Ladies' Luncheon Circle
Prologue
In the manicured sprawl of Willow Creek, an upper-middle-class suburb just outside the city, four couples lived within a few blocks of each other. Their lives intertwined like the roots of the old oaks lining their streets. Laura and Daniel, Sarah and Mark, Megan and Bill, and Claire and James, all in their mid to late thirties, all comfortably affluent, shared a rhythm of barbeques, pool parties, and the occasional group vacation to the coast or mountains.
The husbands, successful professionals with extended hours in the city, bonded over golf outings. Their clubs clinked in the trunks of their Audis and BMWs. Mark, a tech CEO, had been trying to beat Bill's golf game for years. Bill, a conservative banker, always ribbed James, the flamboyant salesman of the group, about his wild golf outfits. Meanwhile, the wives enjoyed more flexible careers: Laura, a real estate agent, Sarah, a freelance programmer, Megan, a part-time interior designer, and Claire, a yoga instructor and part-time EMT volunteer, leaving ample time to cultivate their social orbits. Daniel, a patent attorney, was also lucky enough to be only required in his downtown office a few times a week. Otherwise, he drafted patent matters in his home office.
The women met for lunch about once a week with no set schedule, rotating among their tastefully decorated homes. They didn't call it the "Ladies' Luncheon Circle," it was just lunch and began as typical suburban fare: discussions of school boards, neighborhood gossip, and the latest HOA dramas. But beneath the surface, something simmered. Over time, lubricated by crisp chardonnays and the occasional fourth bottle of pinot, the conversations drifted into more intimate territory. They traded secrets about their sex lives, favorite positions, their husbands' quirks, what they'd tolerate, and even playful speculation about each other's spouses. Laura, though, always held back, her tight smile deflecting probes about Daniel with a prim, "Oh, we're fine, thanks," though lately, her eyes betrayed a flicker of defiance when teased. The others, Sarah with her sharp wit, Megan with her brassy laugh, and Claire with her quiet intensity, teased her relentlessly, calling her uptight and a prude among friends.
One rainy spring Tuesday, with tennis plans canceled and the wine flowing freely at Megan's, the ribbing peaked. "Come on, Laura," Sarah slurred, swirling her glass, "you're hiding some dark secret under that conservative bun, aren't you?" Megan chimed in, "Bet Daniel's a bore in bed - missionary and lights off, right?" Laura's lips twitched, her reserve cracking under the pressure and the buzz. "Fine," she said, setting her glass down with a clink. "Next week, I'll give you a hint at my place. You'll see." The women exchanged glances, intrigued, as the rain drummed on.
Over the next six days, the women speculated about Laura's hint. Were Laura and Daniel more than the vanilla suburban couple they appeared to be? Sarah guessed it was as simple as having an occasional "nooner" while Daniel worked from home.
Introduction
The usual chatter was absent the following Monday in Laura's dining room; a charged silence settled over the room, broken only by the clinking of wine glasses with anticipation of the "hint." The table was set with white linens and a vase of lilies as Sarah, Megan, and Claire sipped some pre-poured wine in huge glasses and waited for Laura to fetch more drinks and hors d'oeuvres from the kitchen. They'd expected her to emerge with a tray of food or some cocktails. Instead, Laura sat down and inexplicably rang a small silver bell, the kind used to summon a maid or server. The women wondered if Laura was putting on airs or had, for some reason, hired a caterer.
The women froze, their wine glasses tilting in their hands, as Daniel entered, naked save for a red bow tie, gleaming cufflinks on fake shirt cuffs, an open-front black leather jockstrap, and a tiny apron. The jockstrap framed his bare ass but left his genitals exposed. His ass was faintly red with subtle marks, possibly made by a whip of some kind. The flimsy apron dangled, failing to hide the steel chastity cage encasing his cock, its ring forcing his testicles forward, pink and exposed, with faint chains hinting at weights. The faint rustle of his apron mingled with the women's hushed gasps as he served martinis and canapés in silence. His face flushed, retreating as the women noted his tight, reddened cheeks.
