by Velvet
Ariel watched Meri’s expression and was now more curious than ever. “What’s The Black Door?”
“The question should be, What isn’t The Black Door?” Meri answered, raising her perfectly arched brow.
Ariel looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Hold on to your platinum and pearls, because what I’m about to tell you will probably send you into shock.”
“Stop the dramatics and just tell me.”
“It’s a club,” she said mysteriously.
The suspense was killing Ariel. “What type of club?”
“An adults-only club for women.”
“You mean a strip club, like Chippendales?”
Meri drained the last of her drink, as if she needed the alcohol
to help her explain the uniqueness of the club. “Chippendales is child’s play compared to The Black Door. First of all, it’s for members only, but not everyone is accepted. You have to be referred. They do a thorough background check, to make sure you’re not an undercover policewoman, and then they give every member a blood test, to ensure that everyone is healthy and disease free.”
“Why all the precautions?” Ariel wondered.
“So the members can be free to walk on the wild side. And to ensure anonymity, everyone is fitted with a custom-designed mask.”
Ariel was now perched on the edge of the sofa, her interest totally piqued, wanting to know more. “Why wear a mask, if they do such a thorough background check?”
“You see, my dear, some of wealthiest, most high-powered women in the world are members of this exclusive club, women who can afford anything under the sun, except a scandal spread across the front page of the Post. And with the security of a mask, they feel free to indulge in all of the various activities that the club has to offer.”
“What kind of activities?” she asked, like an inquisitive schoolgirl yearning for knowledge. Ariel wasn’t a prude, but had only had a handful of lovers in her lifetime, and none of them were very creative under the covers. Preston was her most passionate lover and had taught her positions that she’d never seen before, but she still felt that there was a whole world of activities and positions that she knew nothing about, and she was curious to hear all about it.
Meri hesitated for a moment. “How would I know?” she said
slyly.
“Because if I had to bet, I’d say that you are a member in good standing. Now tell me what goes on at The Black Door,” she said, scooting even closer to the edge of the sofa.
“Let’s just say that the club offers everything from ménage à trois to lesbian liaison.” She fanned her hand across her face. “To whatever your wildest dreams may be.”
Meri’s explanation knocked Ariel from her perch on the edge of the couch and sent her reeling back onto the plump cushions. “Wow,” she exhaled. “I thought places like that only existed in triple-X movies.”
“Well, I’m here to tell you that The Black Door is as real as it gets.” She returned the card. “Keep this in a safe place, in case of a sexual emergency.”
Ariel put the card on the table. “I don’t need it. Preston will be home tonight to answer my nine-one-one,” she said, proudly. During their lengthy relationship, Ariel had never cheated on Preston, and she didn’t intend to start now.
Meri picked up the card and slid it back into Ariel’s purse. “Don’t be so hasty; only a few select people are offered this card. And if you’re in possession of one, trust me, it’s like gold.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”
After leaving Meri’s apartment two hours later, Ariel stopped by La Perla to buy some sexy lingerie for that night. She’d planned an intimate dinner at her condo, followed by “dessert.” On her way home, she ordered two meals from Table for Two, a gourmet takeout service, instead of slaving in the kitchen over a hot stove. Her next call was to Preston.
“Hey, honey, how did your meeting go yesterday with the senator?” she asked.
“Everything went fine. I’ll tell you all about it tonight. I don’t want to go into the details over the phone. Where do you want to go for dinner?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I thought we’d eat in tonight,” she said with a devilish tone.
“Good idea; I’m really tired,” he responded, not picking up on the double entendre.
“Not too tired, I hope,” she said suggestively. “I’ll see you around seven.”
“Sounds good,” he said, and hung up.
Once she returned home, Ariel took a long hot bath and then slipped into her new teddy. The lavender lace one-piece with spaghetti straps barely left anything to the imagination. She purposely bought the lingerie a size too small, so it tightly hugged her breasts with her nipples protruding through the thin silk fabric. Her naked, round rear end pushed through the thonged teddy; she looked in the mirror and slapped her butt.
“This big ass should reenergize him.” She smiled.
The buzzer rang as she stepped into a pair of Ostrich mules and sauntered to the door.
“Wow, you look good enough to eat,” he greeted her.
She did a slow pivot, so he could get the full effect. “Glad you approve.”
He dropped his briefcase and grabbed her fleshy ass, pulling her in close and giving her a deep French kiss. Preston missed Ariel’s kisses and the touch of her. Unlike his ex-wife, who was frigid and used sex as a manipulation tool, Ariel was just the opposite. She was always ready to please him, and he adored her spontaneity. Preston hadn’t been devoting much time to their relationship as of late, because of his career, but tonight he’d planned on making up for lost time.
Ariel hungrily kissed him back, while grinding into his rising penis. She could feel him getting harder with each thrust of her tongue. She began to unbuckle his belt, ready for a night of long overdue passion. But the doorbell rang, stopping them in their tracks.
“It must be dinner.” She panted. “Open the door for them; I’m going to the bathroom,” she said, giving Preston one last kiss.
