by Lily Harlem
“Men watch porn, right?” he said. “As a teenager I watched it whenever I could, I told you that. Doesn’t make me weird, just your average kid. You giving me a blowjob,” he lowered his voice a fraction after glancing around, “with me directing the pace—I saw that in a porno film and it stuck in my head. Turned me the fuck on, if I’m honest. But I never wanted to bring it up with you because most women don’t like that kind of thing. And I didn’t want you thinking I was some nasty bastard, know what I mean?” He paused to look at me, face flushed, eyes rapidly blinking. “And you reading that book doesn’t make you weird either. It’s natural.”
“But at the time, those things were considered not normal. I never would have known people did that kind of thing if I hadn’t read it. And now we’re doing those things, I know they’re not bad, but seeing that book again…”
“Has it brought the shame back?”
“It did at first, but now…” I took a deep breath. “Did you take everything out of the attic when we moved to our house?”
“Yes, love.”
“Everything? I mean, even from the back corners?”
“Yes…”
“So, do you remember a red box of books kept closed with brown tape?”
“No, but I took everything to the new house, so if it was in the old attic, it’ll be in ours now.”
“Right. Good.”
He widened his eyes. “Ah, that filthy book is in our attic, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Do you want to read it?”
“Damn right I do.”
A frisson of excitement nipped my insides. “See, once I saw the book again, I remembered something. There’s this thing, something we could do. I used to think it was filthy, but these days… God, I want to try it out. I want to experience it. Even if it’s only once.”
“What is it?”
I glanced around the stall. No one was taking any notice of us, but I leant forward anyway. Whispered in Jacob’s ear. Once I’d finished, he sat back, looking at me with the glint I’d so hoped would be there.
“You’d be willing to try that? In a place like that?”
“Would you?”
“Fuck, yes!”
“Shall we…”
“Yes. Yes.”
* * * *
At the hotel, with Jacob lounging on the bed, I sat beside him, muddling through the telephone book at adverts for various places. I had no idea what most of them were for, the language being a huge barrier. Those that had pictures of tools or cups, scissors or houses were easy to work out, but I didn’t think the kind of place we were after would have images beside them to help a person out. Maybe they weren’t even in the telephone book.
I sighed, tapped my lower lip with a finger, and walked over to a sideboard similar to the one with the kettle on it. The hotel provided internet access, and a netbook sat waiting for me to boot it up. Okay, it was firmly fixed onto the sideboard with some metal struts so no one could steal it, and I preferred browsing online in comfort, but I wasn’t about to complain. I hunched over it and Googled, finding the information we needed in an instant. A place like the one we sought was only two streets away, and I wondered if it would look seedy on the outside or be nondescript, hiding the delights it offered inside.
“I’ve found one,” I said, looking over my shoulder.
Jacob shot off the bed and stood behind me, peering at the screen over my shoulder. “Fuck, we’re really going to do it, aren’t we?”
I craned my neck to look at him. “We can always back out. Think about it some more. Plan the evening and find a similar place when we get home.”
“No.” He shook his head. “We’re anonymous here. It’s better this way.”
“All right,” I said, scribbling down the telephone number, logging off then snapping the netbook shut. “Are you ringing them or shall I? We’ve got to hope they’re not booked up.” My stomach rolled so violently I thought I might be sick.
“You do it. It’s your fantasy.” He scrubbed his chin, the day’s growth of stubble rasping, and winked.
“Okay.” I picked up the phone and dialled the fetish sex club.
Chapter Twelve
We stood, hand in hand, outside Club Nirvana, staring at the glossy black door and the wide window drawn with red velvet curtains. It said on the website that the exclusive venue was for sexually curious individuals and broad-minded couples—we guessed we fell into both those categories by now.
“You still up for it?” Jacob asked, his voice and face animated by both apprehension and excitement.
“Yes, absolutely.”
