Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

  “I can see that.”

  “Go ahead.” I sigh, stepping aside as I go looking for my razor. I put my foot up on the stone bench in the corner and apply shaving gel to my leg. But before I can start shaving, Smith takes the razor. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “I’m not touching you, Chella. The razor is.”

  Clarity ensues and I smile.

  “Don’t get excited,” he says, smiling back. A big enough smile to make that dimple appear. “I take the rules pretty seriously.”

  I press my lips together to stop the grin. “Mmmm-hmm.”

  He shaves my leg so carefully, I want to die. He crouches down so his cock is hanging between his legs. Those shoulders are right in front of me. Begging for my attention. I want to touch him so bad, but I stop myself. I’m enjoying his attention too much to fuck it up.

  And he is paying very close attention to my leg. It’s not even like there’s much stubble because I just shaved two days ago. But he is careful and deliberate as he drags the razor down every curve of my calf.

  When he’s done, he looks up at me and says, “Next.”

  I repeat the process with the gel and I have to bite my lip to stop imagining how good it would feel if he’d do this part too.

  “It’s supposed to be fun, Chella,” he says, still working.

  “This is fun.”

  He looks up and smiles. “We have these rules for a reason. They heighten the pleasure. Everyone’s pleasure. You’ll have a better time if you give in. I promise.”

  I believe him. Because it’s already working. But I still have questions. “So you’re never going to fuck me?”

  “What did I say about that word?”

  “What? It wasn’t an adjective. It’s a verb. To fuck.”

  He scowls.

  “You’re never going to have sex with me?” I amend.

  “I didn’t say never. I just said for now.”

  “But when Quin comes on Sunday night—or Monday, if he’s not that into me and can’t stand the thought of that extra time—then he can fu—have sex with me? What’s his rule?”

  “You’ll talk it out with him.” Smith looks up at me and then stands up, his task complete far too soon. “Don’t confuse us, Chella. We’re very different people. We want very different things out of this game. But we all like to win. Even you, I’m sure.”

  “What is winning?” I ask.

  The look on his face takes me by surprise. “Happiness, of course.”

  “And not touching me makes you happy?”

  “Did you like what I just did?” He sets the razor down on the bench.

  “Yes,” I say. “But I’d like it more if your hands were touching me.”

  “Maybe one day I will touch you, Marcella Walcott. But that’s a long way down the road. So it’s better to get used to the way things are done now. Are you finished?”

  I shake my head. “No, I have to rinse my hair.”

  “Hurry up then. I’m tired and I need you to fall asleep before I do.”

  He opens the glass shower door, grabs a towel off the rack, wraps it around his waist, and then walk out of the bathroom.

  What do I think of this new development?

  He can’t touch me, but he can use other things to touch me.

  Yes, this could get interesting very quickly.

  Smith, I think as I rinse my hair. He’s not really what I expected.

  I expected the asshole he’s shown me he can be. The one who creeps around, breaks into my house, makes himself a key, and changes my alarm code.

  But this no touching stuff. Why? And then to demonstrate how nice it can be by shaving my legs? Again, why?

  “Chella,” he calls from the bedroom. “I’m fucking tired. Hurry up.”

  What will he do now? Will he sleep next to me? How can he? If he can’t touch me, surely he won’t get in the same bed with me?

  I turn the water off and step out, dry myself off with a towel, then wrap it around my hair and walk out into the bedroom, naked.

  He’s sitting in a chair, his back to the window. His usually slicked-back dark hair is all tousled and wet. A few pieces of it fall over his eyes in long, soft curls. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he does have on a pair of sweats, the waistband tugged below his huge balls. And his hand is on his cock, stroking himself slowly as he watches me watch him masturbate.

  “If you think I’m not gonna jerk off to you every chance I get, you’re insane.”

  “And me?” I ask, unable to stop looking at his hand on his cock.

