. 10-12

X.

Initially Matt drifted through The Club mainly as an incidental participant in the various activities and scenarios and parties. His performance was rarely assertive; never the instigator or dominant, he took direction from others – listened and did as he was told; occasionally he merely followed suit. Usually his participation was as an extension of the dominator, although, he was given opportunities to try out other roles. And he occasionally, subtly moved into positions in which he was an extension of the primary submissive instead. It inspired odd feelings; gave him pause to think.

During the following period – weeks, months –Matt established a network of his own within The Club. He became more comfortable and more confident in joining parties. Sometimes the scenes in which he joined had nothing to do with dominance or submission – just unrestrained sex and lust. Immersed in a miasma of stimulation, Matt’s involvement there was very much escapism, although, having realized that, he further realized that he wasn't about to do anything about it. So, he continued to just cruise through Club life – in and out of whatever he came across within that insulated world.

Arriving one afternoon, Matt stopped to speak with a couple of familiar faces in the foyer. Nigel was in his early fifties and Tiffany maybe a few years younger. They said they had reserved a room upstairs and invited Matt to join them for a drink. Seeing no reason not to, he accepted.

The room was one that he had only ever glimpsed from the door. It was a classic woman's bed/sitting room – all frill and lace. In the middle stood an ornate four poster bed, draped with pastel sheers and fringed shams. On either side of the bed were matching night tables – the drawers of one, it became apparent, contained any number of sex toys, oils and lubricants; the other contained long silk scarves, soft braided ropes and supple leather straps – aids to gentle restraint. On one side of the bed there stood a majestic old armoire, which was in fact the liquor cabinet, and across the room was a large mirrored dresser on which stood a complete selection of make-up and perfumes, the drawers stocked with assorted lingerie. Two leather wing chairs bracketed a small side table at the foot of the bed. It was into one of these that Tiffany collapsed with a loud sigh while Nigel went to the armoire to pour drinks.

"I can't believe it. At last!" Tiffany said to no one in particular.

"Sit down Matt." Nigel indicated the other chair. "Sherry everyone?"

Matt accepted the drink and sat, feeling a little ill at ease. He didn't really know these people well and had never actually been active with them. He just listened as they spoke – as they unwound. He was surprised to learn that they were married to one another. Suddenly he wished he could or would tell Jenn.

"I love our daughter dearly," Tiffany said with a sparkling giggle, "She married a lovely boy and they have an adorable baby, but..." She took a sip of her glass before putting it down and beginning to impatiently squirm her panties out from beneath her dress without getting up. "...but, three weeks was long enough for a while."

"I'm glad they came," Nigel added philosophically, "Still it's been a bit of a long drought." He raised his glass, "Glad they're gone."

"Cheers," Tiffany replied, raising her glass with one hand while fanning her dress with the other, as if to cool her now bare bush.

"How about you, Matt? Married? Children?"

Matt sputtered for a moment. The question had hit him from out in left field. "Well, I..." He gave an abbreviated version of his life over the past several years, and found he had tears in his eyes when he had finished speaking. Tiffany expressed her sympathy by climbing onto his lap and crushing her breasts against his chest while covering his face with her kisses. Nigel joined in with an arm around Matt's shoulder and a hand between his wife's legs.

The warmth of their spontaneous embrace inundated Matt's psyche. His hands found their way up and under Tiffany's dress to release her bra strap then migrated around to insinuate themselves under the loose cups, moulding and kneading her bosom. In response Tiffany's hands dropped to Matt's lap and began to unloose his rapidly growing erection. Nigel continued to caress her pudendum and showered her neck, jaw and ear with kisses, as Matt passionately returned kisses on her lips and eyes and nose and cheeks. The initial compassion had rapidly metamorphosed to elemental passion, and the demands of lust overpowered all.

In one fluid motion, Tiffany slipped from Matt's lap, allowing his hands to pull her dress and bra over her head and off her arms. She seemed to have landed with her mouth completely engulfing his pego. Her hands tunneled into his shirt to tweak his nipples, while her husband opened his pants and, grabbing her hips, thrust himself deep into the velvet folds of her slick vagina. Matt cupped his hands over the back of her head, and, closing his eyes, fought against the urge to just blow his load right then and there. The bobbing of Tiffany's head was accentuated by the bucking caused by Nigel's solid cock pounding her from behind. With her fingers still twiddling his nipples, Matt thought he was done for, just as Tiffany moved with a magician's sleight and bounced up away from her two lovers onto the bed.

