Masters of the Club Page 5

  “You planning to watch?”

  “I’ll keep my distance—well, maybe I’ll keep my distance. She’s too damn hot to ignore.”

  “Anything special?”

  “Something very public. The bar should be packed.”

  “Six o’clock you think?”

  “Prime hour, that’s good. You need to see the video first?”

  “No,” Redford replied, “I’ve seen enough. I’ll stick with my first impressions.”

  “She’ll be the nervous one in a miniskirt at the bar, long blonde hair, hazel eyes. Don’t let the surface calm fool you.”

  “I remember what she looks like, very well.”

  “Good. Don’t go easy on her, we’ll see just how vulnerable she can be. She doesn’t know you well, I assume.”

  “I don’t think at all.”

  “Then you’re perfect.”

  Mike hung up the phone with his eyes fixed on the images before him. Pushing his slow motion button, she was even more fascinating … each wiggle and thrust and gasp for air making his prick jolt lively in the palm of his hand as he stroked the firm thing. Returning to real time, he heard the sound of her cumming, and the squeak of the chair. Rewinding to review the spanking scene, he listened to the ruler slap her ass. Her hair covered her eyes so he could hardly see them, and then, as she brushed it from her face, rising enough so he could see her breasts pendulantly swaying beneath her as though they beckoned his lips to suck the elongated nipples, he shot all over his hand.

  He had no doubt Gillian Brahms would be an asset to the club, as long as he kept her on a very tight leash.

  ***

  Lagerfield’s was almost packed by 5:45, though there was one empty barstool. That was all she needed.

  Miniskirt, no panties, Lagerfields at six. Sit at the bar. M.

  The message was brief but to the point.

  A whole week of waiting for more instructions, her impatience was acute. It was unusual to feel so out of control. She was always in control, like it or not, except for now. If they judged her unworthy, there was no court of appeals to take her complaint. And if she lost this case, she had the distinct impression that Thaddeus Chamberlain, or any of the others, would deny any knowledge of that office space at 6th & Bridge—or video cameras, or messages in toilet stalls of the courthouse, or anything to do with a sex club.

  Seeing the plain envelope along with her other mail, she knew exactly what it was, and her heart suddenly started pounding in her throat and her hands went weak, as did her knees. She read it while sitting in a dining room chair—read it a dozen times, committed it to memory and then burned it in the fireplace.

  Miniskirt, no panties, Lagerfields at six. Sit at the bar. M.

  Who was this mysterious M?

  Taking her seat on the barstool, her sex was pressed to the leather. The stool had been empty some time, the surface cool. She gazed around. The cream colored blouse she wore drooped between her breasts, and wearing no bra they moved easily inside the fabric peeking out if she swayed too far one way or the other. The bartender’s eyes hardly glanced away. And his smile was very charming.

  Setting her vodka tonic in front of her, she smiled back. Then, tossing her blonde hair off her face, she looked around, again wondering when her date would arrive.

  The club’s instruction suited her. She loved the creamy silk miniskirt—tight and short, riding high on her thigh as she crossed her legs—and ignored the impulse to pull it down. Already the lace at the top of her thighs-highs peeked out from underneath. The part about no panties was too much to live with, so she put on her tiniest thong as though that would provide some safety. Maybe they wouldn’t know or care. The sudden bout of modesty wasn’t like her, but deep down, swimming along with all her other feelings was one of fear. What if Kate McPherson’s club wasn’t a harmless sexual game, but a dangerous web of men preying on horny but foolish women?

  By six o’clock there were men reaching over her shoulder for drinks, rubbing chests against her back, a stray hand tickling her exposed thigh. Each touch made her start nervously. Was she meeting someone, or just on display? A few minutes after six, a business man in a gray suit with thinning hair and a trim beard, pushed between her and the gentleman on the next stool. She turned to let him in and his thigh brushed hers. Her body started again with anticipation, and though the man seemed innocuous enough, ordering a beer and paying no attention to her, when she saw the red stone and filigree of his pinky ring, the realization hit her in the gut, wrenching away her usual calm. The smoke was thick, the air steamy, the atmosphere crowded with laughter and small talk and background music loud enough to make the voices rise chaotically around her so she could hardly think.

  When the man at her side turned slightly, Gillian went wide-eyed in wonder as his hand slipped inside her skirt and made its way toward her crotch—like a snake meandering along her leg. She didn’t look down, but did catch his glance.

  “What’s this?” he said, looking displeased having found the thong in the path of his hand.

  “I got scared,” she whispered.

  “Too bad. That just means you’ll have to take them off.”

  “Right here?”

  “Right here.”

  He wasn’t the kind of man that would normally throw her off guard. She imagined him quite mild-mannered under most situations, but now he was as hard as nails and that attitude was turning her on. She was mesmerized by his power to take her mind off the commotion around her, as though they were in their own private world.

  “Right here,” she repeated, not to question him, but trying to settle her mind.

  He only smiled, the smile hardly kind, and the look in his eye was unwavering.