  “I sincerely hope you do the same. I’ll be very disappointed if I watch you tonight and you don’t put on a show.”

  So this is how it is.

  My time with Smith will be nothing but self-pleasure.

  No, that’s not all it is. It will be self-pleasure while he watches me.

  “Put on the lingerie, take that towel off your head, and get in bed, Chella. Lights are going out in two minutes.”

  He’s serious about the two minutes thing. I’m still messing with the alarm on my phone when he reaches over to the lamp next to his chair and flicks it off.

  There’s a little bit of light from the street lamps outside, but he’s all shadow. “I can’t see you,” I whisper.

  “You don’t need to,” he replies. “I can see you and that’s all that matters.”

  “Will you get in bed later? Or will you leave?”

  “I won’t leave,” he says. “But I won’t sleep with you either. It’s too much.”

  “Too much trouble?”

  “Too much temptation. Now tell me what you think of the game so far.”

  I smile up at the patterns of light on the ceiling. “I think it might be fun.”

  “Come for me, Chella. Come for me and I’ll come for you.”

  We do that. I have my hand between my legs. My breathing is rapid as I try to create enough friction to orgasm. But in the end, it’s not my hand that gets me off. It’s him. From across the room. It’s Smith’s heavy breathing. His moans. His groans.

  And when we come together, I get it. I understand what they’re trying to tell me with this rule.

  We are all responsible for our own happiness.

  I don’t need him to make me happy. He doesn’t need me to make him happy.

  We make each other happy.

  And we do that by making ourselves happy.

  I fall asleep. A deep, deep sleep. One second I’m awake… and then I’m out.

  “Chella.” Smith is talking to me, I know this. But I can’t seem to make my eyes open. “Chella, come on. We’re having an early breakfast, remember? I already picked out your clothes. They’re hanging in the closet.”

  I turn over to see him standing in front of the window, looping his tie into a knot at his throat. He’s wearing a dark blue suit. “You’re dressed?” I asked, still groggy. “Where did you get that suit?”

  “I brought some things over yesterday. Figured it would save me time.”

  It’s like… he moved in.

  “Get up. I’d slap your ass really hard for keeping me waiting if I had a different rule, but then I’d just fuck you afterward and we’d be late anyway.”

  I have to stop and picture that for a moment. “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean if you had a different rule?”

  “First one to spend the night doesn’t get to touch you,” he says, slipping on his suit coat. “It’s too easy to get attached the first night. And we’ve done this enough to know it never works out if we don’t each get an even chance. You have ten minutes to get ready, so get the fuck up.”

  “What was your rule last time? With Rochelle?” I ask, my mind spinning with this new revelation.

  “None of your business. Nine minutes, fifty seconds, Chella. Quin and Bric have both already called. They want a report. So let’s go.”

  I swing my legs out and sit on the side of the bed for a moment. Smith i
s already hopping down the stairs, calling, “No time for coffee. We’ll get it at the White Room. And don’t bother putting makeup on. Bric only likes makeup at night.”

  I sit there for a few more seconds, trying to get a grip on this new development.

  Taking Turns isn’t really a game, is it?

  It’s a lifestyle.

  The outfit Smith chose for me is mine, but not something I normally wear—a white sleeveless shift dress that has a low scoop back so I can’t wear a bra. I have no underwear on at all. Somehow he managed to find an old pair of white Calvin Klein knee-high leather boots and a black swing coat I bought when I was twenty and thought they were cute.

  Smith hands me a hair tie when I come downstairs and says, “Put it up in a ponytail. High on your head.”

  I gather my thick dark hair in my hands and then pull the tie through, hiking the ponytail high up on my head like he asked, until my face feels tight. “I feel like a majorette right now.”

  “You look like a go-go dancer.”

  “Well.” I laugh. “That makes everything better.”

  “Here, put on the sunglasses.”

  I take the round, white, Jackie O sunglasses from his hand and shake my head. “What’s with this costume?”