Matt followed directions all afternoon as he and Nigel serviced and were serviced by an insatiable Tiffany. In the end Matt had come twice, once in her mouth and once in her ass while Nigel pumped simultaneously into her cunt. Nigel had come three times. "Practice my boy," he claimed modestly, "that's all, just practice." Matt, exhausted but satisfied, finally left them, still groping and moaning on the bed. He felt dazed.

They were married, he pondered, but still managed to satisfy their cravings together. Why couldn't he tell Jenn? She would join him; of that, he was reasonably sure. He should just tell her; invite her along. He should.

Despite their slow drift apart, Matt still picked up Dara from time to time and always had a word with her when they passed; until suddenly, one day – she became very aloof. He had stopped by her place and given her a lift to The Club. She had been quiet and withdrawn all the way there but had denied any problem when he asked. She left him quickly in the foyer, without acknowledging him. Puzzled by her abrupt indifference, he wondered if he had done something to offend her. After he had changed, he went out in search of her, to ask her what was wrong. He saw her for a moment but when she caught sight of him she disappeared, seeming almost to flee from him. Her sudden open avoidance was unsettling and, feeling like the wind had been taken out of his sails, he retired to the lounge for a drink. He needed to mull this over. He sat sipping his scotch for a few moments before Stewart approached him. "I say, my good man," he began, "May I have a word with you?"

Matt sensed that it would be something to do with Dara. Perhaps he had taken to this, The Club, all too well; perhaps Stewart was jealous, regretting his sponsorship. Still, Stewart was as jovial as ever in his greeting, and asked Matt, almost rhetorically, if he might join him.

"Absolutely," Matt replied, indicating the empty chair next to him. "Something to drink?"

"No. Thank you." Stewart settled himself into the chair and gave Matt an intense, appraising sort of look, before taking a deep breath and beginning. "I'll get right to the point, Matt. I've asked Dara to stop acknowledging you," he watched Matt's face, as if searching for a reaction. Matt deliberately kept his face neutral, which wasn't really hard as the news didn't, for some reason, surprise him even slightly – it was, in fact, a relief to find out that it wasn't him or at least not directly. "I mean no offense by it." He paused in thought, then seemed to change the subject. "You appear to be doing very well here. What do you think of the place? Eh?"

Matt surprised himself with the ease with which he gave his reply. "I quite like it," his training as a child when speaking to elders never having quite left him, he added, "Sir. But I'm still learning the ropes." Then he hesitated. He wanted to know why Stewart had forbid Dara to speak with him, but he didn't want to offend the elder by asking.

Stewart beat him to it. "Ah, the ropes, yes." A slight smile crossed Stewart's face before he went on. "I hope you don't mind – about Dara, I mean – but your – uh – presence – active presence in her life interferes with our developing relationship – if you know what I mean." Matt nodded but said nothing. He guessed that, in spite of it all, he actually did know what Stewart meant. "It's nothing you did, don't get me wrong." His smile was warm and reassuring. "So I just figured I'd better tell you myself, for, as you’re aware, our lovely friend will say nothing – literally."

"Well, thanks for letting me know."

"I understand that the two arrived together, today. Don't worry about her; I'll get her home." With that, Stewart stood up and extended his hand to Matt. "Thanks. I'm glad you understand."

"No problem," Matt muttered, as Stewart turned and left him – standing in the posh lounge attired in nothing but his silk briefs and happi jacket.

After that, Dara looked through him and treated him like a stranger when their paths crossed, as they did less and less frequently; until any contact at all was purely incidental. Infatuation had been extinguished by the sensory overload in which Matt was becoming immersed. Dara had, it seemed, been 'just a phase'. He was busy moving on and out – diversifying, while she was apparently centering – becoming increasingly submissive. Matt supposed that was the developing relationship Stewart had alluded to. Matt noticed more and more, whenever he saw her, that her downcast eyes had taken on a permanent soft focus. They had well and truly gone their separate ways.

XI.

