The Sex Club

by Jasmine Haynes

  Weaving through the growing throng, she headed for the top of the stairs. That's when she saw him a short distance down the hall. The silver-haired man. Her silver-haired man. She stopped, one hand on a newel-post, one foot already on the first step down. He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. Some floozy with outrageously bleached hair sloshed the champagne in her glass as she waved her hand about. Clearly he wasn't listening to her. Nor was he looking at the woman's impressive chest.

  His gaze stroked Debbie from her hair to her thighs and everywhere in between. Her knees turned to jelly, and she tightened her grip on the post. His hot eyes set her skin on fire.

  Her husband's eyes had never burned for her, not like that. Desire had nothing to do with age, because this man was older than her husband, perhaps close to fifty. He didn't hide his years with hair dye. Nor did she try hiding hers beneath caked-on make-up. Even in the dim lighting of the room down the hall, he would have to have seen the wrinkles at her eyes, the lines on her forehead.

  Yet he'd looked at her a second time. He didn't stop looking when she caught him. One corner of his mouth lifted; then he blew a kiss in her direction. Oh my God, he was flirting with her. With her.

  She laughed then. Flirting? In a sex club? Where all you had to do to get laid was crawl onto someone's lap, lift your skirt, and pull down your panties? But that's how his kiss felt. Like flirting. Almost innocent. That made the act all the more sexy, its very lack of overtness.

  His kiss tempted her to approach him. Instead, she tipped her head, smiled shyly, and continued down the stairs as if her legs weren't about to collapse. As if her panties weren't warm and moist between her thighs.

  The lobby, which she'd thought immense upon arriving, was now packed to the gills. She squeezed through, lifting another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Hugging the glass to her chest to avoid spilling, she made it to the double doors on the left. They gave easily with a slight push.

  Rock music drummed against her ears, and a strobe flashed at the end of the hall, disorienting her. The doors closed behind her with a barely audible vacuum-packed whoosh. The walls were painted black and littered with small round mirrors that reflected the strobe's flash. Light spilled into the hallway from numerous open doorways. A woman, her dress a neon pink in the strange lighting, exited one chamber and entered another across the hall.

  Peeking through the first entrance, Debbie realized that it was a room within a room. Fabric-covered partitions like the ones that made up her cubicle at work had been set up in the center, forming an enclosed circle. Plexiglas filled the cutouts. The neon woman stopped, pressing her nose almost to the Plexi; then moved on, finally coming out on the other side of the partition's circle.

  Couples watched, held hands; giggled like teenagers. What was inside those partitions? She almost stepped in, would have except that a great shout rose from the room at the end of the hall. The strobe room. Debbie had to see what was going on in there.

  The vacuum doors opened and closed, not with a sound, but with a gust of air rushing up her skirt. She didn't have to turn to know he was behind her somewhere in the hallway. He'd followed. Stalking her. Another time, another place, she'd have been frightened. Here, she wanted it.

  She pushed through the crowded corridor, heading to the back, once more nestling the glass of champagne between her breasts. The cool liquid sloshed into her bra. Perhaps he'd offer to lick her skin clean.

  Not that she'd let him, despite the hot little buzz in her clitoris.

  The room at the end, with its throbbing music, flashing lights, and surging voices, called to her. She squeezed through the crowded opening and slid along the wall. The show was already in progress, center-stage. The room had a seedier feel than the floor above, mattresses strewn about the floor with couples reclining and watching. Touching. She wondered how often they changed the sheets; then thrust the thought aside. It wasn't as if she was going to use one.

  In the intermittent beat of the lights, a woman on stage slid down her partner's torso. Debbie didn't have a doubt as to where she was headed.

  Was it perverted to so love the feel of a man's cock in her mouth, the salty taste, the smooth texture of a fully aroused male organ? If it was, Debbie was going to hell for sure. She clenched her fists against the intense desire to join the woman on that stage. Her body wanted the sensations; her mouth wanted the taste so badly, she ached.

