This is what I envision as the first of a series of stand-alone stories centering on activities at the New Xanadu sex club. It contains at its core the idea that led to the 12-part novella, New Xanadu, as its back-story. You don't need to read the back-story to appreciate what's going on here; but if you like this one, you'll probably like what came before.
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Hi, I'm John, and I'm still a sex addict. Also, I am now the managing partner of New Xanadu, LLC, which runs Chicagoland's newest, classiest, most discreet and by far most expensive and exclusive sex club. Not surprisingly, a sex club sees some interesting things go down. It took no time at all for the first and, for me personally, the weirdest of these to happen. In fact, it occurred on the first night of our promotional opening.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
A lot had happened in the four months since the events chronicled in New Xanadu. On the personal side, Gloria and I had completed our divorce. I continued to attend the orgies of our "core group" of sex addicts on most weekends, though the strain in my relationship with Martha and my inability to get over my annoyance with Salome made these less appealing. Joan and I had continued on very good terms, but her work schedule could be grueling and she wanted to play the field more, so our couplings became less frequent. However, lovely woman that she is, to make up for this she had made a series of introductions to several adventurous young ladies who she had met through performing her EMT duties, including Cindy, a very nice 22-year-old pathology lab tech who was my date on the fateful night.
After the no-holes barred orgies of our rebel SAA group, Cindy was certainly a change for me. While she had had several lovers during her college years, all of them had been young and, like her, relatively inexperienced. She had learned to fuck and suck cock with enthusiasm though not finesse, and one of the charms that dating her presented was a chance to guide her and expand her horizons. I certainly was able to expand her asshole, as she gave me her anal cherry, something Gloria had not been able to do, having given hers away before we met. In spite of all the sex I've had, the memory of the night that she bent over my bathroom vanity top and said, staring at me in the mirror "I want you to fuck my ass now. But be gentle because nobody has ever done that before," is special. Her excitement as I lubed her ass and reamed it with my fingers; her grimaces and moans and brief cry of pain as my cock entered and stretched her; and her look of triumph when she had taken all of me and stopped biting her bottom lip long enough to give me a big smile in the mirror - these still get me hard whenever I think about them.
As for the club, on the legal side we had set up our limited liability partnership with me as managing partner and Mary's interest shielded by a series of front corporations that it would take a lot of digging, here and abroad, to get through to her. On the physical side, thanks to Mary's imagination and Thomas's building skills, our Palladian pile of a "club house" had come together nicely.
Mary had decided that the main floor would be devoted to a number of interest-defined rooms. If you were in one of them, and on the far side of a line dividing the room, you were interested in doing what that room offered. If you were on the entrance side of the line, you were interested in watching. This got rid of the need for things like colored wrist bands that some clubs used to identify guests' openness to various activities, or the need to chat people up to find out what they were in to.
On one wing of the main floor we had Sappho's Island, and on the opposite wing we had the Stonewall Inn. In the long hall of the main floor we had the Zebra Room, the Windward Passage and, in what had been the old ballroom, Union Station, where any couplings were allowed but where we hoped that pulling trains would be popular. Mixed in among these was a small office, men's and women's changing rooms and several bathrooms. The projection behind the long hall that had housed the formal and informal dining rooms was converted to a bar and buffet lounge area and a check room for guests' street clothing.
The second floor housed 12 bedrooms, each with a king-sized bed, which were more or less private depending on whether the occupants left the door and hallway window curtains open, plus three bathrooms, each servicing a quad of rooms.
The 60' by 60'basement now contained our BDSM dungeon, divided into the Domina's Room and the Master's Room, each with appropriate toys and fixtures, a much reduced kitchen, a storage and laundry room and our well disguised security room. We had installed electronic equipment to insure that the guests would not be able to use cell phones, cameras or other recording devices. However, because we wanted to be able to spot trouble before it happened, each of our areas was fully wired for sight and sound. During open hours our security room was manned by one of the people from the security company recommended by Jack Doe and, to keep the Sheriff happy, a local deputy who knew his job depended on keeping his mouth shut about what he saw and heard here.
Because by this point we had run out of money, the attic was pretty much as it had been, spartan rooms that had been suitable for servants, with a couple of small bathrooms and storage space. We had managed to fit in one LULA elevator that connected the main, second and attic floors, and we had the existing residential elevator and dumbwaiter that connected the basement and the main floors. But, until we got more money, developing the attic and installing even one more elevator was out of the question.
For both financial and security reasons, our staff was minimal. We planned to operate with only 6 regular housekeepers, which we felt would be enough due to an ingenious sheet-changing apparatus that Thomas's son Gareth had invented for us. To honor our pledge to hire local, housekeepers were some of the most sexually-liberated members of the families of the Sheriff, our farmer-neighbor, and the two politicians to whom we had had to extend premier memberships to grease the skids. Their pay and benefits were not exorbitant, but as an added perk they were allowed to participate as club members whenever they were not working. Our bartender was actually one of Mary's bodyguards, usually Ron, Sam or Joyce, which provided us with some extra muscle in the unlikely event that it was needed. The office "staff" consisted of the partners, except for Mary, whose partnership interest was further shielded to honor our commitment to her father to avoid notoriety for her. She would appear in the club only as a paying member. In order to limit our staff, honor our commitment to "buy local" and avoid some licensing issues, food for our buffet was purchased from some local restaurants and held in to our kitchen until it was needed, at which point it was sent up to the buffet via the dumbwaiter. What wasn't used that night was donated to a local charity.
Our clothing scheme required that outside outer clothing be deposited in our check room, leaving members in undergarments of their choice, with outerwear that we provided.. Our main "uniform" was an off the shoulder short tunic of the sort worn by Rosanna Podesta in the 1956 movie Helen of Troy when she found Paris washed up on the beach. For us, this had the advantage of being a simple, easily-laundered unisex garment; loose enough to be worn with one breast exposed if that's what the wearer wanted. For the wearer it had the advantages of leaving something to the imagination, and of being easy to take off and put back on quickly. For those who didn't like the tunic, other choices ran from our nice fluffy robes of the sort that we had used at Mary's and Martha's apartments, their own creations (colorful bustiers and topless corsets were popular with the ladies), or running around butt naked if that's what they preferred. Sandals were provided for anyone not wanting to wear heels or go barefoot.
Another clothing item, on which there was no choice, was a Venetian mask covering the upper part of the face. These were required at all times. For members (and their guests) who had submitted current STI-free health records, these were white or, if they preferred, could be decorated and expanded upon as they wished. (The guy who showed up one night in a faux-Viking helmet gave us a bit of a pause. We had to agree that it qualified since it covered the eyes and nose, though we did insist that he take off the horns for safety's sake. We were very happy when, having made his point, he switched to one of out standard masks instead.) For those who had not established their STI-free status, their mask had to be pink; and any changing of the mask on the premises was a cause for expulsion and forfeiture of their membership. With that crucial bit of information on display, we left it up to the members as to whether they would use condoms, which we supplied in every room.
