by JR King
My eyes were trained on the large hands that held up a black and white feathered mask. The silk lined Italian base was embellished with a diamante trim, ivory ostrich feathers and black marabou feathers, Swarovski crystals around the eyes.
“Come closer, little pet.”
I leaned forward and the hands maneuvered it over my eyes, reaching around to tie the silk ribbon carefully into place, so that it wouldn’t loosen or slip.
I glanced in my vanity mirror. My eyes were visible, but my face was covered from eyebrows to cheekbones. From behind the mask, my eyes seemed to glow. My heart felt as though it might beat its way out of my chest. I could feel a great battle going on inside me, one between virtue and corruption. It was enjoyable to be instrumental in deciding which side would triumph. I’d been nervous when I told Alexander how I wanted to satisfy a niggling curiosity. He, someway, had been thoroughly surprised. Whenever he dominated me, ordering me in that sexy low purr, I was ready to walk across flaming coals for him. I let fly because this wasn’t a normal romance. I now understood Marilyn Monroe’s infatuation and desperation over wanting to please certain type of men: the hearts wants more; the heart wants what it can’t have. In some crazy way, I was living a greatest love in history. It was the era of Napoleon and Joséphine, Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Paris and Helen. Alexander jokingly referred to us as Bonnie and Clyde.
Each time I remembered how I’d turned down his marriage proposal, cold tremors ran through me. If that man was going to break my heart, then so be it. Most likely I’d understand the ache Cleopatra felt when she discovered Caesar was dead, or when she thought Marc Antony had remarried. Probably, in my grief-stricken state, the inspiration to think up a vast complex of architectural structures would approximate that of a Mughal Emperor. Maybe my grief would be so dazzlingly intense that just like Queen Victoria’s resolve after Prince Albert’s death, I, too, would wear black forever. For sure, similar to a French Emperor, the last words on my deathbed would include the name of the man I loved the most.
“Ready to burn the oil, my pet?” A hand went to my throat, adding enough pressure to hint at violence without using it. “Will you be good?”
“I am. I will.”
There was much tension in the air by the time we arrived at the destination. Regardless, it was nothing grave or unpleasant, nothing that sat heavy on me. Regrets; I didn’t want any. When I set foot on the pavement in the courtyard of Palazzo Flagrante, I was wondering if I was out of my depth. Politicians, athletes, Hollywood actors, scandals; that’s what this was, no doubt. Located on the legendary Brattle Street, it was a country mansion like the one in Eyes Wide Shut, though it wasn’t religiously affiliated and recognition was quasi-nonexistent.
“You okay, little one? We can go home any time you’d like.”
I shook my head. “No, sir. I want to see this, at least.”
Beyond the shiver of anticipation, there was a sense of fear. Tony was useful, seemed to know what he was doing. He’d been here before many times, now a returning patron who sought further taste.
Yes, I arrived at da club with Tony Elliot. Not in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit, I wore a sparkly, strapless Oscar de la Renta gown. Pricey frock for a sex club, ain’t it?
“What’s the word? The one you’ve chosen?”
I giggled to myself.
“Do that again and I’ll personally make sure your membership gets rescinded and you’re banned from ever setting foot here again,” he told me, very softly, giving me a look so pregnant with disappointment that goosebumps spread across my skin.
“The word is Edea, sir. E-D-E-A.”
“Prehensile enough? Origin?”
“It is. It stems from one of my favorite games. Final Fantasy.”
“What a delicious coincidence.”
I prevented the wild grin from stretching across my face. “Aren’t coincidences always delicious, sir?”
We exchanged manic grins. A thrilling blend of nervousness and excitement coursed through me at the discovery of the other man watching us.
“Before we go, hear me out. A romantic relationship is as friable as soil. I’m not worried about him; I’m worried about you. Girls are lousy where personal restraint is involved. Can you detach physical pleasure from emotional entanglements?”
“I think yes.”
Diligently, I followed him. At my own behest, here I was, walking into a secret sex club. I was aware it could become addictive. The club felt darkly indulgent, existed as long as my grandparents had been alive. Feeling like an outsider looking in, like a voyeur, I wondered if I was getting ahead of myself when I slipped the ring onto my right hand ring finger and started the tour. There was nothing cliché about it, far from. No one was here to catch a lover in flagrante delicto.
I sensed that Alexander brought me to the library to fool around.
“You’re familiar with Sade but,” he pulled out a book from a shelf without even looking at the title on its spine, “do you read smut?”
“Smut?” It must have looked like my eyes nearly popped out of my head, because he gave me a small laugh. My views on the subject weren’t conservative; I was neither a prude nor a stranger to erotica. I’d simply never been interested in living vicariously through erotic text. I was more of a visual person, so whenever I needed a pick me up, an adult movie did the trick. “I’ve read some raunchy romance novels and…,”
He was already shaking his head. “I’m not talking about soft-focus covers with sweaty, bare-chested men like Fabio, that’s just softcore porn with plot for bored housewives. I mean books that don’t have a doltish female protagonist. Books that tell you how she feels when the man penetrates her. How she aches when he slips his tongue inside her. How he describes her flavor when she asks him. I mean books that describe the fucking and use the word cock and pussy. Books that don’t use absurd phrases like he touched me down there or whatever silly lines the averagely educated masses fawn over. I think I need to make it clear that erotic fiction differs from imbecilic porn. Porn serves the purpose of getting off, but real erotica follows an intelligent narrative.”
