Erotic Romance: Toronto Fantasy Club

by Sasha Kale

  Call the number, Deb. You can do it.

  Deborah grabbed the phone and punched the numbers into her cellphone. It rang once and then she chickened out and hung-up instantly. “What the fuck am I doing?”

  She threw her phone onto the couch and opened the fridge to grab some yogurt. A few seconds later her phone rang. Blocked number. She froze. Deer in the headlights of a Panzer tank. Ring. Ring. Ring. It just kept ringing. The tank rolls closer to the doe-eyed girl. Anxiety hit her again. She weighed the pros and cons as the phone kept ringing. A butcher’s scale with a mountain of silicone cocks piled on it. Pink ones shaped like Tom’s.

  “Fuck it.” Deborah Ann answered the phone and said, “Hello, who is this?”

  It was Bristol the concierge

  She was smoking a cheap cigarette. Annoyed that Deborah called and then hung up. “You’re not on my list. How’d you get this number?” Who are you, bitch?

  Deborah sat down on the sofa. In her DVD collection she spotted a Clint Eastwood movie. Decided to play it tough. Grouchy face. “What’s it matter where I got the number? Who is this?”

  “This is Bristol from Fantasy Club. And it matters because it matters. So cough it up, Deborah Ann.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know lots of things. Like did you know black bears are one of the only animals that will start eating you before you’re dead? Most animals will make sure you’re dead meat before they start—”

  “Is that a threat?” Deborah interrupted. She kicked her socks off and put her feet up on the footstool.

  Bristol paused. Giggled like a circus clown. “Not really, no, but now that you mention it, there might be something of a metaphor in there. Or maybe it’s an analogy. I always get those mixed up.”

  Dead air. Uncomfortable breathing from both ends, then a sigh. Sounds of a keyboard being angrily mashed coming from Bristol’s end. “So what do you want, Deborah Ann Walcott who lives at 232 Sunny Vale Road?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.” How does this woman know my last name and where I live? That’s goddamn creepy.

  “Well this isn’t the Buddhist hot line. Press 1 to talk to a monk, press 2 for the meaning of life. This is Fantasy Club. You called it, that means you’re in.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Bristol very nearly lost her shit thinking, holy water this bitch is thick.

  She flicked her lighter on. Watched the flame dance and die. It calmed her down but she still lashed out because she’s Bristol and Bristol is a bit of a bitch. “Listen, lady, I don’t have time for this shit. Here’s what my on my plate today, okay? First I have to find a shop that will tailor me 50 tuxedos in the next 12 hours for an authentic Mexican barbeque for 50 guys who don’t speak Mexican. Then there’s a silver cage filled with fucking armadillos waiting for me at the airport which I’m supposed to do God knows what with, and to top it all off there’s a fire drill in 2 hours and I fucking hate fire drills because somehow I ended up the goddamn fire marshal which means I have to walk up and down the office with a stupid yellow hat pointing people in the direction of the nearest exit like they’re retarded lemmings who, if not for me, would all run face-first into the blaze and burn to cinders like panties on a barbecue. So, Deb, what I’m trying to say is, I got a lot moles that need whacking and I’m running low on hammers. You get me?”

  Stunned face on Deborah. The mouth on that girl! What a weirdo. She must be stressed out. Maybe she lost her husband too. Deborah thought about hanging up, but hot-as-hell lawnmower man had just bent over to pick up some sticks, and she thought that with an ass like that he could be a Calvin Klein model. Maybe he is. “What’s your name, again?”

  “Bristol.”

  “Bristol what?”

  “Bristol Sunshine, Rainbows, Puppies and Happy Little—”

  “Never mind.”

  “I don’t know how you got this number, Deborah, but whoever gave it to you should have told you that asking a lot of questions is a faux pas. That’s French for ‘you’re gonna look like an idiot if you ask a lot of questions.’”

  “Alright.”

  An exasperated sigh. A long drag on Bristol’s cigarette. “Listen. You’re not on my list so obviously you haven’t paid for your membership yet. I’m gonna pass you off to accounting. Have a nice day and watch out for black bears because they’ll eat your face while you’re still breathing. Toodle-oo.”

