Sorority #9: Sex Club

The last weeks of the semester fly by. Turkey Day with my family, term papers, studying for finals. Along the way a very pleasant post-Salon evening with Silver Fox, and an equally nice date with Hero -- though while he's a wonderful lover, he really doesn't resonate with my kink.

I almost skip the last Salon of the semester due to, "

Surfing the crimson wave

," as Cher expressed it so eloquently in

Clueless

. But I'm bored with academic cramming so I make a late appearance -- though with no interest in having anything to do with men in any way, shape, or form.

Sultan is in attendance and, of course, immediately makes a pass at me. I politely let him know that while I had enjoyed being his harem-slave for a night, I'm not interested in another encounter.

He takes it rather well, actually. A little disappointed, perhaps, but not crushed. After all, as he quickly lets me know, I'm not the only bird in his aviary -- so to speak.

Once that's off the table, we have a nice chat. Somehow, it drifts into personal fantasies, unusual desires, and how to safely satisfy them. Later, I realize that our conversation didn't so much '

drift

' in that direction as he led it there.

It turns out that

Sultan and Concubine

isn't really his thing at all -- though he assures me he did have a good time playing the role with me. He is circumspect about what his personal proclivities actually are and I accept his nonverbal indication that I would not resonate with them. Some books, after all, are best left unread.

What he does want me to know is that he's a member of a very exclusive, very expensive, 'Private Members Club' in the city.

As he describes it, PMC sounds more like a business than a club. A business providing venues and safe facilitation for consensual encounters and romantic role play among its members -- with no transactional fees involved. So, no, definitely

not

a brothel, but rather a sex-club.

Oh? Really? A sex club? How intriguing.

He explains that almost all of the club's dues-paying members are of the male persuasion, successful, and mostly middle-age (or older). Good looking, free-spirited, young women, however, can apply for the Ladies Guest List. If accepted, they pay no dues at all -- at least not monetary ones.

He offers to introduce and vouch for me -- if I'm interested.

Given my current lack of enthusiasm for dhamps (which I didn't mention to him), so long as it really is totally private, completely consensual, and not coercive in any way -- points I press him on -- yes, I am most definitely interested.

* * *

So Fall Semester is finally finished and I'm on my own for Winter Break. While I didn't quite make the President's list, I did finish with a 3.8 GPA which is solidly in Dean's List territory. An achievement in which I take some pride, thank you very much.

I'll continue to live at Phi-Delt over the break, though I'll certainly spend some Christmas time with my family in my old, now emotionally-distant, teenage room.

But this morning, I'm stepping off the early train to the city. Which is a bit odd for me because I don't really know anyone here. All I have is a reservation at a Holiday Inn that Sultan recommended, a lunch date with him, after which he'll introduce me to the PMC club.

It's one of those chill, dreary, mid-December days, not really raining or snowing, but windy gusts spitting tiny beads of ice in my face that briefly stick to my eyelashes and bring a warm blush to my cheeks.

I knew what to wear when rushing Phi-Delta. But what's appropriate for checking out -- and being checked out by -- a sex club? Hot? Classy? Slutty? Femmie? Business casual? Normally I could ask my Phi-Delt sisters for fashion advice, but not, I think, in this instance.

Under my blue wool cape with the gothic hood, I'm wearing a long-sleeve, fitted, white-cashmere sweater and a suede leather, front-button skirt that almost reaches my knees, sheer black panty hose, and brown leather, knee-high boots with the two and half inch block heels. (From the lofty wisdom of my 20 years, I can assure you that stiletto heels and icy sidewalks do not play well together.)

After lunch at a classy bistro, Sultan directs our cab to a begrimed-brick factory building in a rundown, post-industrial neighborhood. It has a drive-through alley blocked by obviously new, black-steel, palisade fencing. Sultan hands the gate access code to the cabbie who punches it in and then drops us off in front of a newly-renovated entrance.

"Never come through this neighborhood on foot," Sultan cautions me as the cab drives off. "Certainly never at night or when you're Dressed. Once the club adds you to the list, you'll be provided with the gate code which is changed frequently."

Inside, it's all spiffy, renovated-modern, clean red brick, posts and beams of solid-oak, glass doors, an attractive receptionist, and a new elevator that whisks us up to plush offices on the fifth floor.

