NOTE: I'm still working on Ch.8 of Beast– hopefully I'll finish this week. In the meantime, this is a series I started writing soon after I started posting on Lit. It's seriously NON-serious, and I have no idea when I'll get around to writing/editing more, but with that in mind... Enjoy! Thank you a thousand times for the comments, hearts, and stars. I LIVE for them. And pizza, of course. :) –Stefanie
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I used to think that fantasies were better left unfulfilled, that the things I fantasized about in my bed at night– being with more than one man, being tied– could never, in reality, be as arousing or exciting I imagined them to be. In real life, I thought, two men would irritate me. Instead of me being the center of attention, they'd both be demanding mine, pulling me this way and that, splitting my focus. It sounded too much like work. And while a fantasy about being forced might be arousing, in real life, rapists are assholes with stinky breath and dirty fingernails who hurt you in ways you don't want to be hurt.
Actually attempting to fulfill my myriad and multifaceted sexual daydreams was never getting anywhere near my to-do list, I thought. I stuck to serial monogamy, occasionally play-acting with a current beau, but never coloring too far outside the lines. Don't get me wrong, I had some seriously amazing sex... there was the football player with the chocolate skin, big brown eyes, broad shoulders, and the longest, thickest dick I've ever seen. I could come for days on that thing. Since I'm a woman whose melting-pot ancestry is indeterminate, but chiefly Caucasian in origin, that might sound like fodder for my imagination, but I've lived in an urban environment since junior high school: seeing a dark pair of hands caressing my pale body wasn't a one-off.
Getting back to the high points of my sexual history... there was also a nerdy lit professor who had pussy-eating down to a true art form. I enjoy giving head, but I've never been a real fan of getting it– in general, oral does a lot of nothing for me. Even when a guy manages to get me off that way, my orgasm tends to be less memorable than the ones I have while being fucked or fingered. But the nerdy lit professor... I don't know what he was doing, but he'd hold me open, stick his fingers in my pussy, start licking, and I could NOT stop coming. It was crazy. I should have asked him to jot down a few instructions for the next guy.
Then there was the big, dumb Italian guy... I really loved that guy...
He was a sweetheart in every way– faithful, hard-working, generous– especially in bed. He could go for hours, and after he was done, he'd hold me in his lap while he watched baseball or hockey, finger-fucking me to orgasm after orgasm. We tried every position known to man at least twice. He fucked me standing in the shower, fingered me in the back row of the movie theater, and came in my ass while we were at his Gran's for Thanksgiving dinner. Then he proposed, and I just couldn't do it. He wanted a wife and kids. I wanted a wife, too– because who doesn't like getting their laundry and cooking done?– but no kids, and the guy didn't get my jokes. That was sad. My jokes are funny.
After that, I kept it casual. It hurt too much to do anything else.
I had a couple of guy friends– on opposite sides of town– who thought they were in love with me, and believed I was in love with my job. Because of the love thing, I couldn't see either of them too often, but between the two men and my toy box, I was kept sexually semi-satisfied, at least. I'd have gone on killing time like that for who-knows-how-long, if I hadn't heard about the Bill's Club.
–o–
I was having dinner with my best friend one Friday night after work; we were laughing our asses off, a bottle and a half of wine down, with neither of us paying much attention to our food, when she lowered her voice and leaned across the table. "Do you have fantasies?" she asked.
I made some joke about shoe-shopping with someone else's credit card, but Randi wouldn't let it go.
She scooted sideways around the booth to me. For a minute I thought she was making a pass, which, okay, Randi is hot, but I personally prefer a lover to be otherwise equipped. But, no, Randi was just getting closer to make sure no one else would hear what she was about to tell me. She still took a good look around when she got over there, too, like a super-secret-spy movie. At the time I thought she was nuts.
"No, seriously, Sim–" she said.
My name's Samantha, but everybody calls me Sim, because of my initials. On second thought... maybe they're just mispronouncing Sam... who knows?
"I won't ask what they are," Randi went on, "but everyone has fantasies, right? Sexual fantasies, I mean."