And I was, but God, my heart was beating wildly. I was up for the exhilaration, of doing something I’d never thought I would do in my wildest dreams, yet needle jabs of anxiety brought goosebumps out all over my body.
Think of the book, what the author said it feels like…
I took a deep breath and stepped forward, my silver spiked heels loud on the cold pavement. There was no reason not to go in. This was something we both wanted. It was risk free, as far as we could tell, and fate seemed to have once again blown circumstances our way.
When I’d spoken to a lady on the phone, who’d had perfect English, she’d said that as a rule it was a members only club, but for the entire month they were having a special discounted ‘one night only’ offer. Not only that, but when I’d enquired about the kamer voyeuristische—oh my bloody good God, a voyeuristic room!—she’d announced it was free at nine o’clock that very evening, our last night in Amsterdam, and the only rule was that we had to be attired in fetish wear.
I was fine with the rule after my shopping spree the day before, but we’d been stuck for Jacob. In the end we’d had no choice but to splurge some cash on a pair of black leather trousers. Hardly hardcore fetish, but I figured with his top off and another addition I was hoping to find in the club shop, he would look the part.
The door opened into a plush reception. Ruby red walls, deep, well-worn sofas and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“Hallo,” a dark-haired woman said, looking up from a desk that held an enormous vase of red roses.
“Er, hello,” I said. “We have the kamer voyeuristische booked for nine.”
She smiled. “Ah, yes, Karen and Jacob, correct?”
I nodded.
“It is great to have you in Amsterdam and at Club Nirvana. I hope you have a wonderful time with us. The rules are simple. Respect and consent.” She glanced at our linked hands. “Though I am sure you already live by that rule.”
“Yes,” I said, squeezing Jacob’s fingers.
“You are a little early. The room is still being prepared for you. Would you like to peruse the shop first? Perhaps see if there are any more toys you would like to purchase? Viewers always like to see toys.”
“Yes,” Jacob said quickly.
I looked up at him.
He caught my eye. “What? We do want to look in the shop, we’ve only brought one thing.”
“Yes, yes we do, you’re right.”
The woman smiled and led us down a narrow corridor. It smelt of perfume and cigarette smoke. The walls held photographs of exposed pussies and erect cocks, and I would like to have stopped and stared, but there was no time, not if we wanted to look in the shop.
“After your time in kamer voyeuristische, feel free to go to the bar for a drink. Later on there is a medical show.” She turned and smiled. “Tonight is my debut. I’m playing the nurse who administers the enema.”
“Sounds interesting,” Jacob said, and although he tried to hide it I could hear a note of disbelief in his voice.
“It is.” She stopped outside a closed door, turned to Jacob and gave him the once-over, right from his black boots up to his rugged, should’ve-shaved jawline. There was approval in her eyes, as though she liked the look of him and wouldn’t mind stripping him naked and doing strange enema things to his body.
I reached for his hand again and pressed my shoulder into his arm.<
br />
She tilted her chin and sighed, almost wistfully. “Here is the shop. They take credit cards, and this door opposite leads you along a passageway to the kamer voyeuristische. At nine o’clock on the dot it will be ready for you. At two minutes past you will be on show. You have forty minutes booked. Please note we have security cameras overseeing all activities in the establishment. Do not worry, they are discarded later if nothing untoward occurs, but if you wish to have a DVD of your time in kamer voyeuristische, that can be arranged. You will need to attend to your bill on the way out.” She swept her tongue over her glossy red lips and settled a sultry gaze on Jacob. “Have fun.”
“Er, yes, thanks,” he said.
She stalked away, her hips rolling.
After a brief hesitation, Jacob pushed the door to the shop open.
Ten minutes later and one hundred euros lighter—four purchases, none of which would be souvenirs for the mantelpiece—we made our way through the second door we’d been directed to use.
It was almost nine.
