The Freyja Club

The surprise 'reunion' with Fionia had been more than pleasant, but as I completed my morning run on the Rock Creek Trail that meanders beside the Potomac, I knew she was probably already on her way to Ocean City for a week at the beach. I idly wondered what she and her girlfriend had chosen to wear, so images of Fionia in various bikinis occupied my thoughts for the better part of two miles.

This morning, I had decided for some variety, so rather than go south toward the Capitol Mall, I'd go north. Just after I crossed under the Francis Scott Key Bridge, I could see the towers of Georgetown University about two blocks off to my right on 37th Street and I immediately thought about Hayley and wondered where her office was and which classrooms were hers. About two weeks ago, I had given her a draft of a story I had written about her journey to the Freyja Club and had asked her to correct anything that I'd gotten wrong, but I hadn't heard from her yet, so there was that little bit of unfinished business.

Soon after I had been initiated into the Freyja Club at the end of an astounding series of events in Paris almost a year ago, I had decided that, in addition to just blithely enjoying the hedonic pleasures the club offered, that I would also try to discover how it operated and grown into twenty clubs scattered around the world, and had done so for over ninety years in almost complete anonymity. I had been successful in finding the answers to many of my numerous questions and Hayley had proven to be someone who had given me the key to one of the most nagging ones on my list.

When I first joined, I was told that there were twelve thousand members worldwide and the male/female ratio was roughly 60/40. In order to be a member, a person had to undergo a rigorous background check and then pay a hundred-thousand-dollar initiation fee plus two thousand every month. This, in itself, was a significant hurdle, but my work in real life often found me circulating in groups of people who could easily manage the financial part, but the gender of that group was at least ninety-five percent men.

How the Freyja Club was able to achieve a reasonable 60/40 balance was a nagging question in my mind because of the population of women that I knew could afford the financial burden, very few would be attracted to join a sex club, where they would be required to be naked while men would remain fully dressed. Oh, I knew a few; Jennifer, Danielle, and Susan immediately came to mind, but most of the other women I encountered had joined on the coattails of a male partner. To me that still left a huge gap that the club had to fill.

Hayley, who's a tenured Professor of Literature at Georgetown had been introduced to me, and through her, I learned about the F.C. Academy in London. Simply put, the Freyja Club recognized that they had to recruit women with the right hedonic mindset as members, but since few would be able to meet the financial demands, those would be waived for women who qualified. So assuming that the club has just under five thousand women members, as a result of the insight that she gave me, I now believe that around two thousand female members, like Hayley, are non-payers. I had to redo some of the math in my assumptions about the club, but it didn't alter my conclusion that there was still enough income coming in to support the club's worldwide operations. So far, Hayley was the only Academy alum that I'd personally met, but I was on the lookout for more.

I hadn't been to a Freyja Club since I had returned from a weekend visiting with a friend of mine and his wife in Miami three weeks prior, but yesterday around noon, I found myself bored and uninterested at work, and I had impulsively decided to drive to Washington and spend the rest of the week. I booked a room in the Freyja Club Hotel and discovered Libby's exhibitionist fetish and had that surprising reunion with Fionia, and that all took place on just a Thursday afternoon and evening! It was now around eight a.m. on Friday and the club didn't open until six, so I had almost the whole day with no plans and I found myself wondering how to spend it.

As I usually do after a morning run, I eschewed the elevators and took the stairs as one last sacrifice to the god of physical fitness. The hotel level was on the top floor of the eight-story club building, so I trotted up and as I knew, all of the doors that I passed on the way were locked. For reasons that still escaped me, the Freyja Club Hotel was a separate entity from the club itself. I had been told that this was because you didn't need to be a member of the club to stay there, hence the need for a separate entrance, but that made no sense to me. No non-member would even know it existed, you couldn't book a room, there was no signage and they didn't advertise. The only thing that made sense was the fact that the hotel had to be open twenty-four hours a day, but the club didn't open until six p.m.

