It was Saturday night – a few days earlier in the week, Rick asked me whether I wanted to go to the Club that weekend – as it turned out, it was “schoolgirl night,” and anyone dressed as a schoolgirl (knowing the Club, I assume that didn’t only mean women), would get in admission-free – the schoolgirl and her date, whether handsome football player or not. According to the Club’s Web site, the dress code included saddle shoes, cotton panties, and bobbie sox – none of which I owned. In fact, I not only was bereft of cotton panties, I owned no underwear – some eight years ago, Rick had tossed all of my underthings – cotton briefs included – out his car window. So, on Saturday, Rick and I took a shopping trip – cotton panties and bobbie sox were relatively easy, the saddle shoes a bit more difficult. However, we managed to find a pair of tennis-shoes, black stripes up the side, that – at least in the dark – would look saddle-y enough. Size 6 and only ten bucks!
So, it was Saturday night, and I was dressed in a short plaid skirt, a lacey, almost see-through white blouse, bobbie sox (Tommy Hilfiger with a palm tree print!), the not-quite saddle shoes, and, of course, the requisite cotton panties. (Rick grimaced at those!) In addition, I put my hair – long, reddish and curly – into two ponytails – a look I never wear, and never wore even in high school (though I had been a cheerleader, I usually went for the Pat Benatar look – you know, short hair with the big pouf in front). After I dressed, I walked into our bedroom – Rick was turned away from the doorway, searching for his own appropriate outfit. I started cheering, clapping my hands in rhythm, “Rick, Rick, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can! GOOOOOOOOOOOO Rick!” Rick jumped, then started to laugh, “Got right into it, did you girlie?”
We drove into the City – the New Jersey Parkway and the Turnpike were no problem, but, outside the Holland Tunnel, we drove into the worst traffic I’ve ever seen. We tussled with a few SUV’s, trying to ease our 1988 Fox Station Wagon into the appropriate lane, but ended up being squeezed into the EZPass – which we don’t possess. Rick grumbled, “Good Lord, I wonder what the ticket for that will be,” and I admit that I thought longingly of my bed, a glass of wine, and the thick Antonia Fraser tome on King Henry’s wives that currently lay on my bedside table. Once through the tunnel, though, our trials weren’t over yet – we drove around for another 40 minutes, desperate for a parking spot. Finally, we found one, and I muttered to myself, thinking of the wine, the book, the bed once again – Is this really worth it?
Well, I was about to discover the answer to that particular question.
We walked down the stairs, into the cellar-like (or should I say dungeon-like?) atmosphere of the Club. The man who staffs the door – the one who looks like a leather-clad Santa Claus – looked me up and down. “What do you think?” Rick asked. “She looks like a little schoolgirl to me,” he answered, and we were in. We walked past the usual suspects – a naked man, carrying a knapsack, masturbating in front of the first television screen – on which a woman, tied face first to a bed, was getting soundly whipped. Another man, masturbating in one of the Club’s cages – the heavy collar with which the cage was equipped was around his neck. (We’ve seen him before and, as far as I can determine, he cages himself.) We grabbed a table and sat – Rick went for two Cokes. The crowd at the Club was thin – it was early yet, despite the time consumed by our traffic fiasco. I tried to relax and recover, and Rick returned with the drinks. “Hey,” he said, “He didn’t even look at your cotton panties. Give them over.” “Oh,” I said, twirling a pigtail, “Do I have to?” “Yes.” He said, and I took them off – of course, this small action in itself attracted a crowd, and I noticed one man, at the bar, trying to peer between my legs. Rick tossed the underwear to another, younger observer, who immediately put them to his nose, took a deep whiff, and then stuck them in his backpocket. We looked around, and Rick commented on the dearth of schoolgirls. “Well,” I said, “There’s one,” pointing to another pig-tailed, plaid skirt clad woman, sitting at a neighboring table. “Come on,” Rick said, “Let’s take a walk.”
Rick led me into the backroom. There, a woman was leisurely whipping her submissive, who lay chained on one of the handy tables – the poor guy was hooded and his cock and balls were covered with clothespins, which she – again quite leisurely – gathered into one hand and pinched. That poor guy was still there when we left, some hours later, still hooded, still chained, his genitals pink and swollen. By that time, she was trading whip-strikes between him and a willing observer, his back towards her as he clung joyfully to a nearby pole.