Menages à trois, large orgies, intimate gatherings, group disciplines, individual submissions, command performances, gambling functions; Matt's repertoire of experiences continued to grow as he became more and more involved – immersed deeper and deeper in the promiscuity of The Club and its members.

Moments after pulling out of the mad rush of traffic along Marine Way onto the rather sad and narrow Wiggins Road, Matt crossed the railway tracks and felt like he'd entered another world – another time. He passed the no exit sign and meandered along between the ditches, over the humped and cracked blacktop, driving slowly until he spied the inconspicuous card operated gate. It still amazed him that the card – his card – allowed him access to the long winding drive that took him from Marshland Drive, the narrow, little dead-end street, to a modest parking lot on the river side of a rather plain building.

The Club stood anonymously – a newish, nondescript three storey building, hidden from view by massive blackberry brambles, in an industrial area down on the Fraser flats of South Burnaby. A fence along the dike was hidden by the scrub and brambles that descended to the river's edge. The few neighbouring factories and warehouses were apparently set off in like isolation; they were completely out of sight and hearing of The Club. Only the noise of a tug, tackling a log boom on the river, occasionally pierced the serenity of the establishment. It was an especially quiet area. From the entrance, it was hard to tell what city one might be in, or if in a city at all. The gyms, spas, kitchen, and utilities occupied the bottom floor. A lavish main lounge, several smaller parlours, a few comfortable rooms and a quietly elegant dining room took up the middle floor. Bedrooms and cells made up the uppermost floor. All of the walls were soundproofed.

What Matt had only begun to be aware of was that the place was completely covered by video surveillance. He had seen right from the start a video camera on a tripod stand here or there in various rooms, but more recently, he had begun to notice remote control cameras mounted inconspicuously in many of the rooms. Thinking of Ira Levin's novel Sliver, he imagined there might be many more than he had yet seen. It gave him pause for thought – but not enough to forsake the thrill of the freedom he had discovered there. He was to learn later that there was a full video mixing and editing studio on the bottom floor. Down in the basement, among the utilities there was also a workshop for fabricating some of collars, straps, and such devices of leather and wood and chain and silk as might be needed from time to time. Still, from the outside, the building was entirely inconspicuous and ordinary looking, except that it gave no opportunity to unauthorized eyes and was completely void of identification.

Matt felt, when he entered the place, as though he were leaving himself behind in another place – guiltily sneaking away from reality, from life as he knew it; sneaking into some dim and exciting, yet, somehow sordid place.

Sometimes Matt would tell Jenn he had been at the office, implying he had been there all day when he had really been at The Club for most of the time. Occasionally, although less and less frequently, he actually would drop in to the office, even if only to stay for a few minutes. He felt bad about his constant fibbing – felt trapped by his own lies. Whenever possible he would just say nothing.

He often considered revealing his ignoble secret to Jenn, maybe even inviting Jenn to join him – yes, involve her in his fantasies – but he invariably procrastinated, unsure of her reaction or his – afraid to burst the bubble – his fragile reality. He thought that she would probably embrace the idea – a new adventure, but he couldn't bring himself to share it with her, for reasons he couldn't quite understand himself – greed, shame, fright, jealousy?

While he still managed to be home in the evening with his wife from time to time, he stayed out late frequently, at first making excuses, then not saying anything at all. He knew he was hurting her, and worrying her, but didn't know what to do next. He felt like a real shit. And it seemed to be getting worse.

Matt opened his eyes to the dawn. “Where am I? Oh, yeah, at home. In my own bed.” His mouth felt fuzzy and his limbs leaden. The marital sex last night – late last night and long overdue – had been great, hadn't it? Well, not really. Once again, Jenn had been preoccupied and had not even got there, despite a plethora of positions and gymnastics. She was obviously tense – worried about him and their apparently withering relationship. Before the accident, she had always had at least a couple of climaxes per session. Last night, they had tried it orally, manually, vaginally, and anally; she had sat on his face long and hard; they had spent ages in soixante-neuf, but all to no avail. In the end, he had taken her in missionary position and they had fallen asleep exhausted in a tender yet frightened embrace.