In the distance I could hear music. It wasn’t thumping, it was languid and jazzy. I imagined it coming from a smoky bar where a girl twirled around a silver pole, nipple tassels swinging, crotch bared whenever her legs parted.
My nerves started to mount now that the practicalities were seen to. Could I really do this? How would it feel? What if I hated it? What if Jacob hated it?
“You okay, love?” Jacob asked, resting his hand on my shoulder as we walked.
“Yes, yes I’m fine.”
“You still want me to take control or do you want to again, like you did last night?”
I stopped at the single heavy door at the end of the corridor and placed our bag of purchases on a table.
“I still want you to take control,” I said, turning to him. “You’ve had more practice at it than me.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” He set our bag from the hotel onto the table and pulled me into his arms. “And I’ve loved every minute of it, just like I know we’re going to enjoy this too, the final chapter in that filthy book of yours.” He kissed me, hotly, deeply, thoroughly, and I melted into him. I wouldn’t have been completely opposed to taking control this evening, but I didn’t, in my heart of hearts, believe Jacob was ready for it. Last night had been his first submission, his first time allowing me to invade his body. We needed more private time to settle into that new way of being together.
He pulled back from our kiss and undid the buttons on my jacket. Smiled as he slipped it off and revealed my tight corset, fishnet-covered breasts and slip of a thong.
“You look stunning,” he said, his pupils dilating. “Absolutely every horny dream and fantasy I’ve ever had has been about you, who you are and who you’ve become. I love you so much.”
Warmth flooded my soul—and my pussy. “I love you too. I could only do this with you.”
“I know, me too.”
I smiled, took a deep breath and reached into the bag at my side. As Jacob shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off his jumper, I handed him the final piece of his outfit.
Just holding it made my nerves skitter. I knew it would. The material was soft, like the ski mask, but it was thicker, heavier, and when Jacob slid it over his head and down his face there was something obscenely sexual about it as well as menacing. His eyes looked as if they were permanently narrowed as he peered through the slits, his nose hidden right to the tip. The long black sides of the mask covered his cheeks, jawline and halfway down his neck. It was impossible to make out what colour or style his hair was.
“Does it suit me?” he asked.
I suppressed a delicious tremble. “Yes, very much.”
“Good.”
As I smoothed my stockings and rubbed away a scuff on my boots, he shifted a few purchases in the bag, tore wrappers, and the scent of a sterilising wipe hit my nose.
“It’s show time,” he said after a couple of minutes.
Blood thumped loud in my ears, and my stomach somersaulted. I fluffed my hair, rolled my lips in on themselves, and swallowed a bite of nerves. This was it, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had to make the most of it.
The kamer voyeuristische was oval shaped, the floor black tiled, the walls the same ruby red as the reception. In the middle stood a bench; a black leather, surgical-style bench. It had high, solid stirrups and long steel legs. A tray-like table on wheels waited next to it. But my concentration didn’t linger on the bench I was about to be fucked on. Instead, I stared at the short black curtains circling the walls. Behind each, so the website had said, there was a window—a window that was designed especially for looking into this room, for watching the show.
And tonight it was to be our show, our debut performance. The Karen and Jacob Get-Down-and-Dirty show.
“It certainly seems clean and serviceable,” Jacob said, walking swiftly to the table and laying out our equipment. Some items clinked, metal on metal, as he placed them down.
I glanced at a large round clock on the wall. We had two minutes until the curtains opened and our audience would gawp in. I pulled in a breath, my stomach clenched, and my pelvis seemed to actually hum with anticipation.
“Come here,” Jacob said, holding out his hand. “It’s time to get you ready and get in role.”
I nodded and stepped up to him, melted against the hot, bare flesh of his chest. His kiss was firm and confident, his hands on my back sure and steady. In that moment, with that kiss, I knew everything would be okay. Jacob had it all covered.
We must have kissed for longer than I thought because it was the whirring of the electric motor opening the curtains that got my attention. We pulled apart, and as we did so there was a shift in the dynamics between us.