  She was so very good at aching for something she couldn't have.

  Instead, she would savor the show. Lips opening, the woman stroked with her tongue; then took his cock all the way in. Debbie's breath increased, and her throat went dry. She wanted so badly.

  She put her palms flat against the wall, braced herself; squeezed her thighs together, willing the orgasm to build inside her. She could feel her own juices building between her legs. On a floor mattress, a woman spread her legs and touched herself. So close to doing that herself, Debbie dragged in a deep breath of air that smelled and tasted of hot sweaty sex. Oh God, she wanted that cock. She wanted that come in her mouth. She wanted an orgasm brought on by someone else's touch.

  The need was a physical ache behind her eyelids, in her chest, between her thighs. She tore her gaze away before she completely lost control.

  And met his gaze. He stood on the other side of the door, not more than five paces from her. Watching her, not the sex on stage. He somehow knew what she felt. He tracked the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, the spasmodic clenching of her fingers. In a burst of light, she could see the hard ridge of his cock outlined against his jeans.

  She realized she'd smashed her glass against the wall when she'd put her hands there to steady herself. Thankfully, she hadn't cut herself, but something wet trickled down her calf. Not her own moisture, but the cool lick of champagne.

  She knew if she didn't leave right that minute, she'd drag her stalker onto one of those mattresses and beg for his cock in her mouth and his tongue between her legs. Or worse. She'd beg him to fuck her.

  He made a move as she bolted out the door. The hallway was a throng of hot bodies. She pushed and shoved, but she knew she'd never make it to the lobby before he was on her. Instead, she ducked into one of the small rooms and hurried around the partitions to the back. She could only pray he hadn't seen her.

  Her body still throbbed to that incessant beat, and her breath hurt her throat as she panted. She clung to the edge of the small opening and stared sightlessly into the cubicle the partition walls made. Closing her eyes, she leaned her forehead against the Plexiglas.

  She willed away the image of him filling her. She'd only wanted a little fun; she wasn't an adulterer. For God's sake, she didn't even know him. But that look had called to her sexually-starved body, called to her starving soul.

  "Get a grip," she whispered, using Stacy's words. Stacy. And Virginia and Karen. She glanced at her watch. Eleven-thirty. She wasn't sure she could survive the next half hour without doing something reprehensible.

  Wrong. She'd survived all these years without going outside of her marriage. She'd been strong, despite the debilitating needs. She was strong. She could recreate this fantasy when she needed to. She didn't have to be consumed by her passions now.

  Opening her eyes, she looked into the small room. She willed herself to watch dispassionately. Yet another mattress filled the rounded room. It had been covered with a silky black sheet and stacked with pillows. Overhead, a spinning disco ball reflected four muted spotlights. In the middle of the bed, reclining against the cushions, lay a nude woman. Debbie glanced at the other windows, at the faces glued to the Plexi, like a fifty-cent peep show where guys jacked off while they watched. She leaned back, checked the glass. It was clean, thank God.

  The woman on the bed thrashed her head back and forth as her hand moved between her legs, fully enjoying her own touch. Her hips moved, lifting as she dug her heels into the sheet, striving to reach her peak. Then she relaxed, though the flick of her fingers continued. The scene we
nt on and on, the rise; then backing off to savor. Debbie knew so well how the act worked. Bring yourself to the brink, but don't plunge over. Don't let yourself come until your body became a mind of its own, and you couldn't stop the orgasm if you tried. Those were the best ones.

  What would touching herself be like with all these eyes on her?

  Her clitoris began to throb once more. She clutched the edge of the small window. Is that why she'd gotten so turned on watching the woman on that stage? Because she actually wanted to be on that stage? Wanted all those people watching her?

  "You like it, don't you?"

  She jerked, but he held her firmly in place, his hands at her hips, his body pushing her against the glass. His scent, some spicy aftershave, intoxicated her.

  "Would you like to be there, on that bed, knowing everyone was watching you get yourself off?" he whispered, his voice shivering along her spine.