  Reaching under her skirt as she turned toward the bar, her fingers slipped under the edge of the thong, and wiggling on the stool, she managed to pull the thong out of her ass and then down her legs. At her ankles she quickly snatched it away to stuff in her purse. But she was stopped just short of that final act, her gentleman friend taking the panties, and pocketing them inside his coat.

  “You shouldn’t disobey the instructions, Gillian,” he said. “It will only hamper your chances for membership. Now raise your skirt higher.”

  She inched the material up on her thighs, so it no longer covered pussy. If someone were to look into her lap, they’d see a small bush of pubic hair glistening with female dew.

  Moving into her more closely, the man had his hand in her crotch, his fingers going for her hole.

  “You’re going to cum right here,” he leaned in close, whispering, as he found the top of her labia with his hand. She jerked hard when a finger pressed down on her clit. “Part your legs.”

  Following the instruction, she opened her thighs and scooted forward on the seat, allowing him better access to her cunt. Leaning toward him, her breasts brushed up against his arm. Spasming, she held back the urge to moan, and thrash on the fondling hand. The idea of cumming in a packed bar massaged her brain as much as the fingers between her legs massaged her sex.

  “Oh, gawd,” she gasped quietly looking into his unwavering gaze.

  “That’s it, Gillian Brahms, just let go,” his voice was all she listened to. All she felt was his fingers at her pussy, and then three fingers fucking her with a dozen men around her oblivious to a woman’s sexual moment. Their bodies banged her as they passed, one man even reached between them for his drink and didn’t notice. Though when he backed away, Gillian moved closer to her anonymous lover so it wouldn’t happen again. This was just the two of them and as long as she could think that way her body heat soared and her pussy felt like heaven.

  Just at the brink of orgasm, the reverie was interrupted. Someone at her back had his chest pressed tightly to her, his cologne a familiar memory, his whispering lips just behind her ear, “Keep going, Gillian. Look at my friend and don’t look around.” His hand was on her ass, and then under the skirt, a finger moving toward her back hole. She gasped audibly, as wet fin
gers eased their way just beyond her sphincter. Ass screwed and finger fucked, she rose off the barstool slightly breached by both their hands and gave up any remaining control. Her cry sounded like laughter and there were tears of relief in her eyes, and a bartender standing some distance away polishing a glass, who looked her in the eyes and smiled. She smiled back without thinking as the hand in her ass end withdrew, and the one in front stayed long enough to stroke the last of the sensations from her spasming cunt.

  “No more panties, Brahms,” the balding man whispered. Gulping the last of his drink, he left her alone in the crowded bar, her wet pussy pressed sticking to the seat below her. She ordered a double, downed it quickly and left the bar as soon as she was finished.

  ***

  “Better handle this maverick streak right now, Mike, or she’ll be worthless to the club,” Redford whispered to Bellamy as the two men walked out on the street into the fresh evening air.

  “That’s all details; don’t sweat it. I’m very good with details.”

  Chapter Seven

  Vitorio met Katherine at a small Italian café along the broad boulevard. He ordered for her—scallops and salad and the most delicious pasta she’d ever had. She’d upped her exercise routine since coming to Milan—the food was far too good and she was resolved not to gain weight. She had the feeling that her masters wouldn’t approve of a few extra pounds. Trying to eat this meal daintily was impossible. She could tell before she dove into the wonderful food that she’d pay for the meal with an extra fifteen minutes of aerobics in the morning.

  “So, McPherson, how are your chains?” Vitorio asked. He could be a gracious Italian gentleman, charming to a fault—the kind of man women crawl over—the olive Latin skin and sleek black hair and the features of an aristocratic sort were the things that often raised Kate’s sexual appetite. But he was also one of the club’s most austere masters. He didn’t have a submissive member he nurtured the way Thad nurtured her—probably because he didn’t have the capacity to really love. But he was a fine enforcer of the rules—so she’d witnessed twice in the last few weeks.

  “Hanging heavily,” she answered his question.

  “Good. And painful?”

  “Sometimes, but I’m getting used to them.”

  “Ooo, that’s not good,” he replied. He pulled something from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “While we’re here, let’s attach this to your labia.”

  The device was a small clamp she recognized in an instant as the kind that had been applied to various parts of her body on several occasions. They could hurt like hell with the screw twisted tightly.

  “And make it cut a bit. I want to know you’re experiencing some pain.”

  “Is this more punishment?”

  “You’re being punished for an entire year, McPherson,” his eyes smoldered with satisfaction as he talked. “But in this case, I want you to wear it because it’s fun.”

  She had a number of sarcastic retorts right on the tip of her tongue, but she let them slide away realizing how his brown eyes could change from simply devious to downright evil in just seconds; and that spanking she’d talked about with Thad could turn into a first-class punishment, like her turn over the board room conference table.

  “Put it on now,” he ordered.

  The café was nearly empty, their table in the corner, she facing the windows, not the other patrons. She’d had worse commands to obey in the past, and all she had to do was uncross her legs, raise her skirt—which was not a tight one this time—insert a slip of skin between the pinchers and turn the screw. Working quickly, she chose to fit as much flesh inside the device as possible—always much less painful than just a very little skin. Completing the order, she ended with a purposeful wince that Vitorio could see—a sign of the sensation beginning to sweep her cunt. Lodged in the labia right above her left piercing, the metal clamp hung down, adding to the heavy feel of her pubic mound. She waited for her sexual arousal to climb, which it did as she wiggled her pussy against the chair.