The trip up the stairs did however remind me of one other club mystery that I hadn't yet cracked that was unique to the Wasington club, and I'm embarrassed to admit that it was my friend Jennifer who had pointed it out to me during her recent visit. From the street, the brick building is remarkable only because it is so austere. There are no signs at all indicating what firms might be located there and the main entrance is made of opaque double doors with what is obviously a chip reader on a steel pedestal located to one side. There are two other entrances off the parking garage, one to the club and the other to the hotel, but they're not marked either. The only difference is that the door to the club has a chip reader but the hotel entrance is unlocked.

The club proper is located on the first three levels, and as I subsequently discovered, in the basement as well. The hotel is on the eighth floor and is accessed by an elevator and the staircase that I was now ascending. Jennifer's question was what's on the floors between the two? It was obvious to me that given the obsessive secrecy that characterized the Freyja Club, those floors wouldn't be rented and I knew they would be used for something, I just didn't yet know for what.

As I emerged into the hotel lobby, I immediately saw that Libby was back at her post behind the reception desk. When I had passed by earlier on my way out, no one had been standing there, but I knew that Libby's shift didn't start until eight a.m. and I assumed that she'd just come on duty. Yesterday she had worn a white blouse with "F.C. Hotel" embroidered on the breast in blue, and I noted that this morning the colors were reversed, but she still wore the same blue miniskirt. When she heard the door open, she looked up and gave me a wide smile.

"I thought that might be you," she said, "Nobody uses those stairs." Yesterday, I discovered that Libby not only was an exhibitionist but liked to jog after work. Even though I had already done my normal five miles earlier that morning, I joined her for a circuit of the Mall. It was at the end of that run, that I challenged her to run the last three blocks to the parking garage topless and she had reluctantly done so while trying to stabilize her bouncing breasts with her forearm. It was an image that I recalled fondly.

It had been a delightful morning, sunny and cool, so I hadn't broken a heavy sweat even despite the last sixteen flights of stairs, so I didn't feel the urge to rush immediately and take a shower. So, before heading for my room, I sauntered over to the coffee station and filled a cup before turning to talk to Libby.

I reminded her that I'd offered to write a story about her, but all that I knew about her so far was that she liked the idea of people seeing her naked. She laughed at my brief, but truthful synopsis, and for the next few minutes she filled me in on her life story, as short as it had been for a twenty-two-year-old. I learned that she had grown up in Manassas, across the river in Virginia, where a couple of famous battles had been fought during the Civil War, and that she had a twin sister named Molly. I asked if Molly was an exhibitionist too and Libby gave me an embarrassed nod. I was still sipping my coffee and leaning against the front desk when Libby interrupted and asked her own question.

"Do you like to watch girls get themselves off?"

It was so totally unexpected and 'out of the blue,' that initially I wasn't sure that I had heard her correctly. "Get off? Like masturbating?" I asked. Libby nodded and I saw her eyes drop and her face blush.

"Yeah," she finally answered. "I've never had anyone satisfy me better than I can do myself," she said, holding up and wriggling her fingers. "And if someone is watching it's a thousand-percent better."

I was trying to comprehend this surprising turn in our conversation, and as a result, was having some trouble finding the words. "I... uh... are you suggesting that..." I stammered before Libby came to my rescue.

"Yes. After I went home yesterday, I was so turned on by what you made me do, that I stripped down and sat in my special chair in front of the mirror and played with myself." I took another sip of coffee as I processed what Libby was describing and I could feel my cock stir in my shorts. Libby continued, "It was nice, but I kept thinking that I wished it was you watching me instead of my own reflection."

"You mean that someone watching would have made it better?" I offered. "And you're suggesting that we should." Libby dropped her gaze and nodded her head.

"Well... my day is pretty open and I was wondering how I should spend the time, so if..." I didn't get a chance to complete the sentence because Libby jumped and clapped her hands. "You will?" she blurted. "I get a break for thirty minutes at eleven o'clock... I could come to your room... and... I... Oh God! That will be awesome."