  She knew, horribly, that she would. She wouldn't be able to hold off the orgasm knowing that all those eyes were on her, drinking in her moans, perhaps even touching themselves.

  "I'd go mad watching you."

  His breath caressed her hair, her ear, forcing an involuntary shudder she knew he could feel.

  "I'd have to stroke my cock. I wouldn't be able to hold back. Oh Jesus."

  He rubbed his erection in the crease of her butt. Her body, moving of its own volition, pushed back into him. The woman on the bed arched into her fingers, moving faster, her moans seeping through the fabric walls.

  "Do you know how beautiful it is watching a woman touch herself? I want to watch you do it for me. I want to see your fingers dipping in all that hot cream. I need to see the pleasure on your face, hear you cry out. I'd kill for that." His tongue traced the shell of her ear. She trembled. "Tell me your name."

  "Desiree." Using the name was so easy, so simple. This close to him, she was Desiree. She was desire.

  "Christ, what you do to me, Desiree. You'd bring a man to his knees for a touch of your hand on his cock. You've been driving me crazy all night. I'm going to see you in my dreams. Only you. With your fingers buried deep in your pussy."

  His words brought her to the edge. She held onto sanity with only one small part of her brain. She forgot even that as his hands raised her skirt.

  Then he touched her, palmed her mound

  "You're wet. And hot." He took in a deep lungful of air. "You smell so good. I want to make you feel good. As good as she feels. Better."

  Outside her panties, he eased a finger along her slit, the friction of silk and his heat almost unbearable.

  "If we were alone," he whispered, "I'd taste you. I'd make you come over and over against my tongue. I'd savor every drop."

  She was going to come. Oh Jesus, oh God, he was going to make her come with a soft slide, a little circle. She gulped air and moved with him as he worked his cock against her backside.

  She wanted his touch, wanted to come, wanted to turn and take him in any way she could.

  "Come for me. I need to feel you come so bad, my guts ache."

  She rocked against his hand, trapped it between her thighs, rode him. She was so close, she couldn't breathe. The woman on the bed screamed and rolled, hugging her hand between her legs as she climaxed.

  For the first time, Debbie saw her face.

  Virginia. Oh my God, the woman was Virginia.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She was in shock. That's why she couldn't talk. That's why she was sitting next to Stacy in the front seat of the car with her fingernails tearing holes in the vinyl door grip.

  Nothing better to rip you out of the "moment" than realizing your friend was masturbating right in front of you. In public. And you were letting a man touch you under your skirt.

  While her head had been rudely jerked back to reality, her body wouldn't follow suit. It still ached. In a very delicate place. Pressing her thighs together only made the sensations worse. She'd wanted that orgasm, wanted it so badly, wanted to come by someone else's hand besides her own. Though there was so much more than the physical. She'd needed his words and his passion. He'd wanted her, he'd followed her, he'd touched her. In a sea of willing women, he'd chosen her.

  She'd run before she'd let him take her to the stars.

  Stacy shoved her knee. "So, were you shocked out of your gourd?"

  "Oh my Gawd," Karen wailed from the back seat. "I am not letting you guys talk me into anything like that again."

  "Do not think I didn't see you over in the corner making out with that Italian Stallion."

  Karen sucked in a breath. "He practically attacked me."

  "Is that why you got him to write his number on the back of a napkin?"

  "Did not," she answered weakly, subsiding into the seat.

  "Well, at least you were smart enough not to give him your number." Stacy took her eyes from the rearview mirror long enough to stare pointedly at Karen; then said, "Debbie? We lost track of you right away. What'd you think?"

  Debbie stared out the window. "It was interesting."

  "Interesting?" Stacy snorted. "Where'd you go?"

  "Just the rooms on the second floor." She sure as hell couldn't say she'd been down in one of those viewing rooms. Virginia hadn't said a word as they'd piled into the car. She and her fiancé were flying out to Las Vegas in the morning for a quiet Sunday wedding, no frills, no attendants. At least Virginia's last fling had been with herself. Debbie wasn't about to let on that she'd seen a thing.

