Turned Inside Out

Turned Inside Out

Chapter 2: The Wet Pussy (Cat)

I feared the worse as I sped across San Francisco Bay toward East Palo Alto. What was my innocent wife thinking going out with her crazy ex-roommate tonight of all nights? Abby was at the peak of her fertility, and we were desperate to start a family. I knew she would never miss a chance to conceive our first child without good reason.

The empty wine bottles, the ashtray littered with marijuana butts, and the empty gel capsule on the coffee table suggested that Susan had gotten my sweet wife drunk and then drugged her. I had no idea what was in the pill, but I feared the worst. My hatred for that nasty bitch grew along with my mounting terror. What was in East Palo Alto that had attracted the attention of my wife's depraved friend?

Once across the Dumbarton Bridge, I turned west on Bay Road and then south into the heart of the slums. A couple of blocks from my destination, I found both sides of the street jammed with parked cars. The Find Friends app said I had arrived as I slowly drove past an old three-story manor house. A neon sign proclaimed the establishment was called the Wet Pussycat. The three letters 'cat' were flashing on and off, but they were mainly were off.

There was a line of people at the front door, and loud music poured out when the door opened. The large mansion looked like it had been built back in the 1920s as a bayside summer home for a wealthy San Francisco financier.

I knew the app wasn't accurate to more than a hundred feet, but a place named the Wet Pussy was precisely the kind of nightclub that would attract Susan.

I turned right at the next corner and discovered an alley running behind the big house. I had to drive a couple more blocks to find a parking place. Perhaps, I should have taken the time to develop a plan, but I had to know that my wife was safe. As I hurried toward the club, I realized I didn't want Abby to know I was spying on her. In the past, we had had some serious arguments about Susan and my overprotective nature.

So, I headed down the alley. I told myself all I wanted to do was catch a peek at my wife to make sure she was safe. I paused outside of a low fence and surveyed the back of the house. Of course, all the blinds were closed. I could see silhouettes on the shades of the second-floor windows of couples dancing, but there was no way I could tell if one of them was Abby. I pushed through a gate and crept up to a first-floor window. I looked through a crack in the curtains to observe a crowded room with tables surrounding a stage with a pole dancer wearing only a G-string and heels.

"Freeze, motherfucker! Get on your knees and put your hands in the air."

I turned and saw a muscular black man standing in the light coming from an open door. He had a big-ass pistol aimed at my chest. I nearly pissed myself as I dropped to my knees.

"Ok, asshole. What the fuck are you doing skulking around in the dark?"

"My wife's inside with her crazy girlfriend. I need to know if she's Ok."

"Why not use the front door? You look like you can afford the cover charge."

"I don't want to get in a fight with my wife. She'd be angry and embarrassed if she knew I was checking up on her."

I heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded like 'pathetic.'

He kept his pistol aimed at my head as he walked behind me.

"Don't move, or you'll be sleeping with the daisies tomorrow."

He jerked one hand down behind my back and handcuffed my wrist. I protested, but he quickly secured my other hand. I complained about the rough treatment when he pulled me to my feet, and half dragged me inside the building. He shoved me into a metal chair and secured the handcuffs to a metal rung behind my back.

The room was small and dimly lit, but six big monitors showed high-definition videos from various rooms in the club. One of the monitors showed a bedroom where a fat white guy was plowing his dick into a skinny woman with bleach-blond hair and big tits. I felt relieved when I saw it wasn't my wife. What kind of dance club was this?

I turned back to my captor and said, "You can't keep me here. You aren't the police."

"Shut up, asshole. I'm doing you a favor. I'm the head of security, and it's my job to keep an eye on things. So, I'm going to let you watch over my shoulder. I can spare a monitor so you can spy on your wife, and it'll only cost you a couple of Benjamins. Sounds like a bargain to me."

He didn't wait for my answer before pulling my wallet out of my shorts. He rifled through the contents and pulled out a credit card.

"Give me a moment while I run this. If it gets declined, I'll beat the crap out of you and sell your ass for the fun of it."

