The Jazz Club 1

Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional mind control, rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.

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A saxophonist cuts the conversational murmur to ribbons with a dizzying array of raucous melodies. His face is a caricature of puffed out cheeks and tiny squinting eyes atop an appropriately rotund physique.

Marijuana smoke billows its fragrant dance between pockets of light. Somewhere in the corner there's a man sitting, just barely visible, a fish out of water in pristine Gatsby brogues, his muscular physique gobbled up by the ornately crafted cushion seat holding him hostage, his Savile Row pinstripe straining under the duress.

Yet he's happy, and sips calmly on his Giuseppe Quintarelli, for he has found his role in life, despite the arduous, oft painful journey of acceptance it has proved to be.

His gaze is affixed to an adjacent sofa, where I'm nestled on all fours, arms and legs drowning in kitsch, faux fur cushions. The straps of my evening dress hang languidly off my shoulders, my ass is raised and exposed, shamelessly displaying the flared petals of my glistening, expectant cunt.

A tall, willowy stranger lurks behind me. He's delightfully young, as are the myriad others looking on from armchairs and sofas befitting the club's louche clientele. Other than the suave pinstripe, I've got twenty years on all of them - a woman in her prime cavorting amongst over zealous boys who know not that they know nothing. On this night I will drink heartily from their fizzing vibe of youthful virility - an elixir to be imbibed to excess.

The alpha of their number slaps my bare buttocks assertively. It's utterly humiliating. I whimper with delight and lift my hind higher, offering myself to his wants, attention, and desires.

He'll screw me hard, brutally hard, so too his lieutenant, the one with a handful of my hair in his fist as he fucks my mascara streaked, tear strewn, saliva covered face with his fat, veiny cock. They'll take turns cumming in my mouth, in my hair, and across my flushed cheeks - it's what the alpha keeps whispering to me in lurid sweet nothings.

Occasionally a phone flashes to a cacophony of juvenile sniggers.

On any other night, in any other place, I'd lambast the faux pas, but instead I widen my gait with a shimmy of my knees, assisting those who would so demean me. Youthful fingers eagerly grip my ass and pull my flourishing labia ever wider as the dimly lit room erupts into illumination with each click, click, click. The indignity is boundlessly exquisite.

'Gape her cunt!'

'Put your fist up her and I'll get the shot!'

I'm nothing but sexual trash to these teenage deviants, a worthless 'milf' with holes that 'deserve' abusing. It's excitably declared to me over and again, that and how they'll leave me sore, soiled and broken.

It's been an hour since the alpha first accosted me in the women's rest room, disdainfully bending me over the sink with its cracked mirror and dripping faucet as his clan gathered like a rabid swarm.

I lost count of how many took their turn as I clutched the counter top and peered back through the mirror at the man in the Gatsby brogues and tidy single breasted. He could have played the chivalrous knight in bespoke threads, putting an end to all those boys eagerly jockeying for their chance to consensually non-consent me. Yet he did nothing, his gaze unwavering, eyes fizzing salaciously as he looked on from the toilet doorway at youth having its way.

There were others too, content to look on vicariously at the youthful scrum of hands and stiff pricks tugging my knickers to my ankles and yanking thoughtlessly at the straps of my Maticevski evening dress.

'You don't rock up in seamed stockings if you're not looking to get fucked!'

'No bra either!'

That was my consent, apparently.

I've no clue where my knickers ended up, somewhere on the urine stained floor, no doubt - a torn Fleur of England trophy trodden underfoot and left as an homage of what came to be. I found myself fixating on it as the alpha and his wingman upped their roughhouse, spit-roast ante from atop the sofa they'd dragged me to, post powder room gangbang.

...You're too young to know how to do that!...

I'd have hollered it aloud, had the young dominant's hand not been robustly squeezing my throat as I drowned in sumptuous cushions to the riotous jazz melee. As it transpired, the one asphyxiating me offered his own eloquently stunted musings instead.

'Such a dirty fucking slut!'

So it is, my truth, for on this night I'm an amenable addict to youthful stamina and all its repressed, pent up aggression. Inside the jazz club I'm nothing but fuck meat to pimple popping arrogance empowered to run amok. They will do anything and everything they want to me. It's why I'm here. It's degradation 101.

Only when the Gen-Z horde skulk away, sordidly sated, will I return my attention to the man in the tailored pinstripe and gleaming Gatsby shoes, the man whom I suddenly notice is clutching my panties in his fingers, as he waits so patiently in that ungainly cushion seat - the man that is my husband.