  Stacy gave her a long look.

  "Keep your eyes on the road, please."

  "You hid out in the ladies' room, didn't you, that's why you disappeared so fast?" Disgust laced her friend's voice.

  She didn't even wonder why Stacy would suggest such a thing. Debbie had been hiding out for years. Not tonight, but over the last few years of her marriage. She'd sneaked off to bed to ease her pain, both physical and mental. She'd been too ashamed to tell even her best friends what was bothering her.

  She'd at first been appalled upon realizing that Virginia had exposed herself to the salacious gazes of a bunch of horny men. On second thought, at least Virginia had courage. Debbie had skulked around in the shadows, on the fringes. Wanting and needy, but running away just the same.

  Yeah, some Desiree she turned out to be. She deserved Stacy's disgust. She'd employed the same tactics tonight that she did in her marriage. Retreat and hope they follow.

  Except that her husband never followed. And she let him get away with it.

  "Yeah, I was in the ladies' room all night."

  She had to do something about that before she went stark raving mad.

  The only question was, what?

  * * * *

  A cool breeze blew through the bedroom window. Her husband snored softly. In a scrap of moonlight, she could see the book he'd been reading lying in the middle of the bed. There was always a book between them if he went to bed at the same time she did.

  Debbie undressed in the dark, throwing her borrowed outfit across the small stool by the hamper. She'd have to dry clean the clothing. After stripping down to her panties, she brushed her teeth; then padded to the side of the bed. The spine of the book stared at her. She picked it up, folded the page down to mark his spot; then set it on her bedside table.

  The last thing she did before climbing in bed was slip off her panties. They were damp. She was wet. She had been most of the night.

  Now she wanted that orgasm she'd denied herself.

  Snuggling close to her husband's sleeping body, she trailed her fingers down his arm. He murmured and shook her off. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips; then skimmed her fingers beneath the elastic of his briefs.

  His penis was warm and soft and fit in the palm of her hand. She wrapped her fingers around him and tugged gently; then cupped his balls. He shifted his legs against hers.

  "What are you doing?" Sleep slurred his voice.

  "Playing."

  He stretched, yawned, turned over and slipped an arm benea
th her shoulders. Hugging her close, he nuzzled his face in her hair. "Were you guys talking about sex again?"

  "Yeah. Want some nookie?" She held her breath.

  "Aw, sweetie..."

  She knew what was coming. She didn't want to hear the words. She couldn't bear them. She would die, die, die. His penis remained flaccid in her hand even as she stroked it. A lump clogged her throat. Closing her eyes, she felt her silver-haired stalker's hand caressing her. She'd been so close, so damn close, not just to orgasm, but to committing an act that could destroy her marriage.

  "I really need this tonight, honey. Why don't you, um, go down on me?" He couldn't possibly know how much it cost to ask. It was so much easier to beg when you knew you were wanted. When you knew he wouldn't say no, because he wanted you just as badly. Maybe that wasn't even begging.

  This, however, was.

  "Well, sure. Of course. It'll be my pleasure."

  I need to see the pleasure on your face, hear you cry out.

  The words echoed through her. Why couldn't her husband say that? Even if he didn't mean it.

  He pushed her to her back and crawled down her body, skipping her neck, her breasts, her belly button, and going straight to the thatch of hair between her legs. She spread her legs to accommodate him.

  He dipped a finger inside. The touch didn't fill the hollow in her.

  "Oh yeah, you guys were talking about sex. This should be quick. You're all wet, sweetie."

  She closed her eyes. "Make me come."

  "Sure."

  I need to feel you come so bad, my guts ache.

  She concentrated on the voice in her head, pretending it belonged to her husband. He put his tongue to her. Unerringly, he located her clitoris, licked it, sucked it into his mouth; then circled.

  I'd die for a taste of you.