  Vitorio, as she expected, reached under her skirt and gave the screw another twist. Another wince and this small ordeal was over—even though she’d have to bear the discomfort until Vitorio removed the added punishment.

  After their meal, he took her to a movie house where a black and white Italian art film flickered against an aging screen with lines and cracks. Not yet fluent in the language, Kate didn’t bother to listen to the dialogue. That wasn’t want he wanted anyway. They sat in the back, in a lonely corner, where they could see the heads of a half-dozen others who’d come to view the film.

  Vitorio was predictably silent, ordering her with his hand to her knees in front him.

  “Your legs,” he whispered as he brushed his hand back and forth in front of her to suggest that she part her thighs while on her knees. He indicated that she raise her skirt so he could see the hardware dangling there. Times like this she felt the heavy chains the most, a steady pressure of sensation making it impossible for her to forget the arousal lingering on her body’s back burner. He’d just turned up the heat, staring at her with eyes that snarled right out at her in the gloom of the movie house.

  Withdrawing his cock from his pants, he focused on Katherine whose mind was into the pleasurable melody of violins and guitars accompanying the lusty scenes of lovers scampering about the movie screen. While unable to enjoy the film, she let the passion of its music ripple through her body. Running her hands down her thighs, she jiggled the chain and clamp, feeling a few sharp pains add to her sexual excitement.

  “Don’t touch them,” Vitorio whispered, so she kept her hands away from the heavy pieces, and let them dangle, hips moving to the violins as though there was a bow being pulled across her desire. “Rub yourself,” he spoke softly again. And with fingers reaching low, she skirted the metal, prying open her labia to find her clit. More awkward than it was without the jewelry, she still had plenty of passion to find a good edge toward orgasm. But then, Vitorio wasn’t satisfied with mutual masturbation. His cock was resplendently full. In the erratic shadows of the film, it looking as though it were jerking without even being touched. He pulled Kate toward him, so her head was in his crotch, her mouth moving quickly to suck the thick and slightly arched flesh of his erection. She dabbled for a while with the small pointy head, then allowed herself to swallow until she could fit no more of him and was about to gag. His whimpers were inspiration; and she continued eagerly until he pulled her from her knees.

  Straddling his hips, her cunt slipped over the anxious prick and she rode on his lap—labia bobbing heavily—until he murmured softly in climax, hers following closely afterwards, ripping through her in jarring spasms that matched the music soaring behind her.

  “It’s too bad you have this horrible blot on your membership record,” he whispered as she lay against him. It was just an instant before he pushed her away. “It’s going to be a tough year for you, McPherson, though I’m sure I’ll enjoy it thoroughly.”

  Her cunt dripped with her juice and his as she pulled to her feet. And yet Vitorio refused to let her wipe herself, so the cum was left to dry on her legs and pussy hair. Their mingling body perfume wafted toward her nostrils and she breathed deeply as the passionate love story played to the end and Kate with her master exited the movie house in silence.

  Vitorio walked her to her apartment. Her limbs were tired, her body in a pleasant place. She figured at some point the clamp had loosened—perhaps as they fucked. She could hardly feel it any more; nothing but the added heaviness that constantly reminded her of sex and punishment. Reaching the door, Vitorio lifted her skirt and felt for the piece.

  “Ah, still there,” he said. He twisted the screw, and she jolted, her face squinting miserably. This was not what she wanted at midnight. She wanted sleep and dreams and thoughts of Thad and the feeling of relief that always swept her when a good night’s sexual labors were put to rest.

  Unfortunately, Vitorio was not pleased with her e
xpression, or the way she clenched when he gave the clamp another twist, or the way she noticeably bit her lip to keep a nasty protest from being voiced.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” he spoke softly.

  “Yes,” she answered him. Remembering her place, she yielded, though it was too late to take back her subtle errs in form.

  “And it will more,” he assured her.

  Pushing through her front hallway, the seductive quiet of their evening vanished instantly. He was hot, his eyes flaring darkly, his lip curling like a dog ready to bite. He forced her against an upholstered chair and raised her skirt. Pressing himself against her behind, he reached around and screwed the clamp another notch tighter.

  “Can you stand that?”

  No! The sharp pain came in waves she couldn’t control. And it only got worse. Removing his belt from his pants, Vitorio flailed the thing on her ass cheeks until they were scarlet. Even in the dim lamplight of the room the sight of them was inspiration for his eyes. The scalding punishment went on for minutes, not seconds; Kate afraid; the pain mounting intensely. Every time she jerked, which she did each time the belt stuck, the force on her labia sent another shooting fire of agony through her prickly nerves.

  He whipped her hard for nearly five minutes straight and then suddenly stopped.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” he chuckled happily.

  “Yes,” now she even ‘breathed’ submissively hoping he wouldn’t start again.

  Fingering her cunt, he was in her again, the second time in two hours—though this fuck was more swift than the last.