He straightened up his clothes. “Okay,” he said, and slapped her naked butt.
When Ariel returned to the living room a few minutes later, Preston was sitting on the sofa, eating directly from the black plastic container. “I was going to serve the food on a plate,” she said, tersely.
“Sorry, honey, but I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since early this morning,” he said, taking a large bite of filet mignon.
The last thing on Ariel’s mind was food; she wanted to start where they had left off. Her juices were still flowing and the beef she wanted was between his legs, not in some plastic container. She leaned down in front of him so that her breast fell out of the teddy and swung free. “Come on, baby, nibble on these instead,” she said, rubbing her nipples.
Preston looked at her and said, “I will in a minute. Now come over here and eat before the food gets cold.”
Ariel tucked herself back into her teddy and plopped herself down on the couch out of frustration. She picked over her dinner, while Preston devoured his meal. He looked over at her and noticed her change in attitude. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“Because I’m not hungry anymore, I’m horny!” she exclaimed.
“Trust me, I am too, and I promise that we’ll make love all night, just let me get some nourishment in me, so that I can rock your world.” He smiled and pecked her on the lips.
“Well, all right, since you put it that way,” she said, and picked up her fork and began nibbling.
Preston finished eating first, and laid his head on the back of the sofa to rest his eyes for just a second, but a second turned into a minute, and before long he had nodded off into a light snore.
“I don’t believe this shit!” she fumed, and marched into the bedroom, leaving him sprawled out on the couch.
Ariel reached for her purse on the nightstand to get out her pillbox. Preston had given her a headache, and she needed a Motrin to quell the th
robbing. She reached into the purse and her hand brushed across a piece of paper. She took out the paper and it was the card for The Black Door. She turned it over and stared at the telephone number on the back. Suddenly, Meri’s words, “for a sexual emergency,” rang in her ears. Ariel clicked on her cell phone and carefully dialed each scarlet number.
5
“THESE JUST came in, boss,” Joe said, standing in the doorway cradling a large cardboard box in his muscular arms. “Where you want ‘em?”
Trey looked up from the mound of paperwork on his desk and pointed to an empty chair in front of him. “You can put it right there. Thanks, Joe.”
The buff workman nodded. “No problem, boss,” he said, and then made a swift exit, leaving Trey to his work.
TREY CURTIS WAS the founder and sole owner of The Black Door. Had someone told him five years ago that he’d be running the most successful private club in the Tri-State area, he would have outright laughed in their face. At the time he had been reluctantly entering the family business. Ever since he could recognize the human voice, it was drilled into him that he would one day work side-by-side with his father. Creative at his very core, Trey had no interest in running a boring business. In high school his studio art teacher sent his portfolio of unique jewelry designs to Pratt Institute for scholarship consideration. And with a 4.0 grade-point average and a creative edge, Trey was offered a four-year scholarship to the alma mater of some of the world’s leading fashion designers. He had visions of blazing his own entrepreneurial trail by opening a design house on trendy Fifth Avenue after graduation.
Once Trey announced his plans to change career paths, his father quickly snuffed out those dreams by reminding him of his family obligations. His father was the typical patriarch—domineering and overbearing—and ran a tight household. Most of the time it was either his way or no way. Trey’s mother had tried to intervene on his behalf and persuade her husband to let their son follow his own dreams, but his father just wouldn’t hear of it. “Since we have no other children, who’s going to inherit the business?” his father would say in response.
So to keep the peace, Trey put his dreams of designing ice, on ice, declined the scholarship, and majored in marketing at Yale. He then entered Georgetown, his father’s alma mater, for graduate school. Armed with a bevy of impressive degrees, Trey entered the workforce with as much gusto as he could muster under the circumstances. Every day walking into the solemn offices felt like walking toward the guillotine, toward a life where he was cut off from his creative soul. On the one hand, Trey felt as if he weren’t being true to himself by abandoning his dreams. But on the other hand, he wanted to honor his family’s legacy, so he endured the mundane drudgery. But in the back of his mind he was always working on an exit strategy to leave and pursue a more creative career path.
The days quickly turned into months, and as the months melted into years, Trey found joy wherever he could, which was usually at the upscale gentleman’s clubs throughout the city. Over the years he noticed the clientele of the clubs change from male executives with fat expense accounts to female execs wielding platinum cards of their own. The women seemed to enjoy the strippers just as much as the men—if not more—especially the private lap dances.
Trey sat on the sidelines one evening at Scores, watching a scrumptious-looking young woman maneuver her body across the stage. Dressed in a white teeny-tiny nurse’s uniform, the dancer poked out her round, naked rear from underneath the hem of her skirt and individually wiggled each cheek at a rapid pace. She then bent over, allowing her enormous breasts to spill out of the deep plunging neckline, all the while mesmerizing the entire audience as she seductively stripped. She slowly peeled off every stitch of clothing until she was clad only in a sizzling red latex G-string and a pair of seven-inch Lucite platforms. She then wrapped her long legs around a highly polished silver pole in the middle of the stage and flipped her body upside down. As her silicone-free, mouthwatering breasts brushed her chin, she stuck out her tongue and began to lick her own nipples, causing the room to go wild. Tens, twenties, and hundred-dollar bills sailed through the air as if it were raining money, littering the stage as she teased the crowd.