Sultan introduces me to Morgana -- an alias, I assume -- and after brief pleasantries he leaves so that we can get acquainted. She's a strikingly handsome woman in her 50s. By her posture and poise I know she must have been a stunning beauty in her day. Sultan did not give her any title, so I think of her as the Dean of Women at a very selective private college.

Morgana takes my cape and hangs it on a coat rack, then looks me over. Carefully. I wait. She smiles a friendly welcome and I know I've passed the initial appearance test.

"Would you like a tour?" she asks. "Our ground floor lounge is open from six to midnight seven days a week, and our adjacent dining room is open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from six to eleven.

"Both are closed now, of course, but when you see them I think you'll be very pleased. So let's start in the basement."

The basement is an actual, no-fooling dungeon. X-frames, torture racks, and whipping posts. Racks of whips and riding crops in all sizes and types, leather hoods, ball-gags, and black leather somethings that I have no clue about.

Ewww!

Suddenly, I hear the excited barking of large dogs on the other side of a sturdy wood door. "Our kennel," Morgana explains, "we have specially-trained great danes who love meeting new guests."

I don't ask. But whatever that means --

double ewww!

Morgana's laughs softly. "I can see that our basement is not for you. Let me show you some of our more conventional rooms."

We take the elevator up to the second floor and step out into what looks like the hallway of an elite, upscale hotel. The rooms are all luxurious, with large wrought-iron beds and fancy private baths with walk-in showers sized for two.

The third and fourth floors are themed 'playrooms' large and small. A harem seraglio, a drawing room of opulent 1920s decadence, what appears to be a farm or ranch hayloft, a medieval bower for captive maidens, and others yet to be explored.

One room seems taken from a western saloon as imagined by Hollywood, with a round, eight-seat poker table in the center and curtained alcoves with narrow beds around the perimeter.

"Some of our members enjoy strip-poker," Morgana explains. "In the most common variation, the male with the highest hand wins a chip, the female with the lowest hand removes an item of clothing. If she's down to her last garment, the man with the most chips takes her into one of the alcoves where she removes that last item just for him."

Morgana reads me like an open book. Basement -- definitely no. Playrooms -- oh yes.

We return to her office and she offers me tea -- Darjeeling -- and then asks if I'm interesting in being added to their Ladies Guest List.

"Tell me about the men who are members."

She smiles, obviously it's a question she expects, "If you're looking for young Prince Charming with movie-star looks and life-long love, I doubt you'll find him here. A few of our members are in their 20s and 30s, but most are older. Our ladies, though, do insist that we not cater to men who are gross, obese, repulsive, or who behave despicably. We can, and we do, expel members for cause."

In other words, not so different from Phi-Delt.

"And I'm always free to say 'No'?"

"Most definitely yes. Absolutely yes. And believe me, a young beauty like you will be in the catbird seat. Members will fall all over themselves to accommodate whatever you desire -- or whatever they can talk you into. But no one will coerce you into anything you don't want to do for fear that you'll end your membership."

I don't bother to hide my interest.

But wait, not so fast. First, there are rules I have to agree to. Lots of rules. Pages of them. So many, that they are categorized.

Rules regarding coercion which is totally forbidden. Health & safety rules. No harmful hurting. Slaps, spanking, and light whipping only if consensual. Privacy protection for everyone, no cameras or phonepix (except with special written permission in advance). Rules regulating money and gifts to ensure that law enforcement never has grounds for charging the club with illegal activities.

Normally, I'm not a rules-based kind of girl, but these make me feel much more secure.

Weekly blood tests for STDs, Covid, and God knows what else are required for all. Morgana gives me the brochure for a 24-hour lab with on-premise blood-draw and fast results. "Drop by there later this afternoon and by tomorrow evening you'll be good to go."

Pregnancy tests too, which reminds me that tomorrow begins the peak of my fertility cycle and that I'd be wearing a bindi dot if I were still submitting myself to dhamps -- which I'm most definitely

not

(I think).

She then hands me a long questionnaire that asks me to check Yes, No, Maybe, or Unsure for a long list of sexual activities. Some are easy: Anal-No! But I don't even know what more then half of the terms mean. I tell her I'll take it with me and bring it back when I've finished. Fortunately, I have my laptop back at the hotel and their WiFi is good. Thank God for the internet!