Have you ever rendered an arrogant bastard witless and speechless? Watch, that’s what I was about to do. “I’ve read Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty trilogy, Anaïs Nin’s Delta of Venus and Little Birds, Pauline Réage’s Story of O, Emmanuelle Arsan’s quasi-autobiography, D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and the weird ones,” I shook my head and looked down, “The Decameron, Venus in Furs, Story of the Eye,” I shot up my head and smiled,” I always forget who wrote these. Need I go on?”
He swallowed heavily. “You’re familiar with Georges Bataille?”
“I’m also familiar with Jacques Lacan. On the subject of education, you’ve told me why you know so much about the Japanese culture. I myself have learned Dutch because my mother used to say the day I speak Dutch and Lacan I read because my father had Lacan’s works in his study. How come you speak French fluently?”
He stared at me with a calm, reflective expression, and I realized that every time I’d seen him do this he was unwilling to get down to the nitty-gritty of his romantic past. “Parents are their children’s greatest influence and strongest role model. We sometimes—unknowingly—imitate their actions, don’t we?” He lifted the book and placed it back on the shelf. “Let’s check another one out.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I dated a half-French, half-American girl once. She grew up French, not American. We studied together at Harvard. I took interest in the culture to impress her.” My heart drooped as he pulled out a volume that was leather-bound, with a gilded cover. Obviously a rare edition. “This one you’ll like. The acoustics in the here are so lovely, with the wood and the bronze and slate antique lamps…,”
Jealousy was drilling a hole in my chest. As much as I loved the idea of Alexander speaking French, I hated the idea of him speaking it with this French bitch. Circumstances being what th
ey were, I reconsidered why he’d brought me here.
“Elena?” Standing before me with pursed lips, he brushed some hair off the side of my face.
For a long while, we stared at each other. I was raring to leave the room and visit the rest of the mansion. With something approximating a whine, I said, “I’m not reading erotica in here.”
“Don’t let my past come between us.” His hand spread across the back of my neck. “Our mileage varies, that’s all.” His palm was warm and soothing. “I was already fucking while you were still in pull ups.”
“Hey, I was potty trained at 2. I bet you didn’t come around until 3.”
“I stopped wearing diapers at eighteen months. Actually, dad started using Elimination Communication on me when I was three months old.”
I gave my head one shake. “Look at us. We went from erotica to EC, and that in a sex club.”
“I love you, you know this—right?”
“I want absolute certainty that I’m doing something with you you’ve never done before with a girl in this place. Tony explained that visitors are allowed, at mistress Sasha’s discretion, if they submit to a screening test. I know you’ve brought casual dates to experiment—to swap, whatever. I don’t want to know.”
“I’ve never brought a girl in this library. Mostly, Tony and I stay by the bar in one of the lounges. I’ve never exhibited. I’ve never used the glass rooms. I’ve never used the playrooms on Death Row. I’ve used the private rooms on this floor, that’s all.”
“I’ve been looking all over the place for you guys.” Tony had found us. “The real party’s downstairs, let’s show her.”
In the exhibitionist lounge, heat gathered between my thighs. Unsure where my gaze ought to settle, I looked back and forth between Alexander and Tony. Did propriety matter in a situation like this? It was all pretty subtle, but to me it felt bizarre. What I found striking was how terribly friendly and tasteful the atmosphere was. Hands were being shaken and cheeks got kissed; some men resorted to hand-kissing. What amazed me was how conversations carried on right through amorous acts.
I glanced across the room at a beautiful couple, admiring their stature. As the eroticism of the moment grew, I noticed them slowly coming closer. Mesmerized by the girl’s café-au-lait complexion, I was unable to stop myself from wondering how the she’d look naked. I looked up at her face, my eyes meeting hers. She smiled warmly but with a hint of coyness. I smiled enticingly back, my cheeks burning. When they solicited us, I shivered nonstop. To draw me out of the reverie, Alexander cupped my cheek, turning my face toward his.
“Look at me, kitten.” His kiss was firm without being rough. “Do you want to come?”
I nodded.
I better wrap this up. I don’t have the verbal strength left to describe the East wing. Tony watched me carefully throughout it all, like he was afraid I’d either safeword or break down in tears. A side effect of the bickering beforehand, maybe. And then, here I was, agreeing to let a man go down on me where patrons could watch. In the end, I had no idea if any strangers were, in fact, watching us. Just as Tony had soi-disant taken leave of us, Alexander dropped on his knees between my legs and serviced me like a slave. Oral reciprocation wasn’t required; instead possessive strokes of pure ownership ran over my body. The eroticism of it all, Alexander’s unmistakable magnetism of God knows what drove me absolutely insane, so I went there.