The mental image of Libby masturbating for me while I watched was so arousing that I had to reach down and make an adjustment to the sudden tightness in my shorts. It was a movement that Libby didn't miss and her smile was broad enough that it revealed two little dimples that I hadn't noticed before.

Just at that point, I could see a couple coming down the hallway heading in our direction and I assumed that they would stop at the front desk, so I excused myself and headed to my room for a shower, after which, I'd probably grab some breakfast at the little restaurant down the street and write down what Libby had told me about her life so far.

While the morning had been perfect for a jog, it had turned a little cool to sit outside, so thirty minutes later I found a seat in the restaurant that looked out on the street and opened one of the black and white marble motif journals that I always carry and started writing. As I did, I kept rolling over in my mind what I knew, or thought I knew, about masturbation.

I, myself, had discovered the secret joy not long after the onset of puberty and had rubbed my palm raw in those first few years. I had experimented with lubricants of various kinds as well as pictures, stories, and mental images to enhance the experience. Later, when I graduated to women, I eventually developed a rating scale that described the relative intensity of my orgasms.

My experience was the exact opposite of Libby's. On my five-point meter, self-abuse was usually a one, and on rare occasions when abstinence had been unusually long, perhaps a two. For me to get higher than that, my orgasm required a woman's mouth or pussy, but even then, before my initiation into the Freyja Club, I experienced just three's and four's. Most of my mind-bending fives had happened in the last year and were the direct result of the heightened eroticism of the club.

I had no idea how, or even if, Libby similarly rated her orgasms, but it was apparent that her fingers, rather than a stiff cock, were her instruments of choice and I was growing anxious to see her do her stuff.

The rap on the door came at exactly eleven o'clock, but before I could get up, I heard the lock buzz and Libby's head peeked around and I heard her say "Ready?" I answered in the affirmative and she came in and closed the door behind her. She looked around the room and I could see her eyebrows raise when she saw the bed. "You made your own bed," she exclaimed. I followed her gaze and responded, "It's kind of a habit when you grow up as an army brat," I offered and she smiled.

Since this was her fantasy I waited for her to tell me what she wanted to do, but for some reason, she seemed undecided. I had a bottle of Merlot on ice in a bucket, so I asked if she wanted a drink, or was that against the rules. She gave me a nervous laugh and replied that yes, it wasn't allowed, and yes, she'd love a glass. Truthfully, given her previous display of excitement, I was puzzled by her unease, but I poured her three fingers of the merlot and watched as half of it disappeared in the first gulp. Then I pointed to one of the two armchairs in the room and asked if she wanted to sit down. She nodded and sat, crossing her legs in the process. I sat in the second chair and was ready to take a sip of my own glass when Libby leaned forward and said, "I've never done this before."

I assumed that by "this" she meant, masturbating in front of someone, but I didn't reply. "This is so silly," she stammered, "I'm so fucking wet and so aroused by the thought that you'll see me, but I can't seem to..." and she left the rest of her thought fly away.

It was at this point that I realized that I needed to intervene. I remembered from our discussion of exhibitionism yesterday that Libby had explained some of the 'rush' she experienced came from being exposed in a manner that was unplanned and for which she was unprepared. Realizing that the script needed to be revised, I reached over and took Libby's half-full glass and set it on a side table, and then said in a commanding, but gentle voice, "Libby. Stand up."

Libby's eyes sent me a silent "thank you," and she rose to her feet holding her hands in front of her. From my seat, I appraised her and my eyes gravitated to the wonderful swell of her breasts beneath her blouse and the sensuous curve of her hips and calves. So, even before she could do so in reality, I was already stripping her of her clothing in my mind.

When next, I said, "Unhook your skirt and let it drop." Libby looked at me in surprise as though she hadn't expected that I would begin the process of stripping her clothes with that item, but she reached behind her and I noticed the waistband loosen, then Libby looked into my eyes as she wiggled the skirt over her hips and down, leaving her smooth pale legs bare. She had opted to wear pretty pink silk panties that clung tight against her mound and the narrow depression that some call a 'camel toe' was wantonly displayed. Libby started to cover her exposure with her hands, but before she could, I told her to keep them at her side. There again was that brief look of panic, but she followed my instructions and even managed to let me see a little smile.