I nodded, not convinced I wanted to know where she was headed with this conversation.
"Well–- "
She glanced around again, and I blinked back an eye-roll.
"– I found this place– sorta– where women can go and get their fantasies fulfilled– without getting stabbed by some internet stalker, without paying for it, and without risking, well, anything, I guess. It's..." A fog of happy distraction momentarily obliterated the intensity on her face. "... it's amazing," she finished, shaking herself out of her memories with a small smile, her cerulean eyes gleaming from beneath the long eyelashes I'd always envied her.
"Okaaaayyyy..." I answered, trying to sound nonchalant.
I was mildly curious, I admit, even though my closest friend in the world suddenly sounded like an Amway salesman, and I half-thought she wanted to sign me up for something.
Randi laughed. "C'mon, let's pay the check and get outa here. We'll talk at my house." Partway back around the booth to her purse, she stopped and laughed. "Don't worry, Sim, I'm not hitting on you– or selling you anything."
Randi knows me really well.
Long story short, that's how I found the Bill's Club.
Randi was right, at least from my point of view: it is amazing. And what makes it even more amazing is the fact it's free.
If you're a woman, that is.
For whatever reason, there are way more men out there trying to get their fantasies fulfilled than women. Maybe we have an easier time finding someone to do what we want between the sheets, or maybe fewer women are willing to experiment, or maybe men are just horny dogs who can't get enough. Whatever... there are plenty of male candidates and not enough female. So, if you're a woman, you don't pay a dime to join the Bill's Club or to enjoy the benefits of membership, as it says on my card.
Finally, after centuries of discrimination, the vag pays off.
I have no idea how the club handles trans-gender or transsexual folk– I'll have to ask Julie that someday– but the men who join pay a lot of money to hook up with women whose fantasies complement their own. That's why it's called the Bill's Club.
Luckily for us women, we don't get the money.
No, seriously... if you have enough money, you can always pay what you're looking for, but Bill's Club– the Billionaire's Club– doesn't provide that kind of service. It's basically a matchmaking service for people with specific sexual fantasies– any kind of fantasy that doesn't involve killing or kids, that is, because that's just sick. I imagine there are plenty of other "sick" fantasies going down behind Club members' closed doors, though.
Because Randi was right in another way. Everybody does have sexual fantasies, which is what makes the Bill's Club work. For every kink, there's a kinkee. For every bi-curious girl, there's a couple looking for a third. For every man who wants to be spanked, there's a frustrated middle-school principal who wants to discipline grown men. For every would-be rapist, there's someone like me, with an unfulfilled fantasy about being raped.
Unlike the real world, in the Bill's Club you get to put in an order for your fantasy. You fill out oodles of forms and are interviewed by someone who fills out oodles more, then all your nit-picky data is entered into a mega-jumbo-server and tossed around with everyone else's data until a match shows up. There are a LOT of members in the Bill's Club, men who don't want to pay for a woman who will PRETEND to be submissive, but who want to fuck an honestly submissive woman. Other men, too, who get off on hurting women, holding them down, making them cry and scream in pain instead of pleasure. Oddly– to me– there are women who honestly want to be that woman, too.
Some of us have milder fantasies– I am not into being caned, or having needles stuck in my nipples, and you can forget about choking me, for instance, but I'm open to a lot of other non-consensual stuff. I won't get every single thing I want, of course– the guy might be a ginger instead of a brunette, or he might have a goofy voice and not enough chest hair. Whatever... but if I say NO needle, NO choking, NO caning... they guy I'm matched up with won't have those things on his list of fantasies, either.
It's not like a man couldn't omit something from his list and then do it anyways, but men pay an awful lot of money to get exactly what they want. If they don't care what the woman wants, they could pay a prostitute a lot less money to act out their fantasy, or just go ahead and rape someone, instead of risking a million bucks a year and prison time. I mean, the club has their personal info and signs all over the place– if a guy pulls a stunt like that, they're going to prison and they're gonna lose the million bucks.
So I went in and checked it out.
