by JR King
I had to laugh, you would too.
“Can’t be worse than the fishy-smelling folds between your legs,” Tony retaliated.
“With your stinking gunk and a smegma-diseased penis, you would know. Congrats on the use of folds. I expected a grumpy old type like you to use vulva or quim.”
Tony glared at me. “Old? We’re old? How do you put up with her, man?”
“Hey, don’t bring me into this.”
“I’m just spitballing ideas, do you put the seat down to piss now? Agreed to be her fixer-upper?”
“Nah. Don’t like getting my dick wet,” I answered, grinning.
“In a minute, I’ll teach you two a lesson,” he hissed, walking away.
“Don’t go, Samantha. Chillax and get with the program. No one likes a mature tease,” I yelled after him, eliciting laughter from nearby patrons.
I swept my eyes over the sea of smiling faces looking at us. One couple stood out from the rest. For the reason that their polarity was too explicit, I watched them go at it and, between my legs, my cock twitched into wakefulness. The evil-looking phallic beak of the man’s Zanni mask had drawn me in as he cupped the woman’s breasts reverently, tracing the outlines of her nipples. Whereas his mask brought to mind depravity, her baroque Peacock mask invoked sensuality. With great deliberateness, he drew her skirt up and brushed her panties to one side, revealing her waxed privates. The glistening moistness within distracted me further.
“I want to give my wife to you for a while,” someone told me in a low voice. “May I?” The solicitor wore a gold Cavalli mask, his girl a matching plume macramé one. On the one hand, two sets of chocolate brown eyes lusted after Elena, but on the other hand, she looked almost out of breath. “Your girl is very pretty. Very sexy,” he finished, looking me straight into the eyes.
I nodded. A part of me wanted to shout: don’t you think I already know that, you stupid fuck? What I said was, “Yes, she is, just like yours. I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I must decline.” Once again, I thanked him for the attention, returned the compliment and praised them for making Elena blush or whateverthefuck. The girl had this amazing caramel color skin, but it looked like she could do with a good meal.
Elena was in too deep. “Look at me, kitten.” For a fleeting second, I imagined what it would be like to make her come on my hand while the entire room watched. To banish the imagery, I shifted where I stood, adjusting my trousers. One kiss later, I asked her if she wanted to play. “Not out here, I ain’t sharing you. Want a secluded room? Or a glass room where people can see us?”
“You’d do that? A glass room?”
“Does the idea of people watching you—,”
“Yes.” She bit her lip.
My skin still tingled with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to have her to myself in that room. “I’d do almost anything for you,” I admitted. “The idea is just as arousing for me as it seems to be for you.”
She slipped her hand between us and stroked the hard flesh my jacket concealed so badly. “Glass room.”
“East wing or not?” Tony was back, recomposed.
“East wing first, then Ale—,”
“Careful,” I hissed at Elena.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! It’s just…overwhelming…,”
Tony placed a finger against her lips, silencing her helpless stutters. “You’re excited, everyone can see it. What a pretty picture. And then there’s him.”
To be perfectly blunt, I understood I was acting like a dick. But fuck, I felt aroused and jealous and other sentiments that’d never bothered to show themselves in excess when I was younger. If anyone besides Tony dared touching Elena, I’d probably rip their arm off and stuff it in their throat. This sense of right is why mezze, tapas, PuPu platters, and Lazy Susan turntables vehicling a variety of dim sum never worked out for me. I was squicky about the social norm of sharing food. I was no better than Joey; any friends who try to pick up one of his fries end up learning: Joey doesn’t share food! I owed one part of my aversion to sharing dishes to my introverted nature, and the other part to my only-child status. Unlike my gracious, passive aggressive dismissal of the couple, I had no trouble conflating assertiveness with impoliteness in a restaurant. If ever people decided to share food, I made it clear I wouldn’t in the very beginning. In here, I couldn’t do that. I don’t know what would have happened if Tony weren’t chaperoning us tonight.
The exhibiting couple in the middle of the room had shed their clothes by now, and Elena didn’t look away when the man pressed his cock inside what looked like a dripping sex. She sighed, but I couldn’t tell if she was antsy or aroused.