Jacob peered down at me through the slits in his mask. He placed his hands on my shoulders and urged me to turn.
As I moved I was aware of faces in windows. Round faces, round eyes, dimly lit features strewn with shadows.
A huge glut of excitement swamped me. These people were all here to see us, to watch what we did, how we had sex. They may even be sat there now, wondering what we’d look like when we were at it.
They were interested, they were curious, they were voyeuristic.
And they would soon find out what they wanted to know.
Jacob moved to the table, retrieved one of our recent purchases, and stood back behind me. He extended his arms over my shoulders and held it in front of my face.
I stared at the smooth, shiny ball and the thin leather strap. It was for me to wear. It would take away my voice, my safe word. It would show our audience how much I trusted my Master.
Opening my mouth, I studied the face of a middle-aged man in the window directly in front of me. He had a receding hairline, glasses, and wore a shirt and tie. He held my gaze as Jacob fastened the strap around the back of my head. Tight—tight enough to keep the gag ball in place and my jaw stretched.
The next thing I knew, Jacob was kneeling before me, nuzzling my breasts through the netting. He sucked hard and fast, and I rested my hands on his material-covered head, swayed a little as the acute suction pinched deliciously. We’d talked about what we were going to do for our performance, but it wasn’t an exact plan, only the bare bones had been agreed.
The rest was up to him.
Just as I thought my nipples were going to tear through the fishnet, Jacob stood and urged me to turn again, as if showing me off to a different set of windows. The man in the suit and tie would now have a good view of my ample rump.
Jaw stretched wide and my tongue pressing on the ball, I peered through a window at a young couple, male and female, with heavily pierced faces and gothic, black hair. They sat very still, clearly fascinated by us. I wondered if it was their first time watching.
Jacob fiddled with the knot at my nape then released the halter part of my top, exposing my breasts to the audience. I had a brief bout of self-consciousness. I hadn’t shown the secret places of my body to an
yone else in years.
But we don’t know them. It doesn’t matter.
He flicked and pinched, pulling each nipple to hard points. I let out a small groan, throaty and muted around the round lump of plastic in my mouth.
For a second he left me to go the table, and while he was gone I studied the woman behind the next window. She was elegant, her hair in a stylish up-do and a string of pearls around her neck. She tilted her chin when she saw my gaze had landed on her.
Jacob was back and dropped to his knees. With a swiftness that surprised me, he attached the first nipple clamp. It bit and tugged, nipped the engorged bud to a point of pain. I was just about to pull it off, instinct demanding it be removed, when he planted his mouth over the rise of my breast and spread warm, soothing kisses over my flesh. I remembered how I’d switched pain to pleasure when he’d beaten me in the woods. How I’d used the endorphins to give me an almighty high. It had been well worth the initial hurt.
Willing myself still, I tipped my head to the ceiling, shut my eyes, and allowed him to attach the other clamp, this time harnessing the sensations and letting the hot fingers of pain spread down to my pussy and poke at my clit.
“My God, your tits look incredible,” he murmured, standing and sliding a hand between my legs.
I pressed into him, the swollen pain of my nipple points connecting with his hot chest.
He slipped his fingers to my clit, and I whimpered. I needed him to touch me so badly. I needed his skilful ministrations. I needed to come, soon, so I could revel in the tightness of the clamps as I built to orgasm. But, of course, I couldn’t tell him that, couldn’t demand a climax, not now, not with the ball gag in place.
“Mmm, you’re hot and wet,” he said, removing his finger and smoothing it through the roll of his tongue, deep into his mouth. “And you taste delicious.”
I stared at his lips—it was the only thing I could really see on his face. He licked them exaggeratedly then smiled in a sinful, wicked way.
“Show everyone what you look like, whore. Show them your tortured tits and your slutty, crotchless knickers.” He took my hand and led me to the side of the room, near to the windows.