Suddenly awake, Matt became aware of Jenn's warm body against him. He paused for a moment, savouring her delicious, familiar scent, her touch, her aura – force-field. Her soft even breathing told him she was still fast asleep. She seemed at peace, and her angelic – what? – innocence? – angelic innocence was suddenly a potent stimulant. Carefully Matt slid himself beneath the covers and quietly shuffled himself down the bed. The heady aroma of her pubis, still redolent with their love of a few hours earlier, was almost more than Matt could stand. He positioned himself carefully, paused momentarily, then fixed his face to her muff.

He had always relished the warm fuzzy feeling of her bush, her pubic mound soothing against his cheek. Her scent mingled with the pungent smell of old love and sweat to waft into his olfactory awareness. Sometimes he used to just lay his face there and do nothing. Jenn would wake to find him sleeping blissfully with his face nuzzled in her crotch. Sadly, he thought, it had been a long time since then. That morning, although Jenn still slept, he felt frisky once again – actually, more than that, he felt driven. He attacked her genitals with a hunger especially for her that he had not recently known.

As she woke smiling and tingling, her urinary alarms began to jangle. Wriggling and twisting in an agony/ecstasy, she whispered, "Just a minute. I've got to pee." Matt ignored her. She struggled and complained, "Matt...," enjoying, nonetheless, the growing tensions. Matt would not cease. With him relentlessly tonguing her, she struggled to the edge of the bed – getting increasingly desperate to empty her strained bladder. With a combination laugh and cry, "Don't...," she planted her feet and began to drag him, face planted firmly against her labia and arms locked around her thighs, toward the ensuite door.

"Matt," she shrieked, "I've really got to go!" To which the only reply was a muffled moan from between her legs and a tightening of his arms around her.

Giggling and whining, laughing and crying, she managed to drag him, his knees thumping across the floor, into the bathroom. She pleaded and beat upon his head with her hands.

"You're cruel!" He managed to pin her against the vanity, forcing his tongue further into her slit, his nose bumping against her stiffening clitoris.

Finally she let out a plaintive scream, "Matt!!" and could hold on no more. Her dam burst and the pee flowed forcefully and freely over Matt's face and down his chest. Matt kept his tongue firmly in place, continuing to bother her genitals despite the deluge. As the flow hit full force, as she lost control completely, her body spasmed in the throes of a most violent orgasm, the likes of which he had not recently seen from her.

A vision of Dara tied to her bed, the first time he had ever done her, flashed graphically through his head. The orgasms, this one and that, were very similar – both incredibly intense.

Matt's tongue went on and on, joined then by his fingers, ignoring or possibly encouraged by the yellow stream and puddle gathering at his knees. Jenn's shaking body had barely begun to relax when another paroxysm of ecstasy tore through her. Still he kept on. As the third crisis passed and the final climax gave way to denouement and afterglow, Matt stated, rather dazed, surprised and pointlessly, "Well, golden showers. We've never done that before," and began to softly sing the old Beatles lullaby

Golden Slumbers

with only slightly different words.

While Jenn showered, Matt mopped up. It was sort of a funny carefree feeling that rippled through him. He cleaned up the puddle with no more concern than if it had been a 'puppy's mistake'. By the time he got to the shower, Jenn was just stepping out so he gave her a loving kiss before heading in. She was very subdued. Saying not a word, she merely glanced up as he closed the shower stall door. He caught her sheepish half-smile; from the sad distance in her eyes seeped some sort of final, profound resignation. Puzzled, he stepped into the invigorating heat of the shower. When, at last, he emerged from the bathroom, he felt rejuvenated and happier or, at least, more at peace than he had for quite a while. But it was, he could tell, a fragile peacefulness – a peacefulness that rested tentatively upon an amorphous melancholy; he could sense it running deep within him. Again, he resolutely refused to examine that sector of his soul.

Entering the bedroom, Matt found it empty. "Jenn?" he called gently so as not to rupture the blanket of tranquility. Wrapped in his towel he headed down the hall, looking from room to room. He discovered her crying in the girls' room. She didn't acknowledge him at all as he quietly entered and stood behind her, not knowing exactly what to do. Then, without the slightest movement, she said in a low voice, "We can sell the house now." Matt replied only by putting his arms around her and pulling her back gently into his chest. They stood there for a silent age, barely rocking, lost in their own sad thoughts.