Tony had a short conversation with someone in the room then motioned us to follow him. The east wing had a gothic feel. The only light in the Grand Hall came from a number of flameless church candles placed alongside windowsills, and sultry orchestra music bled into the room from concealed speakers. A huge canopy made of silk rope panels was draped to the ceiling like a billowing storm cloud, and the walls were adorned with massive erotic murals. Enormous concrete pillars divided the room into cliquish sections, and decorative gold rings were embedded in them as though to hold up shackles.
“Is this it? Faux shackles?”
“Don’t rule anything out just yet,” I told Elena.
If one were to judge by the clothes, you wouldn’t have guessed that this wing was devoted to the art of BDSM. A few girls wore decorative diamond studded collars, while others showed off surprising amounts of cleavage. No intelligent person wants to be labeled. To enjoy giving or receiving pain isn’t a dismal subterfuge, the idea here is that BDSM shouldn’t be generalized and categorized as a subculture, so no PVC or vinyl or leather or see-through clothing were allowed. These members were like any other patrons, their comportment spoke for itself. Slave or humiliation customs and practices were strictly forbidden, regardless of consent. No masters sat on plush leather furniture while slaves sat on kneeling cushions, no chained or naked go-go dancers moved to ridiculously grating beats on platforms under a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, no prismatic spotlights lit up suspended cages that contained naked bodies.
Scanning the room, the body language of a number of patrons suggested they were dominants or submissives, the ones that seemed iffy were switches, and others were visitors.
“Uhm…sir?” Elena questioned me in a conspiratorial manner.
“What is it?”
“This isn’t how I imagined it would be.”
Personnel walked around with their hands clasped behind their backs, a permanent smile plastered across their face, and patrons were sipping drinks and chatting like in any upscale establishment.
“Authentic practices have rooms named after them.”
Before leading us to a cozy seating area in a corner, Tony ordered bourbon for the three of us. I stared at Elena as she took it all in.
“Drink up, you’ll need it if you want to see the rooms,” he told her when our drinks got delivered.
Alongside two trusty dominant males, she sipped hard liquor and studied everything around her with slow, shy glances. Through the delicious little twitches in her neck, I could see her pulse thrum. I wondered if she realized how much attention her innocent actions were magnetizing. I stared at her damp neck, wanting to lean over and lick and suck and bite to mark it as my territory.
“What are you thinking?” Tony began.
She lifted her chin toward a woman with a Harlequin Colombina mask seated between two men, the bulges of their erections evident. “They can’t have sex in here.”
“No, they can’t.”
“Then why?”
“Because the dom-sub dynamic turns them on. If you haven’t noticed, people are less extrovert in here.”
“Why not use one of the playrooms?”
“Couples like to observe other couples. Are they cuter or cuddlier or richer? Are they college educated? Are they adventurous in the bedroom? How many times a week do they have sex? One could
stare at vanilla representations anytime during the day, so really, where’s the novelty in that?” She nodded in agreement. “The playrooms here, my pet, serve as exhibit rooms, catering to a clientele with very specific fetishes,” I pointed out with a smile. “Regardless of discriminating tastes, patrons want to mingle and play the field.”
She nodded again, lifting her glass to take a sip, studying me. “Like a St. Andrew’s cross.”
“Obviously.” I sipped and swallowed. “Tell me what else you’re thinking. What do you desire? What do you feel?”
“I like watching people have sex, I’ll admit to that. Needless to say, even with a libido-scrambled mind, the idea of getting tied up or a spanking excites me, but excessive and unnecessary pain doesn’t.”
“Interesting. Let’s find out what else appeals to you on Death Row.” Tony grabbed her hand and jerked her up from the sofa. “You’ll find a variety of acts going on as we walk you through the playrooms.”
“W-walk through them?”
“You’ll see.”
Death Row was a communal hallway with ten playrooms stretched across it running along the outer rim of the wing. It was wide enough to shelter coffee tables and wingback chairs near the glass panes looking in on the rooms and the tinted opposite windows looking out on a landscape garden.
In the first room on the left, a hooded submissive writhed sensually while locked in stocks, clearly enjoying her treatment. The position she was in—her ass raised skyward, allowed a clear view between her legs. The low-cut pair of boyshorts she wore did little to hide her arousal. Another submissive was enjoying her ride on a Sybian.
