Drink.”
Gillian took a long draught of scotch, the liquid burning down her throat, though its fragrance and the feel of it was soothing.
No further preparations, M sat back in his seat beside her.
The car traveled some distance. It might have been several hours, though Gillian was in her own half-inebriated world inside herself, unaware how much of her life passed by in the car. When it suddenly came to a defining halt, after numerous stops and starts, she was relieved to hear the door beside her open and M exit the car. He didn’t direct her to follow, so she waited again. Her hands were almost numb from her body weight pressing on her, and realizing that they were at last at their destination, her mind was suddenly alive and focused.
After a few minutes alone, she was pulled from the car and led inside a building. She struggled to place the aroma that greeted her—something distinct with the smell of pine. Her imagination couldn’t even begin to create that place inside her fantasies—a factory, a home, a mountain cabin, a sleazy bar with pine scented freshener—dozens of images crossed her mind, but none stuck. She would simply have to wait.
Walking through what seemed like several corridors, led by M’s officious hand, they stopped in a room that held the scent of flowers—incense perhaps, definitely spicy and pleasing. She might have enjoyed the simple sensation more, but when she realized that her attentive master was suddenly gone from her side, she felt lost, and practically teetered off her high heels.
“Stand up straight, Brahms,” a voice rang out. The tone of command made her immediately obey. She thought she recognized the voice, though it didn’t seem to belong to her mysterious M, and she couldn’t identify whose it might be. “You’re not going to faint and you are going to keep your position as long as I demand it. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll address the masters as ‘sir’ while you’re here. Let’s try it again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” He was abrupt, quite curt, hardly the steamy sounding man she remembered on a few other occasions.
“You’re in the hideaway, Brahms—an isolated retreat for the masters and their members, designed specifically for particular trainings as they occasionally become necessary. You are here to be trained—a circumstance that was not required of your friend Kate McPherson, but which, because of several considerations with your membership in the club, has been deemed expedient. As long as you do as you’re told, you will pass through this part of your initiation with no problem. But be advised that to attempt any kind of rebellion will result in your immediate expulsion and personal consequences that you would find very unfortunate. Is this blackmail? Perhaps so. But it has been your expressed desire to be a part of this society, and so we can make this demand. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Good.”
The man did not speak again. There was some slight commotion going on before her, though she couldn’t tell what was happening. Brusquely pushed forward, she almost stumbled, but a hand behind her reached out to grab her bound hands. Moving step by step until she was stopped, she waited as her wrists were set free from the cuffs. With her arms feeling a gentle flow of energy return, she was revived. But that was only short-lived. Her dress was taken away, and each arm then drawn above her head, each wrist locked in a cuff above her. While the bar at her back was removed, the collar remained. Her legs were then pulled to either side of her, bound to upright bars. She imagined herself framed inside a wooden window, helplessly naked like an ancient sacrifice. Gillian had no clue how she should feel her imprisonment, but when she felt the hands of a master caressing the warm skin of her ass, her sexual arousal leapt forward.
“Oh, my yes,” she uttered softly.
“This feels good to you, Brahms?” There were lips at her ears, whispering so softly she found them as seductive as the man’s gently fondling hands. Was it M? She couldn’t be sure. The sound of music suddenly engulfed the room, taking away her ability to discern movements and distinguish voices. There was just erotic aromas in the air and the feel of hands and unseen implements against her skin—and music so loud she couldn’t think—an operatic chorus of voices assaulting the air. Those lips at her ear continued to cajole her. Then, there were lips at her crotch and others on her nipples. Someone was behind her, stroking and slapping her ass cheeks. Oblivion was divine.
“Yes, yes, yes, sir,” she managed to be respectful even under these extreme circumstances.
“More, Brahms?
“Yes, more, sir.”
There was a clear hot strike of a paddle on her ass and then hands that spread the sweet sensations outward from her stinging skin.
“More?’
“Yes, more, sir.”
“Fine bitch, you are.”
“Yes, sir.”
This master’s hand caressed her lips, her tongue reaching out for them, as though he were holding candy to her lips and she had only to beg to have it sweeten her taste buds.
Another whack of the paddle and she felt the delirium amplify as the sucking pair of mouths on her front side took her body heat and forced it higher.
“Ah, gawwwwwwwd!” she screamed the next instant as her body pleasure ripped free on the grace of that smacking, stinging leather. Smack after smack grew in intensity, then slowly diminished. “Ah, more,” she bucked against her lovers’ hands and mouths.
“You want more, bitch?” the voice at her ear posed the question with a snarly tease.
“Yes. Yes, sir.” For a moment she gyrated on empty air.
“Then beg,” the voice prompted her.
“Please, please, sir, my master, please more.”
“You want their tongues on your cunt?”
“Yes, sir,” she drifted into the sound of his voice.
“And on your nipples?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“And how about here?” His hand grazed her ass cheeks, still vibrating warmly from the lovely feel of being spanked.
“Yes, yes, please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please, sir, I’m begging you.”
The man at her ear abruptly backed away. She could feel his body energy retreat from her, replaced by emptiness, and in the minutes that followed, the cold around her turned icy. All her lovers disappeared leaving her utterly alone. The picture of a dozen eyes, staring at her body as it struggled to reach that abandoned peak of physical happiness made her shy off, embarrassed to be s
o overtly needy.
“You beg well,” she heard a voice more clearly, the volume of music was beginning to fade though the beat behind it remained to shock her crotch each time it sounded. “And you take orders well, when you are aroused.”
Should she speak? The compliment seemed twisted.
“Perhaps you think you earned your orgasm?” she was asked.
“No, sir,” she instantly replied, deciding that a master would not see her pleasure in that way.
“Good, Brahms, because it might be some time before you’re allowed to have one.”
The harsh words hit her like a hammer suddenly pounding her gut. And something familiar … the sound, the sound of the voice, the inflection like she’d heard this familiar voice somewhere unconnected with this secret hideaway.
A hand came to her crotch again and toyed with her lightly. She jerked. His face was close the smell almost enough to make her cum on her own. The man backed away.
“Remove the blindfold,” he ordered someone in the room. A second later she felt unseen hands rip the black leather from her eyes and she stared into a room blinded now by her inability to focus. Slowly coming into view, her surroundings surprised her. She was in a rustic mountain cabin, furnished as a masculine hunting lodge, but elegantly so. The light was warm, the carpet plush, the mood as dark as the walls. The evidence of violence hung before her with deer and bear heads mounted on either side of a massive stone fireplace, that now, even in the middle of summer was blazing with erratic flames ripping it end to end. The intense heat made her sweat more profoundly with tiny rivers of liquid now trickling down her face. Just as she imagined, she was bound inside a frame—this far more crude looking than the leather and thick brocades that upholstered the room’s other furnishings. The two wood struts on either side of her were not polished like the gleaming wood tables before her, reflecting the fiery flames in the polished surfaces. These posts were bare, stripped wood, cracked, aged, the structure with a certain charm of its own.
As her eyes swept the room taking in the sight before her, she saw her masters about her with their gazes, judgmental and cold, circling her with their circumspect air of detachment.
Masters of the Club Page 11