  “Quin’s dramatic. He likes this shit. Trust me. Just watch his eyes during breakfast.”

  “Am I the butt of a joke?”

  “No,” he says quickly. “I’m just trying to help him out. Move on, you know? He needs to. I don’t want to talk about… that last girl. Not at all. But he will want to, Chella. And you should not encourage it. He has to let it go.”

  “What’s his rule? Is that it? He’s not allowed to dwell in the past?”

  “No,” Smith says, pointing at the front door. “Come on. Let’s go. We’re so fucking late.”

  The car is waiting outside and the driver doesn’t get out to open the door. Smith opens it instead, and we slide in. His phone rings, he takes the call, and then proceeds to have a conversation about things that have nothing to do with me or this arrangement. Business, I suppose.

  But as soon as we get to Turning Point Club, he ends the call and takes my hand.

  “No touching,” I say, pulling it away.

  “Rules don’t apply during meetings. Just wait. I’ve got something fun planned.”

  Oh. I feel a little heat between my legs.

  The lobby is crowded and everyone turns to look at us as we enter. Smith doesn’t talk to anyone. Not the valets, not the coat-check girl, not the maitre d’. He keeps hold of my hand and leads me into the White Room, past all the gawking people already eating, and towards the back of the restaurant where Quin and Bric are sitting at a private elevated table, surrounded by so many gigantic flower arrangements, I can barely make them out.

  Bric sees us first and stands up, smiling. It takes Quin a few seconds to stand up, but he does, half-heartedly, and doesn’t send me a smile.

  He does notice the outfit when Bric offers to help me with my coat, just like Smith predicted.

  Smith pulls out a chair for me, I sit, and then they do too.

  “You’re late,” Quin says.

  “Cereal?” Smith says, looking across the table at Quin’s choice of breakfast food. “What are you, fourteen?”

  Quin doesn’t look up, just starts shoveling cornflakes in his mouth.

  “Did you have a nice night, Chella?” Bric asks, ignoring everything going on between Smith and Quin.

  I open my mouth to reply, but Smith beats me to it. “Chella has nightmares.”

  “What?” I ask, looking at him. “I don’t have nightmares.”

  “She walks in her sleep.”

  “I do not. Why are you saying that?”

  “And she plays with herself all night long. Her hand never stopped.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not,” Smith says, hint of annoyance in his voice. “How would you know anyway? Were you awake? Because I was.”

  I let out a long sigh as I turn away and look at Bric. “Do you have nightmares?” he asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “She’s lying. But anyway, it was a good night. I fingered her and kissed her before we discussed the rules. Afterward, it was strictly hands off.”

  “We’re having a play-by-play?” I ask, completely embarrassed.

  “It’s OK, Chella,” Bric says in his calm, authoritative voice. “We don’t normally, no. But we have to make sure everything is proceeding well the first week. It’s a critical time.”

  “She comes so fucking fast, you guys,” Smith says, a new playfulness in his voice I haven’t heard yet. “Demonstration?”

  And then Smith’s hand is between my legs, his fingertips playing with my clit.

  I’m watching Quin concentrate on his cereal as this happens, but he looks up from the cornflakes and his eyes meet mine.

  He smiles. Sits back. Drops his spoon, picks up his napkin, and reaches under the tablecloth to…

  I look around nervously.

  “Don’t worry,” Bric says. “No one can see. Just relax.” And then he grabs his napkin and hides his hand under the tablecloth too. His eyes go half-mast as Smith continues to stimulate me.

  Smith’s warm breath caresses the back of my bare neck. “Close your eyes, Chella. Enjoy it. I won’t be touching you again for a long time.”

  I do. I close my eyes. But I want to participate as well. So I reach down between my legs and place my hand over Smith’s. Helping him get me off. He’s kissing my neck, biting my ear, and I want to feel his cock inside me so bad, I reach over and grab him. Stroke him. He chuckles softly.