Room number two had a beautiful submissive genuflecting on a stumpy footstool as her master masturbated to the porno projected on the expansive main wall.
Room number three had a wooden horse, a spanking bench, a pillory, a St. Andrew’s cross, and a Catherine wheel set up for use. A domme was locking her submissive’s hands behind his back in preparation for a spanking session.
“What’s that?” Elena gestured vaguely toward a triangular-tipped contraption.
“Those thingamajigs are only exhibits. No one would want that arrowhead up their ass.”
Tony said, “It’s a Judas chair.”
“Know it all,” I said, letting out a mocking hiccough.
“Pot, meet kettle,” he hiccoughed back.
Room number four had a fully dressed man preparing to ravish a gagged woman from behind. A captain of the industry, his deep brown tweed suit a Bernard Weatherill creation. Tony and I exchanged a knowing smile. Beside me, I sensed Elena tensing.
“You like this kind of fucking, pet?” Tony spoke in a voice raw with bluntness. “Being voiceless, at the mercy of a powerful man as he fucks your ass? Being used by someone who demands better of you every day?” She squirmed under his gaze, reaching out to me to regain a restful stance. He winked at me. “I can see why you like her. She doesn’t need to speak at all.”
“I hate him, ace. I hate your friend.”
Sweetishly, Tony asked, “Does ACE stand for Arrogant Cunt-loving Egoist or Arrogant Cock-loving Egoist?”
“Good one,” I chuckled.
“Good one? You’re with him?” Elena spat at me.
It wasn’t one of those things I wished I could take back, but still. “No, I mean…I love you?”
Room number five had a somewhat scantily clad girl whose limbs were in the process of being roped to a squatty canopy bed. A small group of patrons watched agape as a black ball-gag was pushed gently between her smiling, rouged lips then buckled behind her head. A blindfold came over her eyes, and the dominant stood back satisfied. Grins broke out when he withdrew a colorful peacock feather from a slim, elegant black lacquer box that glinted in the low lamplight the fabric-covered shades gave off. Elena couldn’t pull her gaze from the scene as the dominant began teasing the helpless girl. Quite erotic and not too lurid, so we paused here.
I had to bite back a laugh when Tony said, “I think we have a winner.”
Room number six had a huge man wearing equestrian apparel standing in the left corner. On the floor, on all fours, was a red-haired girl with a horsetail extending from an anal plug, a black leather collar shimmering around her neck. To animate his pony girl, the dom lifted a whip and cracked it loudly in the air. In the right corner, a domme yelled, “Good puppy, up you go!” A prostrated submissive brought herself up onto her hands and feet, and now we saw the thick, bushy tail flowing from the base of the plug nestled snugly between her pert butt cheeks. As the domme made her revolution, she tapped a crop against the submissive’s thighs to tweak her position, making her trot in a circle so her wiggling behind caused the tail to sway.
“Oh God.” Elena’s hand flew to her mouth. “That’s fucked up on so many levels.”
“Pet play and pony play isn’t for everyone,” I stated tightly.
“What’s the point?”
“Willie Wonka said,” Tony butted in, “candy doesn’t have to have a point. The crux of the matter at hand is that none of the scenarios here need to have a point, but in refuting Willie Wonka’s quote we might find answer. Play and candy make people happy, and even though not everyone likes them, those who do are glad they exist and that there are many varieties to choose from. People are entitled to manufacture whatever self-generated fantasy floats their boat.”
She gasped. “Anything?”
Tony started howling with laughter.
I, too, had a hard time keeping a serious stance together. I gave her the list. “No humiliation, sexual degradation, physical or verbal abuse. No aggressive spanking, whipping, flogging, caning. No bestiality, urolagnia, coprophagia, role-playing as non-adults. No penetration by an object associated with violence that can cause embolisms, firesports, bloodplay, fisting, facesitting—male or female, strangulation.”
“Will you remember or should we write it down? The last ones are potentially life threatening,” Tony teased her. “Should we continue? Wanna go home?”
She closed her eyes, as if letting the list slide through her. Then she straightened, saying, “Continue.”