Rick and I began to kiss, and he ran his hands up and down my thighs, then grabbed my neck, and thrust me against him. We made out there, on the threshold of the back room and the front, and – just for that – just for passionate kisses and careful fondling – we were drawing a crowd – more, in fact, then had been attracted to the tormented hooded slave. Rick raised my skirt – my bare ass was now turned towards the horde – I could feel cocks on my ass, on my thighs. Rick unbuttoned my skirt – it had more buttons than he anticipated, and I could feel crowd pause, waiting, expecting – the skirt fell to the ground, and I grabbed it quickly – during our last visit, I’d actually lost a dress I’d taken off, and it wasn’t about to happen again. Then, the lacy white blouse over my head, and I was naked before the throng. “Can you feel them?” Rick said, at the same time beating back the hands that continued to press forward, that continued to grope for my cunt, my clit, my ass, “Oh yes,” I muttered, and Rick continued to kiss me hard, his own hand inside my cunt. “You like this, do you?” he whispered into my ear, and I, somewhat ashamedly, answered, “I guess so.” I was, of course, dripping wet. I could feel some men, then, cumming on my ass – I could feel the stickiness of their semen on my skin, at the same time as one of the bouncers began to clear the doorway – apparently, we were causing a fire hazard. “All right, men, show’s over,” Rick bellowed, and he led me back to our seat.
There, I wiped myself off – the Club is considerate enough to provide strategically placed rolls of paper towels, and sat down. We had another drink, and I caught my breath. “All right,” Rick said, after a brief respite, “Now it’s time for your massage.”
Now, the masseur at the Club is not your ordinary massage therapist – though he certainly is that, too. He is an artist with his hands and his own special vibrator – I was stunned, the first time I took advantage of his services, to find that his aim was not only – or perhaps not even – to relax, but to stimulate – inevitably to the point of orgasm. On previous visits, I – who came with a vibrator, usually only in front of Rick, usually only on our bed, in our house, with no noise for distraction – had come on his table, under his expert touch, while a crowd watched, leered, and masturbated. Rick led me over to him, asked if he was willing to give me another massage. He answered, “I’m ready,” and Rick grinned, “So is she.”
I climbed onto the table and took off my saddle-y shoes and bobbie sox, by now the only sartorial bits left of my schoolgirl costume. I lay facedown and Kenneth, the masseur, began his work. He rubbed my back, my shoulder blades, worked his way, in short order, down to my ass. I could feel his hands running down my ass, back up – almost too quickly to realize the intent of his movement. Luckily, Kenneth had hooked up the ropes that surrounded his table, and served to keep the throng back – a crowd was already gathering. If I opened my eyes, I could see, in the mirrored wall, Rick watching, leaning against a pole, smiling. Kenneth’s hands worked down to my thighs, down to my feet, which he sprayed with water and some sweet-smelling spray. I groaned into the leather of the table. “Too hard?” he asked. I shook my head, barely able to speak. He worked his way back up to my thighs, then, and bent my knee towards me, so my pussy was now exposed to the horde, currently straining against the rope. His hands fluttered there, on my lips, then drew back, back up to my thigh and lower back. I heard the whirr of the vibrator and felt it against my ass, down my back, down to my ass again. I must admit – there is a certain pleasurable torment to being thus exposed, and so much at the mercy of someone’s hands. I imagined the men watching, waiting, and felt my submissive self give over, quite happily, to Kenneth’s magic hands. The vibrator was again thrumming on my ass, then Kenneth was shaking my arms. “Turn over,” he whispered, as though this torment was the most usual thing in the world.
I turned over, onto my back. Kenneth rubbed my hands, up my arms – the whir of the vibrator again – this time on my nipples. Kenneth vibrated, then pinched each one, then moved – so casually – down to my legs and thighs – then up once more to my pussy, now open and assuredly engorged for all to see. I groaned, tossed my head back and forth. Kenneth began to work my clit and my cunt, first with his vibrator, then, somewhat violently, with his hands, his fingers insisting on entrance, rubbing my clit hard, then retreating once more. I was in agony, I was tormented, and I knew I was being watched. At some point, Kenneth called Rick over, and Rick laughed as he rubbed my nipples and Kenneth continued to work my clit and my cunt, his vibrator coming so close – so close to my cumming – and then he would withdraw it again, his lovely instrument of torture.
