Falling for Sir (2 page)

"You must never discuss what goes on
here," she was told. "Our members rely on us for a fantasy service
provided with the utmost discretion."

As if she'd ever want anyone to know.

"The men and women who join participate in
parties and auctions. Club members acquire tokens with which they bid. If you
decide to be a "lot" you become one of the items they bid upon.
What's your preference? Men, women, or both?"

"Men," she'd muttered. "I
think."

"Perfect. We happen to have a place open
for you then. How about Thursday evening?"

Wait a
sec. Back up
. "Club
members acquire tokens? So it's sex for money. Isn't that prostitution?"

"Tokens are earned and collected, not
bought. Club members who attend auctions to procure a mate for the evening are
expected to provide pleasure and are rewarded for it. After you've experienced
a club member, you get to award them a certain number of tokens depending upon
how much you enjoyed yourself. The more tokens a man or woman collects, the
more bidding power they have when attending an auction."

It was starting to sound like dirty fun.

Why not take matters in hand and do something
about her neglected clitoris predicament, instead of waiting for someone to
fumble their way to it?

The men she met at The Club would know nothing
about her and she would never see them again. They would not be like those
inexperienced, sweaty-palmed boys in Foxtail, who'd groped her in the back seat
of a borrowed car, or at the cinema in the back row, spilling her popcorn. The
boys who later blamed her because things hadn't turned out the way they wanted,
and then told everyone at school that she must be frigid. It was all her fault,
apparently, that they hadn't succeeded in making her scream like the women they
watched in cheap porno movies.

Her interviewer at The Club, a tall, statuesque
model-type with a sleek, blonde ponytail and clear, shiny fingernails, had
leaned forward across her desk and smiled. "It's sex the way you want
it—pure and simple, no complications. Here you have a place to live out your
submissive fantasy. And you don't have to find anything to talk about, pretend
he's interesting, or laugh at his jokes." Then she added, "But you
also have a guarantee that everyone here is free of STD. You don't get that at
a regular New York party."

True.

But that word—
submissive
. She wasn't sure about that. Is it what she wanted?
Well, how would she know unless she tried it?

So she'd signed a paper agreeing never to speak
about The Club. Then she went for her very first Brazilian wax, got her nails
and toes manicured, her brows shaped and brought some ridiculously expensive
hair conditioner from Marchetti's —with staff discount, of course.

Tonight was the night to bust her orgasm cherry.

If she didn't do something about it, as her
workmates had pointed out over martinis, time would creep up on her and she'd
be a thirty year-old, neat freak, workaholic who had lost patience with men and
sex. Eventually she'd shrivel up, dry up and start going to bingo for her
thrills once a week.

This location of an elusive orgasm was merely a
technical matter, she assured herself. No need to fuss or get tense.

The pocket double doors were slid open and
Marianne moved forward in a line with her companions.

Inside the grand reception room of that innocent
looking, pre-war brownstone, a hush descended and the club members cast their
eyes over the auction lots. Marianne felt her pussy tense as if the walking
corpse, Sylvie, had once again run her finger over the cleft between her pink
labia.

They were looking at her in her bra and panties.
They must see her nipples. Would they also see the fear streaking through her?
The wicked excitement traveling fast on its awkward high heels?

Behind her, she heard the soft shuffle and
whoosh of pocket doors closing. Closing on her old life, on her inexperience
and relative innocence, on the tomboy from the sticks.

Whatever happened next, she sensed she would
remember this moment for the rest of her life. Whether it would be good or bad,
she had no idea.

The heat of the room gathered quickly around her
and so did the men.

Chapter
Two

Back in
the Saddle

The ice cubes in his scotch suddenly tinkled as
they jarred against the cut crystal glass in his hand and that little sound
finally woke him from the trance into which he'd fallen.

Because there, in transparent white lace bra and
panties, was a body he'd seen and felt in his dreams. Those long legs he'd
licked from toe to hip. Those full breasts he'd cupped and stroked and suckled.
Petal pink lips framed a mouth he ravished in those same dreams. Where she came
from he had no idea, but she'd invaded his slumbering brain and wrecked havoc
in it for the past three nights. Perhaps even longer.

Giacomo Fabrizio Marchetti the Third—known to
his friends as "Jack"— wasn't much of a dreamer or, for that matter,
a sleeper, but something had crept under his skin lately and made him look
forward to his bed with an anticipation he hadn't experienced in years.

It was her. He knew it the moment he saw the
line of women and his gaze stumbled over her body. Goddamn it. He even knew how
she would taste.

Who was she? How had she raided his mind? Where
had he seen her before? He must have, of course. Jack didn't have time for the
supernatural or fate, or any of that crap. So he realized he must have
encountered her in life somewhere. That was how his mind had the picture and
why he thought of her every night.

She looked moderately uncomfortable with her
wrists tied behind her back, but not perhaps as timid and meek as she ought to
be in her role as a sub. Through the holes in her pink silk mask, he caught the
sultry gleam of amusement just before she hastily lowered her lashes. She
wasn't very good at pretending, obviously.

Although the white bra and panties symbolized
that this was her first time at the club, something about her stance in those
high heels was distinctly less than subordinate— a challenge, he mused, licking
the taste of single malt Scotch off his lips.

While he watched, one of the men moved her tied
hands aside and looked down the waistband of her panties, front and back.
Another member cupped her right breast and closed two fingers around her perky
nipple. Another opened her mouth to inspect her teeth and tongue. Using his
fingers, he checked how wide she could open her mouth. Then he closed it again
and patted her cheek, while she looked as if she had a hard time swallowing a
protest.