But the more important reason that I delay is that I need to really think about my kink, what I'm into -- and what I'm not. Yes, sexual domination by a powerful male without violence, degradation, or humiliation. But all this other stuff? Whoa! Who knew?

My surprise at her list of options doesn't faze Morgana at all. "No problem, bring it back with the other paperwork when you have your first session."

"Other paperwork?"

Morgana presents me with a packet of documents. Release Forms, Non-Disclosure Agreements, contact information, payment preferences. "As a guest, you're comped on dues," she explains, "but you're charged for food, drink, room rentals, costumes, and so on. Unless," she adds with twinkle in her eye, "some kindly member treats you. Which, in your case, is a dead certainty -- unless you wish otherwise."

I almost laugh. It had absolutely never occurred to me that a wicked, sinful, big city sex-club came with more forms to fill out than college registration. Well, okay, maybe a little hyperbole there, but still --

"Now before we proceed," Morgana continues, "you need to choose a safe word and an alias by which the other members will know you."

"Red" (of course). "And how about 'Desiree?'"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, that name has been retired. To have your name retired when you cease active participation is a great honor that must be earned."

"Is 'Delicia' available?"

Morgana smiles, "Good, we've never had a Delicia. Another thing though -- it's on your questionnaire but it would help me to know now -- how do you feel about other people watching?"

What? Exhibitionism? Strangers watching? I'd never even thought of it. My immediate reaction is '

Ewww, no way!

' But then my little imp of the perverse begins to whisper in the deepest recesses of my mind, '

Wouldn't it be hot to know others are watching as a powerful male takes, ravishes, and breeds me?

'

"Can we say 'No' for now and perhaps later change it to 'maybe?'"

"Of course. One last question before we get down to details. Condoms? Always? Never? Case-by-case? Whichever way you go might limit your choice in partners -- though, probably not by much."

I should have seen that one coming. The truth is, that for me skin-on-skin provides way more pleasure. And now that I'm now off-pill, it turns out that the theoretical possibility of conception heightens my arousal on some kind of deep, subconscious, biological level.

If I've really given up dhamps (have I?) I could go back on pill -- but that hadn't even occurred to me. Plan-B, weekly tests, and if necessary the discrete services of Mrs. Makeda, mean that I don't have to abandon that hypothetical female-destiny thrill. Which I don't want to do.

So the issue is STDs. I trust that Phi-Delt guests are discreet and well-tested so I'm willing to risk it. And, of course, dhamps do as they damn well please and no sister has the chutzpah to ask them if they get tested regularly.

Yet PMC is an unknown collection of male strangers. Yes, they're supposed to get tested, but do they? How risky is it?

"Everyone is tested. Each week? No exceptions? You actually check?"

Morgana nods. Firmly.

My emotions and my body want me to go bareback. But I dare not acknowledge that -- not to myself, not to Morgana. So I hedge, "Let's go with case-by-case."

"Okay, that's it for now. Once you've turned in your paper work and your name and photo are on our member list, you'll be welcome in the lounge any time. You'll also be notified of special events, receive individual invitations over our private chat channel, and be able to set up your own encounters.

"And as a welcome for newcomers, the first session you set up for yourself is free. Any ideas?"

I'd been thinking of something ever since I saw the private rooms. I outline what I'd like to try and she assures me there won't be any difficulty arranging it to my satisfaction.

I'd assumed that Morgana would be a little shocked -- or at least surprised -- by what I proposed. Wrong!

When was in high school, I once had a summer job at one of those 52-flavors ice cream parlors. The most popular flavor was vanilla. From the lofty perch of my Sweet-Sixteen sophistication, I'd looked down on the vanilla people as hopelessly lame.

(Sigh) Now I'm 20, and I've just discovered that in the sex-club world I'm a vanilla-girl myself.

* * *

The next evening, I'm in one of the club's plush bedrooms, wearing a white lace nightgown and a semi-transparent, pale blue peignoir. I'm sitting on an ottoman in front of a vanity table and mirror, slowly brushing my long blonde tresses while daydreaming about some handsome young lover sweeping me off my feet into long, blissful romance.