Room number seven had the movie 9 Songs projected on a wall and three women kissing and biting each other as they strangely undressed in front of a gigantic mirror. Squeals of tortured delight came from them: chastity belts prevented them from finding release.
Room number eight had a young, muscular man teasing a woman while a bound and gimp-masked cuckolded man watched them. Her eyes were closed and a dreamy smile played around her full mouth. She writhed and moaned as a vibrator skimmed over her skin.
Room number nine had a submissive girl cuffed to chains dangling from a tubular steel grid suspended to the ceiling. Importunate onlookers had gathered around to closely watch as a dominant alternated between using the flogger in his right hand and the magic wand in the other. He concentrated mainly on her thighs and stomach, mesmerizing both the crowd and the girl.
In the last room, it was pretty dark, dissimilar to a real medical room. A few LED exam lights and halogen procedure spotlights lights surrounded the medical equipment. A woman in nursing scrubs moved around while a white-coated man with a surgical mask stood leaning over a woman whose legs were in stirrups. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves.
When my eyes flicked to Elena, I had to strain my neck to hear her. “I can’t.” She fled the scene.
I wasn’t fast enough. Tony caught her jaw in both hands and kissed her forehead, enveloping her shaking body in his arms. His remarkable sangfroid immediately comforted her. “Forget what you saw. ‘S nothing, it never happened. I was thinking about the feather scenario. Do you think that tickles?”
“It tickles! I’m sure it tickles if you’re on the receiving end.” She dissolved into giggles, pressing her face into his chest as his lips slid over her brow. “That was the shabbiest, unsexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.” Their love-hate relationship was quite endearing.
“Home? Or do you happen to like ice crea
m?”
Alexander Turner
The Sex Club—Part Three
I’m sure there’s a potent reason why Shakespeare and Molière were fascinated by masks and costumes. Sorry to say, not that I know it. I know I liked Venetian masks because they brought about elegance and romance and an ancient society feel. And boy, was I in love or what, even as I sat at a table in a sex club.
I figured one last drink wouldn’t hurt.
“Alex, she’s ah-mazing. You’ve got to have big kahunas to be here.” Tony snapped his napkin open and dabbed at his mouth, yet he couldn’t seem to wipe away the smirk knitting around his lips.
Elena finally tackled the age-old, “How’d you two meet?”
“Harvard was my playground, I was territorial about the group of girlfriends I’d accreted. A guy walked into the amphitheater, and girls literally craned their necks as far off as they could to look at the loser. On top of dropping in mid-semester, he was actually late, he was dressed like a slob and smelled like bread, and he had a cheap-looking canvas messenger bag,” Tony started.
“Previously, dad had kicked me to the curb. It took time adjusting to my new life,” I clarified.
Tony sucked down a big gulp of whiskey before continuing. “Long story short, I was going to humiliate him in front of everyone. I taunted him with: hey champ, woke up drunk in a bakery this morning? Must have been one hell of a night, because you made it to class. Everyone sniggered, including the professor.”
Breathlessly, Elena asked me, “What was your answer—what was your answer?”
I winked at Tony. “Yeah, man. Half asleep and love-drunken, I was back-walling the baker’s daughter as I prepped the goodies myself. Want some?”
“He started dangling a bakery bag in front of me,” Tony picked up. “A truth I couldn’t repudiate is that he looked like a poor slob, but he was immensely charming. I gave it a try. The Parker House rolls were feather-light, warm and buttery with a wonderfully soft and airy texture.”
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” I finished.
The three of us laughed and clinked glasses. Thick strips of bentwood connected by sheets of burlap made it possible for demanding patrons to take off their masks and dine. The strategically angled paravents weren’t kitsch decorations, rather they served those who wore full-face masks, e.g. the Volto. It included lips and a nose, and was primarily seen in white, although more and more with gold or silver embellishments. To enlighten you about its popularity: it was the most famous mask from the film Eyes Wide Shut, the one worn by Tom Cruise. What I can tell you is that the Volto was useful because—contrary to at-first-sight impressions—it was a lightweight mask, easy to maneuver around for drinking and eating while still being able to conceal the entire face.