Jack took another swig from his glass. Two women
in black lace lingerie approached him, smiling, trying to catch his eye, but he
dismissed them easily with a quick shake of his head and they moved on.

One man, meanwhile, had knelt on the carpet at
the new girl's feet and peeked under the lacy crotch of her panties.
"Pretty pink piece o' pussy," he commented through the cigar between
his teeth and held the thin material aside so his companions could admire her
waxed mound likewise. They all nodded in solemn agreement.

From across the room, Jack stared at that
teasing glimpse of rose bud, heat rising under his collar. Odd. He hadn't been
this interested, this quickly aroused in years. He'd attended functions at The
Club several times before, since his younger brother, Charlie, told him about
the place and gifted him with a pile of tokens for it on his birthday.

"For the love of God, go and get
laid," Charlie had said placidly. "I don't need a pious monk for a
brother, so I'm donating my hard-earned tokens to you. And if you think Laura
would want you to sacrifice your sex life in her memory, you're wrong."

But Jack, more reserved than his brother, hadn't
seen anyone on whom he wanted to bid. He usually ended up in the restaurant
next door, eating steak and Tiramisu. The food there was very good and he
worried he might put on thirty pounds if he didn't soon start working it off in
the bedroom.

Tonight, for the first time, he saw something he
wanted to purchase.

He reached into the pocket of his pants. His
cock was growing too damn fast and had to be adjusted. A drawback of having
such a large one. Not that he was the boastful sort. Hey, he couldn't help
being so well endowed. He almost laughed at himself, but banked it, taking
another quick mouthful of Scotch and rolling his tongue as the liquor warmed
his throat. Laura, his wife, used to say she fell in love with his big cock
first, his wallet second. Although she was being a smart ass, of course,
deliberately trying to shock him, he'd often wondered if there was more than a
little truth to that remark. His wife had heartily appreciated sex and enjoyed
spending his money almost as much.

But now was probably not the best time to think
about his dead wife. He was there to get laid in as uncomplicated a way as
possible and break a lengthy, self-imposed fast. The Club, so he'd heard, was
the best place to do that. Like everyone else here, he'd signed an agreement,
knew what was expected, knew what he was doing. The woman in the white bra and
panties would know it too. There would be none of the usual clinging
commitment, none of the trouble afterward. Just the pleasant effects of an
orgasm, for the first time in over four years, in the company of another human
being instead of his hand.

The newcomer moved around the room, eyes
downcast, head slightly bowed. Everywhere she went, men stopped her, stroked
her arms, tapped her on the ass, slipped a hand between her thighs to see if
she was wet yet. Some touched her dark brown hair, petting it, snagging fingers
in the unruly curls.

He wished she would look up so he could see the
color of her eyes, but she kept her gaze pinned to the floor now after her
brief lapse. If her eyes were brown with flecks of green and gold then he'd
know she was the strange woman who haunted his dreams lately. Somehow he had to
make her look up.

* * * *

Marianne felt flushed from head to toe,
perspiration giving her skin a thin sheen. Her first instinct had been to flee
the room, no matter how stupid she might look running in ridiculously high
heels and her underwear. But after the first few pairs of hands had caressed
her, the panic faded away. She was not Marianne tonight; she was Claudia, a
fictional creature with no past, no hang-ups, no worries.

The men examined and discussed her in the same
way that she'd watched her brothers purr and pant over a refurbished, '65 Ford
Mustang convertible at a classic car show. To be examined and judged like this
was not so hard to take as she'd feared, but guilt still lurked in the shadows,
warning her that she shouldn't be enjoying this.
 
She had a Masters in Interior Architecture,
for Christ's sake.

Currently she was being examined by two men. One
stood behind her, stroking her ass, while the other was in front, his hand down
her panties. He was tall, handsome, with a chiseled jaw and dark eyes simmering
through his mask.

"Do you like our new girl?" Sylvie
asked.

"Oh, yes."

Sylvie swept a hand under Marianne's loose hair
to hold her by the back of her neck. It was a casual gesture, made to remind
her to keep her head bowed, her gaze on the ground. "She's pretty. I know
you gentlemen like the fuller figure and the waxed vulva is appealing. Have you
felt her satiny nipples?"

To stand still at that point went against
everything she'd ever trained herself to do, think and feel. Goose pimples
covered her arms and a silent scream fluttered up and down her throat. But she
was more alive, more present in the moment than she'd ever been. Her thoughts,
which had a tendency to tie themselves in complicated knots and leave her
stymied, were swallowed up by the rush of new sensations.

The man standing before her now pulled his hand
out of her panties and shoved it up under her bra quite roughly to pinch her
aching points. Marianne bit down on a startled gasp as he squeezed her breast.
The band of her bra dug into her back, the elastic stretching to accommodate
his large, forceful hand.

"Lovely tits," he muttered, pushing
the rounded flesh up under her chin. "Good for binding, eh? I think she'd
like that."

"Yes. Large teardrops," Sylvie
dispassionately observed. "Certainly more than a mouthful."

"Pillows a man can sink his cock between."

"Open your mouth, Claudia. Let the
gentleman see how you would take his semen if he came between your
breasts."

Marianne obeyed, her face hot, her pulse
surprisingly steady. While the man still squeezed her breast under her bra,
pushing it higher and higher, Sylvie used her free hand to flick spitefully at
the other exposed nipple, her long, glossy nail gleaming in the candlelight.

"Keep your mouth open. I didn't say you
could close it, did I?"