Once the song was over, all the men lobbied to get her attention for a lap dance, but she ignored their desperate calls, and sauntered over to a group of women sitting in a corner booth sipping Moët & Chandon. She stopped in front of an attractive woman fanning a black AmEx card back and forth across her face. The stripper leaned over and whispered something into the woman’s ear and the woman smiled and nodded yes. As another song began to play, the stripper danced slowly, rotating her pelvis and rubbing her hands up and down her body. The woman’s eyes were transfixed on the stripper’s movements. The stripper cupped her full breasts with both hands and massaged her nipples between her thumb and index finger until they firmed to her touch. The woman licked her lips as if she wanted to taste the forbidden fruit. Sensing the woman’s arousal, the stripper brushed her titties back and forth against the woman’s face, positioning her erect nipples directly on the woman’s bottom lip. She stared deep into the woman’s eyes, silently inviting her to feast on her 38-Ds. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, the woman slowly parted her lips and seductively trailed the outline of the stripper’s areolas with the tip of her tongue. Feeling prying eyes on her, the woman suddenly stopped, as if embarrassed.
With a massive hard-on, Trey watched in amazement as the patron flipped the script and teased the stripper. A kernel of an idea began to sprout as he observed the other women in the booth discreetly vie for the stripper’s attention. There were plenty of strip clubs that catered to men, but not one that solely focused on women. Taking in the scene before him, Trey realized that women were just as freaky as men were. This was the first time he had witnessed a bisexual interaction between two women and his mind began to click with ideas. What if he opened a private club for women only, where they were free to indulge in carnal pleasures without judgment?
The following day Trey did some research and found that no high-end clubs of that nature existed in the city. Now he was totally psyched, and felt as if he had a new lease on life. With a business of his own, he’d no longer have to live in the shadow of his father. He’d finally be his own man! But in a sense he was still living a lie, because he couldn’t come right out and tell his father that he was opening an erotica club for women. Though strips clubs were totally legal, he knew without a doubt that his family would strongly disapprove and order him to abandon the idea altogether, so Trey decided to keep his mouth shut until the timing was right.
He’d been saving money to invest in real estate and had a sizable sum tucked away. He called his broker and told him that he was in the market for a three-story building, preferably in Washington Heights, the neighborhood located above Harlem that was still primarily uninhabited by the yuppies who were moving north in droves. He wanted the club to slide under the radar (since more than stripping would be going on), and thought that if it was located in a low-key area it wouldn’t draw any unwanted attention. Within weeks the agent had found the perfect property, a nondescript brownstone on a quiet block. Trey emptied his savings account for the renovations and within a few months, what was a shell of a building was now a majestic den of iniquity. The only change he made to the facade was to add an oak door painted a glossy black, but he spared no expense on the interior. The foyer was papered in exquisite gold leaf imported from Florence, with an eight-tier crystal chandelier overhead. Instead of the usual bright white bulbs, however, the light fixture was equipped with cobalt-blue lights, casting a seductive glow over the entry, setting the tone for what lay ahead. There were two parlors on the main level; one for older women who just wanted to sip sherry in the presence of handsome, scantily clad young men who kept their glasses filled to the brim. The second room served as entry into the land of decadence. Equipped with a secret staircase that led upstairs to the serious activities, this room—with its champagne and ca
viar bar, and ornate gold vodka fountain that spewed ice-cold Belvedere— prepared members for an unforgettable evening of carnal pleasures.
Initially Trey operated the club at night while he kept his day job, but all that changed when his father decided to sell the business to a huge conglomerate, saying that the timing and the money were right. Trey was shocked but pleased because he’d get a chunk of the proceeds.
With his days of boring office work behind him, he was now free to devote his full attention to The Black Door. To ensure members’ anonymity, Trey came up with the brilliant idea to design an elaborate mask for each member. He met with each new member personally to get a sense of her character, and then designed a mask based on her hidden personality. Some women portrayed a delicate flower to the world, while deep inside there was a tigress waiting to be unleashed. For that type he designed a mask with dramatic gold plumage trimmed with sparkling rhinestones and twinkling tiger-eye. Trey also designed a black leather mask with faceted onyx gemstones for himself for nights when he strolled through the club looking for a little excitement. He had finally found a way to combine his creative talents with his business acumen.
HE ABANDONED THE paperwork, walked over to the box sitting across from his desk, and peeked within the open flap. Inside were replacement masks for existing members, as well as masks for the new members. While Trey made the prototype, the masks were actually handmade in Chinatown by a group of Asian grandmothers. He picked up a patent-leather scarlet mask—belonging to a member in good standing—removed the plastic covering and fluffed out the crimson ostrich feathers that adorned the sides.
“Man, that’s an interesting one.”
Trey turned around, and standing in the doorway was one of his key employees. “Hey, man, what’s up?”
Mason walked into the office and gave Trey a high-five. “Just trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.” He laughed.