Without sound or warning, a large burly man wearing a black ski mask abruptly appears in the mirror behind me. I gasp in sudden terror. Before I can scream or flee, his big fist is before my eyes. There's a loud Snick! A long, thin dagger -- a switchblade -- materializes in his hand to threaten my face.

Panic paralyzes me. A knife! Who said anything about a knife?!? My mind freezes, locked in stasis between immediate visceral dread with echoes of Raphael, and my rational knowledge that I'm supposed to be in a consensual roleplay. Reality? Roleplay? I don't know. But my heart is pounding and I'm terrified.

Before I can think, or move, or say a word, he grabs my hair and pulls back my head to expose my vulnerable throat. He presses the cold edge his blade against the pulsing arteries in my neck. My breath freezes in my chest.

"Don't move. Don't scream." His voice is deep, powerful, harsh -- not loud, not shouting, but utterly menacing and completely commanding. I can feel the puffs of his breath against my ear. I try to say something, to plead for mercy, to beg for my life, but I'm so frightened I cannot utter a whisper.

"Do you understand?"

Unable to speak, all my attention focused on the blade pressing against my slender, vulnerable throat, I nod just enough for him to notice.

Abruptly, that tiny rational corner of my mind breaks through my panic. I see in the mirror that he's actually got the non-sharp, back-edge of his blade against my throat. My dread eases -- a bit.

"Your jewelry," the thug commands. "Give it to me."

It takes all my strength of will to raise my trembling hand and weakly point to the antique brass jewelry box on the vanity table.

With his blade still pressed against my throat, his other hand flips off the catch and opens it.

It's filled with bejeweled rings, bracelets and broaches all glittering with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds (fakes, of course).

He removes his knife from my neck and holds it in his teeth pirate-style while efficiently emptying the jewelry into a black nylon bag. I know I should take this opportunity to jump up and try to flee, but I'm still paralyzed by shock, and fear -- and excitement.

In a moment it's too late. His knife is again against my neck. Slowly, sensuously, he slides the dagger across my throat. I can barely prevent myself from collapsing in terror. But there's no pain, not even a trickle of blood, he's still using the back edge of his blade.

Yet he's also making it clear that with just a flip of his wrist he could reverse it and slash open my arteries. I would die in agony, my life's blood gushing down my body.

The thug's voice becomes husky and even more intense, "Now for your most precious jewel."

Slowly, almost languidly, he moves the knife from my throat and strokes the flat of the blade down the slope of my breast, and then across my nipples which have begun to grow sensitized, erect, hard.

He needs no words for me to understand that the pleasure of my body is now the jewel he intends to seize, possess, and ravish.

Against his male strength, against his deadly knife, I am helpless. I lick my dry lips. "Please," I whisper in a soft, trembling voice, "please don't hurt me."

Desperately, I bargain for my life, "I'll submit to you. I'll surrender my body to you. Take me. Use me for your pleasure. But please, promise that you won't hurt me."

His only answer is to once again hold the knife between his teeth while he uses both fists to rip apart the ties of my peignoir and strip it off my torso, leaving me in my white lace nightgown, my throbbing breasts straining against the thin fabric, my erect nipples prominently outlined.

Mesmerized, I watch in the mirror as he slides the blade down between my firm breasts. Taking care not to cut me, he slices through the negligee's elastic band just beneath my bosom, then cuts the two lacy shoulder straps so that the garment flows down to my hips exposing my flushed and aroused orbs to his gaze. And his touch.

Again he strokes my breasts with the cold flat steel of his deadly weapon. Slowly, carefully, he slides the back edge of the blade across my sensitized nipples. My body arcs in erotic terror -- and thrill. My white lace panties are now sopping wet.

Casually, he drops the knife on to the vanity table. It falls with a loud clack! Before I can react, his powerful strength lifts me up off the ottoman and spins me around like a leaf in a storm so that I am facing him while what's left of my nightgown slides down to the floor.

I'm weak with terror. My legs can't hold me, but before I collapse his arm is behind my back pressing me to his hard body so that I can feel his erection straining against his trousers.

He grabs my hair, pulls my head back, bends me back, and kisses me fierce and deep.

Instinctively I try to push back against him with the palms of my hands on his solid chest. But his strength is overpowering, my resistance is futile -- as I had known it would be.

I cease struggling. I helpless in his power.