  It was all so bizarre

  Deborah felt like a sexy Alice going down an x-rated rabbit hole. She had to keep going. Intrigue went a long way in her book. Mysterious things have a strange allure. She was determined to at least find out what Fantasy Club was before she hung up. All she knew was Bethany got fucked by a bunch of guys while she was blindfolded. Could have been the same guy. How would she know? Ten cum shots? Yeah. That’d be hard to fake.

  Tribal music while she waits on hold. Drums beating in the jungle. Parrots and other birds. Rain and distant thunder. The crackle of a fire pit. A woman singing in some ancient African dialect. A story about sex in front of other people. A circle of tribesmen observe as the war chief takes the virginity of his youngest wife. He’s fucking her from behind. Her brown dress around her waist. They’re in the dirt next to the fire pit. She meets the eyes of the farmer she wanted to marry. Her parents sold her like she was meat. Traded her tight lips for two goats and the next crop of sweet potatoes. Now she’s getting fucked in front of the whole village. Her legs are soaked and her lips are longer tight. She loves it. Loves getting fucked for the first time in front of a group of older men. Strong hands grab her ass as the chief cums inside her.

  Click. "Hello, my name is Jennifer, how can I help you today?"

  "Uh, hi. My name is Doo...webby." She panicked a little.

  "Your name is Deborah Ann Walcott."

  "How's it you know that?"

  "Caller ID."

  "Right. Of course."

  "Miss Walcott, are you interested in becoming a member of Fantasy Club?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you should know the annual fee for membership is $100,000."

  What the hell? What kind of club was this?

  "I'm looking at your credit report miss Walcott and it doesn't inspire confidence."

  "I don't have $100,000. That's like crazy money."

  "Well there are financing options which would allow you to defer payment for up to six months, but that's really only for business types who need some time to liquidate assets. Are you a business owner, Miss Walcott?"

  "I work at the library. I'm a librarian. Or I used to be anyway. I'm on a long term leave of absence, you see my boyfriend died in a fire." Don’t tell her that, moron. Keep it simple.

  She told her everything. The rooftop fire. Tom. The pink dildo. Her intense desire to get fucked.

  A long pause as Jennifer finished up her notes. "I'm sorry to hear that but if you can't afford the membership fee I'm afraid I have to terminate the call."

  "Wait."

  "Goodbye, Miss Walcott."

  "Wait goddamnit. Surely you must have some sort of program for people without a hundred grand to blow on whatever the hell this is. I mean it's called Fantasy Club, right? Well my fantasy is to get fucked without having to re-mortgage my house. I got a lot of rich friends in high places. I could tell them how great Fantasy Club is. It could be like Mary Kay or whatever.” Nice one, moron. What am I thinking? Sure I know some people, but who doesn’t? “Well, what do you got for me?"

  Jennifer was silent for a moment, and then Deborah thought she could hear a drawer open and then a stapler. "There might be an option," said Jennifer, "but I don't think a librarian would be interested in it."

  "Please, just tell me what it is. I'll do anything."

  "Go on," Jennifer said.

  "Huh?"

  "You said you'd do anything, tell me what anything is." Her voice trailed off. A demand for submission?

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if yo
u’re willing to do anything to get through the doors of Fantasy Club then I want to know what ‘anything’ is.”

  Clearly she was talking about lesbian stuff. Something Deborah Ann was not comfortable with. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day when she was older and cared less about what people thought of her.