At some point, I stopped thinking, and knew only that I wanted that lovely cum – that I had to have release, despite – or perhaps because of – the public venue, the watching, hungry men. At some point, I heard Kenneth chuckle, “And all these men – watching and waiting,” and then whisper, “Take your time, sweetheart,” and then, at some point, I came. I groaned, twisted, and panted on the table, and still there was Kenneth’s relentless vibrator, teasing and torturing my throbbing clit. After, as Kenneth began to wipe my arms with slightly damp paper towels, he turned to Rick and said, “She’s waiting for you to go down on her, you know.” In truth, I didn’t know if I could take any more clitoral stimulation, but Rick obligingly bent over and licked my clit and my cunt, much to the delight of the watching throng. I groaned again – I was spent, and could not cum, but it did not diminish my enjoyment.
After, Rick led me over to the table. I leaned heavily on him, feeling woozy and a bit weak. I was naked, and a bit chilled. Rick retrieved an extra shirt for me – one of his he’d thoughtfully brought along, and I sank, spent, into one of the chairs at our table. We sat and briefly chatted with a couple who had, when I was in the massage table, seated themselves at the other two available chairs. Rick bought another round of Cokes and, this time, surreptitiously slipped some rum into one of them. “You’ve earned this,” he said, and handed me the cup. Grateful, I took it from him and felt it slide all the way down my throat, into my stomach, perhaps down to my thirsting, tired clit. I felt the welcome burn of the rum – Rick had made it strong and sighed, content. But Rick was not yet done. “Hey,” he said, after I’d finished the drink, “Let’s take a walk.” So I followed him into the backroom, past the tormented hooded slave, past the bar. Towards the back, not quite against the wall, stood a narrow bench. Rick lifted me on it, so I was splay-legged on top of it. He began to kiss me as he pulled my shirt off and, again, the crowd began to gather. Rick leaned over me, lay me on the bench — he did not immediately beat the throng back, and I could feel a hand – so quickly, so stealthily – sneak into my cunt, then another into my ass. I groaned a little, a little afraid, and Rick whispered, “Don’t worry – your safe.” It was overwhelming – but though I was the vulnerable one, I also felt powerful – these men were waving their cocks – so hungrily – over my naked body – and they had gathered now, cocks out, and they did indeed surround me – a circle of hard cocks around the bench, over my body. I heard Rick say, “Look at these cocks, Kristin, reach around and touch them, they’re all hard for you,” and I followed his direction, my hands reaching out, following the circle – someone grabbed my hand and placed it firmly under his balls – another reached for my hand to wrap around his throbbing member. I lay back, moved my hands along the swollen throng, closed my eyes, and laughed.
Rick mounted me, then, and I could feel his cock slide inside me. “Oh, yes” I heard another voice – it wasn’t Rick, “Enjoy it, Baby – you’re safe – and this is all for you – and he’s going to cum in you so hard and fill you with so much cum . .” His words excited me further, and I tried to look around, to see who he was – in the crush and the dark, though, I couldn’t make out who was speaking – “Oh yes,” said the voice, “All these hard cocks for you – and he’s going to com – he’s going to fuck you.” There were hands on me, everywhere – hands on my nipples, hands on my arm, and cocks on my everywhere. Rick slipped inside me, pumped hard, groaning, whispering, “All this if for you, sweetheart, take a look at it.” I writhed against his hard cock, and I could feel I was soaking it and his balls. He came inside me, and I could feel cocks and semen on my belly, on my thighs – Rick was coming inside me, men were coming on my belly, on my thighs, in my hair, on my face. I laughed again, taking it in, excited, sated, content.
After, Rick pulled out. “All right, Gentleman,” he said once again, “Show’s over,” and he raised me from the bench. I laughed and leaned against his shoulder. “Did you like it?” He asked, “Oh, yeah,” I sighed, “Oh yeah, I liked it.”
We returned to the table, and Rick poured me another drink. While Rick was at the bar, someone walked by and whispered, “That was beautiful.” The young couple sharing our table – they’d only been there once before, and hadn’t participated in any scenes – looked at me and asked, “Okay, what did we miss?” I laughed, “Do you really want to know?” They did – I told them – and, for some reason, they were a lot friendlier after the recounting. . .
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