I could already observe the darker color of her soaked panties and I knew that women only achieve that degree of moisture if their state of arousal is off the charts. I didn't know if Libby had already had her hands in her panties, but there was no doubt in my mind that she wanted them there now. So, despite the pleasure I was feeling just looking at her, it was time to move on.

"I want to see your pussy," I said, and I got that quick look of panic again, but her hands lifted and her fingers slipped into the waistband, but before she continued, I stopped her. "Libby, I need to hear from you what you're feeling and what is it you want to do?"

There was a moment of suspended time, but she answered in a voice that was, for the first time, strong and confident. "I want you to see my cunt. I'm so fucking wet that I can't stand it anymore. I want to touch myself and know that you're watching... I want to spread my silky lips and expose my hole... I want to cum... I want to feel your eyes on me... all of me... every fuckng inch of me."

I know my smile must have been of the lecherous variety, but I just nodded and she pushed her panties off and stepped out of them, but not before they hung enticingly on one of her blue three-inch heels. It was one of those 'picture moments' that sometimes occur when no camera is around to capture it. When she finally succeeded and stood up, she faced me completely naked from the waist down, her silky triangle at the same height as my head and I had to stifle a strong desire to press my face into her wetness.

For some reason, I am fascinated by the image of 'bottomless' women. It's not that I don't like their other charms, but the look of a naked, exposed pussy is so striking that it never fails to arouse me, and now that I had Libby in exactly this condition, I selfishly took a moment to savor the eroticism of it. But before I could drink my fill, I heard an anguished moan that quickly transformed into a gasp of relief as she pushed one of her fingers between her swollen lips and across her clitoris.

It was clear that the need for my active involvement had passed when Libby's hands tore at the buttons of her blouse and sent it flying over to the bed, quickly followed by her bra. The only clothing that she seemed uninterested in doffing was her heels. When she leaned forward to run her hands between her legs, I was treated to the sight of the soft mounds of her breasts hanging and swinging from her chest in space, and as she rubbed herself, the mesmerizing movement of her tits added to the raw sexuality of the moment.

The initial thrusting of her fingers had been a reaction to building frustration, but when she had quenched that need, she seemed ready to alter her pace. She sat back down in the chair and draped one leg over the armrest which opened her pussy to both her fingers and my gaze. One hand was busy rubbing her clit and I observed the other had risen and was squeezing her breast and pinching her nipple. Libby continued to look at me and I idly wondered what she saw.

For myself, Libby's passion was affecting me as well and I was tempted to unzip and join her. I suspected that Libby might actually enjoy mutual masturbation, but I was constantly reminded of my sexual limitations, and I did plan on enjoying a pleasant evening in the club, where I hoped that my pearly cum would find itself deposited somewhere better than on the floor of my hotel room.

Still looking directly at me Libby began to tell me what she was doing and how it was making her feel. I have always enjoyed the women who can share themselves so openly because, in my experience, it's so rare. Most women in the throws of passion can't seem to master anything beyond moans and profanity-laced pleas.

"My pussy is crying out to me, but so are my breasts... look how my nipple aches to be squeezed... It's responding to the pressure and aches... delightfully... and if I squeeze harder, twisting a little, a sharper pain... my brain is telling me to stop, but I want to take more... My mind is flooded with the desires that I want... my sex crying out to be touched!"

I watched as Libby raised her left thigh and crossed it over the right and squeezed them together. I assumed that her movement was creating a kind of friction against her clit. Tears began to form in her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks, its wetness traced across her cheek, her neck, and eventually into her hair.

Libby began to lick her lips, and I could see how dry they'd become. It's as if all of her body's moisture had flooded her wet sex, leaving nothing for anywhere else. It seemed that her hands and legs were competing for access to her pussy. She seemed to savor the pressure that her squeezing legs created, but at the same time, the wet folds of her cunt desired the more focused touch of her fingers.