  "I'll eat you out?" said Deborah with hesitation in her voice. She'd been with a girl in college named Emma but wasn't really into it. Emma was bisexual, or so she said. Convinced Deborah that swinging both ways was natural for girls. College is for trying new experiences. You only live once. Yadda yadda yadda. Emma stole some Fireball whisky from the LCBO and while they were doing shots they smoked some pot. Watched the Leafs get wrecked. Went outside and got some poutine from the chip truck in the Canadian Tire parking lot. Brought it back to the room and fed each other while laughing and giggling like idiots. Stoned and tipsy they started playing strip poker. Peeled off their clothes over the course of an hour. Sweating in their little dorm room with two beds, two desks and a small fridge that Emma got from Home Depot. They were both down to their bras and panties when Deborah got cold feet and wanted to stop. Emma pulled out some brownies she’d bought from her marijuana dealer. “Don’t worry it’s a mild effect.” But the brownie fucked up Deb like nothing she’d ever experienced. It felt like the walls made of rainbows and the rainbows were melting. She thought her eyebrows were on fire. The room was bobbing up and down. She thought her bed was that raft from Cast Away. Suddenly found her head between Emma’s legs. Emma not wearing any panties. Doesn’t remember anything else except the taste of Emma’s vagina. Sweet and salty. Caramel corn.

  But it wasn’t for her. Deborah preferred the taste of cock. Loved the way hot cum spurts into her mouth. She loved to swallow it, but only Tom’s. Tom liked it when she held it on her tongue. He’d snap a photo of her, then another after she’d swallowed and stuck her tongue out to show him it was all gone. Good girl, he’d say. You’re such a good little slut. She missed being called that. Sad face.

  $100,000 was a lot of money. Too much. Easier to just suck it up and fuck this Jennifer bitch. I can do this. I can eat caramel corn to save a hundred grand. I’d eat a bucket of it.

  "I'm going to give you an address," said Jennifer, "do you have a pen?"

  Deborah wrote it down and then took a shower. She put on a bit of makeup, nothing too slutty, just enough to dazzle. From her closet she pulled out a 50s prom dress. Pink with white straps. In the mirror she decided she looked pretty good.

  She walked out of the house with the cool demeanour of a Canadian secret service agent; tasked with guarding the Prime Minster from crazy people, terrorists, and those homeless cats that live on Parliament Hill.

  “Oops.” Deborah realized she forgot her car keys and ran back inside.

  Behind the curtain

  Bristol hung up the phone and swore. She hated talking to the woman that ran the Mexican catering company. Esmeralda von Guttenheim. Preferably she would have called their older caterer, Manuel Garcia. Mr. Burrito they called him. The old guy that made everything in his own kitchen. Better food. Better service. And Manuel never tried to fuck her. Bristol was not into ladies. But Esmeralda was a client of Fantasy Club and was awarded the catering contract at the last board meeting. Fucking board members always screwing with her shit. Rich old white guys whose pricks stopped working years ago. Need two generic-brand Viagra to get it up.

  Organizing barbeque parties wasn’t supposed to be her job. Her job was to take care of the clients on her list. Made sure their experience at Fantasy Club was safe and pristine and discreet. It was Devon (mother-fucking-Devon) that gave her all these extra responsibilities. Devon the owner’s son. Devon who sat in his office and did nothing as far as she knew. He just played on his phone and delegated everything. His father had slipped into a coma six months ago and now Devon was running the place. Probably run it into the ground, Bristol thought. Goddamn trust fund kids. They get everything in life handed to them.

  Back to work. In front of her was a row of monitors. Until after the fire drill it was Bristol’s job to monitor the situation, the fantasy. Make sure nothing went wrong. And if something did go wrong, it was Bristol’s job to clean it up. Or call for backup. Bouncers and the like. Big guys that looked like The Rock. Nothing had gone wrong in a while, she had to admit. Devon had fired most of the bad apples when he took over. Didn’t fire Bristol though. Said she was an effective employee.

  On monitor seven, the mayor of New York had flown in to have sex with a VP from TD Canada Trust. It was a pretty tame scenario as far as scenarios went. Both wore ballroom masks. The VP lady had a fox mask and the mayor had a dog mask. Neither knew who the other was. They’d both just signed up to fuck a powerful stranger. Slave-girls and slave-boys wearing nothing but black collars stood nearby and watched them fuck. They had towels and water bottles ready. Both the mayor and the VP were married with kids and would lose their jobs if evidence of this ever leaked. Fantasy Club had been running for 30 years and nothing had ever leaked.