I let him make me come as his friend watched us.
I knew that activities like this could have a harmful effect on my relationship with Tony. Call me badass—grown-up and intelligent works too—because I managed to unconsciously detach physical pleasure from emotional entanglements. It was one of those I’m The King Of The World Leonardo DiCaprio moments. Legendary. Pleased with me, Alexander helped me step into my wrinkled dress then took me home.
Alexander Turner
The Adventures of a Man in Love
The good news is that Elena was in the experimental stage. Aren’t we all at twenty-something? Though I’d already indulged some of the wildest fantasies in my life, having Elena crawl under my desk and sucking me off while I spoke on the phone or videoconferenced was greater than anything I’d ever imagined. Pushing the envelope was when she lamely trapped me in a hotel staircase. Public sex wasn’t on my list, but she seemed to have somewhat of an exhibitionist inclination. It’s one thing to fuck against a window, but compared to what was about to happen here, at The Liberty Hotel, it felt tame.
I couldn’t have suspected she was planning this. Because of conflicting work schedules, we chose a hotel suite high above the world to reunite. I’d spent two lonely evenings in the city of light. I’d speed dialed her twice, wondering why she wasn’t in the room filled with warm lights and sensuous music, but she didn’t answer her phone.
I dialed again, third time’s the charm indeed. “Elena? Where are—,”
“I’m in the staircase on our floor. Come now. Hurry.”
“Are you hurt, baby? Where’s Ray?”
“Ray is around here. I’m fine. Broken shoe heel. Can you come get me?”
My eyes shut with relief. I didn’t know what I would have done if Ray had neglected his duties.
“Alex?”
“OMW.”
The line clicked.
In the staircase, I found her leaning against the wall with a hiked up dress, shoe heel unbroken. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Camera-free zone. Ray is in his room.” Lusty blue eyes scanned my body and then my face. “I want you to fuck me here.”
My eyes popped wide open. “Are you kidding me? Are you drunk?”
“I need you, Alex. I’ve missed you.”
“You’ll have me behind closed doors. Every inch of my cock will stuff your needy pussy.” I didn’t intend to share Elena with anyone, in any way. My gaze flitted around the space uncomfortably before returning to her. “This really isn’t a great way to get me aroused.”
Her eyes glittered, and whether it was lust or anger, I couldn’t tell until she spoke. “I’m going downstairs for drinks.”
“The hell you are!”
“Then fuck me.” Something changed in her expression.
“A new fantasy parading in your mind?”
“A dirty fantasy, sir.” As she deliberately dropped the ridiculous bit of black lace beneath her skirt to her ankles, I watched the movement with unique fascination. “Very dirty. What if someone sees me doing this?” She made two fingers disappear inside her.
I arched an eyebrow, trying hard not to let my attention slip down to her sex. Going closer, I realized I anticipated this as much as she did, so I didn’t tell her off. The risk was worth it; I wanted to watch her get off on this.
“You’re nothing but a little slut.” I smacked her head against the wall—not painfully—and pushed her hand out of the way, replacing it with my own. The softness of her mouth found mine, a delicate kiss turning into hard breathing and sucking as she coaxed the beast in me. My thumb battened on her clit, and, while watching her reach the crest of ecstasy, I realized my muted moans of pleasure were louder than hers.
See how she was manipulating me to enjoy…such wickedness?
I decided to fuck with her as she’d been fucking with me. “No, not yet,” I murmured when she was about to come. I unzipped my trousers, scarcely widening the spread of my fly because I anticipated someone to walk in on us. Pushing down the waistband of my boxer shorts, I quickly absorbed the unaccustomed feeling of constraint around my cock and the pull of cotton and elastic right beneath my balls before I pressed my cock against her pelvis. “Put me inside.”
She did, and all rational thoughts evaporated. I fucked her so hard that tears came to her eyes and her hair fell out of the messy bun. My hands tugged and slapped and squeezed at her breasts, her clit, and her ass. For everyone to see, it was all mine for the taking. “Filthy girl. You like being watched, don’t you?” I whispered, taking her earlobe between my teeth. “You love that anyone
can come up here and see you getting fucked, see you loving every minute of it with slender legs wrapped around me. Did you want a stranger to see you come?”
“I don’t mind showing the world that I’m yours. That I love getting used by my master.”
“That’s fucking, fucking hot.” I twirled locks of her hair around my fingers to yank her head sideways. “Such a greedy little cunt,” I muttered hoarsely. “It’s gonna make me come.”
I rode us both toward one of the best orgasms ever. When I pulled away, my eyes catalogued her hair and makeup. There was lipstick all over her chin, and her cheeks looked wetter than Shamu. I grasped her throat and tilted her head up, panting into her face. “Don’t ever trap me again. You better clean up before walking back to the room. Robert will check the camera feed.”
“Robert? It would be illegal.”
“Not if you partially own this damn place. Five minutes, and then I’m locking the door.”
I left her to her fate, realizing how crazy my life had become.