  When I look at Quin he mouths the words, You’re a dirty, fucking whore.

  I feel like a dirty fucking whore, so I don’t even care. I just lick my lips and smile.

  Smith pulls his fingers out of my pussy and brings them to my lips. “Suck them, Chella,” he says. “Suck them like you want to suck my cock. And get yourself off at the same time.”

  I let him put his fingers in my mouth and I suck. I imagine what his cock would feel like. I imagine swallowing his come as I play with myself under the perfectly crisp, white-linen tablecloth until I can’t stand it anymore. Until my body wants to writhe. Until I want to rub my pussy on something—anything—and I come.

  Both Bric and Quin come into their napkins. Quin clenches his jaw and closes his eyes as it happens. Bric stares at me and I stare back.

  We are all breathing hard at the table, even Smith, who didn’t come. But I realize I’m still gripping his cock in my hand.

  I look at him, slightly embarrassed, and let go. But he just gives me a lopsided grin. “I can’t see you tonight,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh,” I say, pulling myself back together. I look around nervously. This experience was so intense, I forgot I was in a restaurant. But Bric was right. No one can see us. We have a little private oasis in a very public place.

  “But I’ll send a car to take you home after work. And Quin will see you on Monday. Make sure you’re back here by midnight Sunday, just in case he wants to visit early. You’ll be OK, right?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Of course. I’m a big girl. I know how to live alone.”

  But it’s the worst weekend of my life. It is long, and boring, and I rub myself raw because I spend almost the whole time masturbating to the thought of Smith fucking me.

  Chapter Thirteen - Quin

  It’s déjà vu all over again as I enter the apartment on the sixth floor of Turning Point.

  Until it’s not.

  Until the fact that this is not Rochelle’s apartment anymore hits me in the chest like a fucking brick. Gone are all her quirky pieces of furniture. Gone are the long, heavy drapes. Gone are the pictures of the four of us on the fridge. Gone is her exotic scent. Gone are her vases filled with fresh flowers and the never-ending throw pillows.

  Everything about her is gone.

  Except the memories.

  Ch
ella is sitting on the new couch. Some modern piece-of-shit thing that Smith probably picked out. It’s leather, and white. In fact, everything is black and white up here. Just like it is downstairs.

  She stares at me as I toss the keys onto a new foyer table and they go sliding off and onto the dark, hardwood floor, because gone is the little green glass dish that used to catch them.

  “I didn’t think you were coming tonight,” she says. She’s wearing a white nightie that ends at her hip bones and a matching pair of panties. She makes no move to get up and greet me like Rochelle would’ve. She keeps her long legs tucked under her slim body and stares at the bags of food in my hand.

  “I wasn’t coming. But Smith called me forty-five minutes ago and said he didn’t have the apartment stocked with food and never told you about the room service. So…” I hold up the bags. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I figured this is as good a place to start as any.”

  She continues to stare at me, or maybe it’s the food, as I walk past her and place it all on the dining table. It’s just a small four-seater table. Just enough room for all the players to eat together. As if that would ever happen up here.

  “I got McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, and Chick-Fil-A.”

  She smiles, but then tries to hide it as she gets to her feet and walks over to me. “I’m impressed, Quin. For a while there I thought you’d be mean to me. But fast food at one AM? You really know how to treat a girl. You must love me already.”

  She’s joking. She’s insulting me. And she’s doing a good job at all of it because every word comes out sweet and innocent. I actually feel bad about the fast food. “If you want to go somewhere nice tomorrow, we can.”

  “I want what you want, Quin.” She peeks into the McDonald’s bag and smiles. “And even though you probably chose the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them, I love the fish sandwich, so you lose and I win.”

  I did pick the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them. Bitch.

  She sits on the table next to the bags of cheap food and starts eating a French fry. Her long legs cross and scissor together, like she’s stimulating herself.

  “So,” I say.