  Bristol almost went back to organizing the Mexican barbecue, but something was off. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Brought up the monitors again. Zoomed around the room. Dog-mask was fucking fox-lady in the ass. Had her arms folded into her lower back and her head pushed down into a pillow. Fox was staring at a slave-girl with red hair who was looking nervous. Fidgety. A new girl? Bristol didn’t recognize her. The slave-girls weren’t really slaves. More like high-class waitresses who worked in the nude. They were paid extremely well. Hot young bodies and discretion do not come cheap. They were exceptionally well-groomed. Except this red-haired nervous girl didn’t belong. She looked uncomfortable. When fox-mask let out a loud moan the slave-girl accidently dropped her water bottle. When she bent down to pick it up a tiny electronic device slipped out of her hair and fell to the floor. Camera? Radio? Didn’t matter. Whatever it was meant grounds for termination. Red-hair girl grabbed her device and the water bottle and stood back up. Nobody noticed except for Bristol who grabbed her walkie-talkie and flipped to channel three. “Security detail needed in room seven, please. Looks like we got a moose in the trailer park.”

  THE LOVE INTEREST

  Devon was at his desk, shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Suit jacket flung onto his black sofa. He wasn’t wearing any pants or underwear. His office was pretty Spartan for the son of a billionaire. Bare walls. A single window with ordinary drapes. He wasn’t much for extravagance. It used to be his dad’s office and was filled with expensive junk. Statues, paintings. Devon got rid of it all. Hated having all that wealth around. It made him feel greedy and self-absorbed. His interests lay more in humanitarian work. Once he was a young idealist, spent time protesting war and corporate greed. When his father had slipped into a coma, Devon decided that running this place might mean he could make a difference again. Use all this revenue to make a difference. But his optimism went out the window after a few months of running Fantasy Club. His values corrupted like bloated software on prefabricated computers. Click yes to install another sports car and skip the fundraiser for the miserable people of Fuckistan-golia.

  “Just forget it,” he said. Underneath his desk and sucking on his cock was one of the slave-girls. It was a tradition his father had started. Every day at 1PM one of the slave-girls would give him a blow job. Supposed to clear your mind and make for a productive afternoon. This slave-girl was pretty enough, but he just couldn’t cum. Big juicy eyes. Spit on his cock. Fingering. Moaning. Talking dirty. Nothing. It wasn’t happening. Even though her long-black hair and torpedo tits looked great under his desk. Nipples hard like samurai steel. Any other man would have blown his load down her throat in two minutes. But she’d been slurping on his cock for half-an-hour now and the elevator was jammed. She tried playing with his balls, licking his shaft, shoving his cock between her tits and squealing. Getting hard wasn’t a problem but coming was. She called him “Master” and “Sir” and begged him to cum on her 18-year-old face. Her
slave-name was Raven because it matched her hair. Devon could tell she would do well at Fantasy Club. Maybe even move from slave-girl to show-girl. Get actively involved in the fantasies. Not everybody is cut out for it. Being young and attractive isn’t enough. You’ve got to love the sex. All different kinds of it.

  He could tell she was disappointed. Head hung low like she’d just puked on his favourite slippers. Pouted like she’d done something wrong. “It’s not you,” said Devon, “it’s me.”

  “Do you want to stick it inside me?” said Raven. “You could fuck me up against the window. I’d like that.” She slipped her fingers between her legs and then showed him how glistening her hand was. “Look how wet I am just giving you a blow job.”

  Devon had that effect on women. He was incredibly good-looking. Like the cross between George Clooney and Matt Damon. Spent a lot of time swimming and working out. Hard body. Strong face carved from stone. Confidence. And he was rich. Very rich. He could take girls anywhere in the world on his private jet. Rent a tropical island just for two.

  Like most of the slave-girls that came into his office to swallow his cum, Raven wanted to be more than just his sex-toy. She wanted to be his girlfriend. His lover. She day-dreamed of fucking Devon in one of the fantasy suites. All the other girls would have to watch her fuck the boss. They’d be insanely jealous. She’d make them towel her off the way she had to towel off all the rich people that came through Fantasy Club. But it wasn’t happing. Not for Raven.