He got up and exited through a door to the inside of the house. I pulled hard on the tight handcuffs, but they were wrapped around something solid. I focused on the monitor showing a crowded dance floor, but I didn't see Abby in the mob. When the security guard returned, he was carrying a fifth of whiskey. He slipped my credit card into my wallet but left it on the table next to him.

"I get bored sitting here all night by myself. When I get bored, I get thirsty. I hope you don't mind, but I bought us some Jack Daniels with your card. Don't worry. I'll let you have your share."

He unscrewed the top and took a swig before holding it up to my lips. I was frightened, but it tasted good going down. I decided to try being friendly. Maybe, I could talk my way out of this mess.

I said, "My name is Steve. I'm sorry about causing trouble. I'm just worried about my wife."

The security guard laughed and took another swig. He looked at the bottle and said, "You can call me Jack. Yeah, Jack Daniels is my name. Ask me again, and I'll tell you the same."

I pretended to laugh at his joke. I'm an engineer, so I felt more comfortable talking hardware. 'Jack' seemed to be proud of his gear.

"Why do you have such an elaborate video system?"

Jack pointed to the monitor showing the fat white guy and the skinny blond."

"It pays for itself. That guy is a judge. Now, we have a video of his fat ass. If we ever get raided by the police, he'll throw the case out of court. Of course, we have videos of the police chief as well as most of the local officials. Ever since we installed cameras in all the rooms, they leave us alone."

I watched the monitors for a while but didn't see my wife. The Wet Pussycat was a big club with lots of rooms, and it was packed with a diverse crowd. The men were, for the most part, well dressed. Many were wearing suits and ties, and some were accompanied by women wearing sexy club dresses. There were a large number of scantily dressed women circulating through the manor. Some of them were only wearing lacy underwear. One big-breasted black woman wore only a red G-string. I saw a petite Asian woman who was utterly nude dancing with a pretty white girl sporting a Brazilian micro bikini.

I couldn't believe a place like this existed near the heart of Silicon Valley. "What kind of club is this?"

Jack grinned. "This place used to be a seedy whore house catering to a poor colored clientele. My boss bought the place when he retired as a successful porn star and began fixing the place up. After adding a bar and some pole dancers, the club started attracting white engineers from Silicon Valley. When some of his new customers brought their dates, he added a dance floor. He saw an opportunity when some of the local politicians showed up. He hired me for my muscles and technical skills to provide security and capture incriminating videos."

I searched the monitors unsuccessfully for a glimpse of my wife while Jack talked. The club was so large it would have taken hours for me to explore on foot. Fortunately, Jack regularly checked on every room in the manor, including a dozen or so private bedrooms that were always occupied by frequently changing couples or larger groups. The elaborate video system was perfect for the task of finding my wife.

"Please, can we search for my wife?"

"Hey, sure, buddy. Don't get your panties in a knot. What does she look like?"

It took a second to come up with appropriate words to describe her.

"My beautiful wife is a tall curvy woman with dyed blond hair that she wears in a braid. She's 5' 8" and about 132-pounds. I don't have any idea what she's wearing."

"Hell, that could be half of the women in the club. You said she came with a girlfriend. What's she look like?"

"Susan's a big-breasted redhead. She's a couple of inches shorter than my wife and a little heavier."

"Ok, I've seen a hot new redhead who was coming on to all the guys. Give me a second."

Jack flicked a switch to display a different camera and used a joystick to scan the dance floor. It didn't take long to find her. She was dancing with a muscular black dude sporting a heavy gold chain around his neck. Well, I guess you could call it dancing. Susan had her arms around the man's neck. Her lips were locked on his, and she was grinding her scantily clad body against his. The man's hands were under the back of Susan's short red dress, mauling her ass.

Jack laughed and took another drink from the bottle I'd paid for. "That's what I like to see. Sluts like her are why we don't ask pretty girls for a cover charge."

He poured more whiskey down my throat. Damn, if he kept giving me drinks, I was going to pass out.

"My wife should be nearby. She's too shy to get too far away from Susan."

Jack continued to scan the room. The crowd on the dance floor was constantly moving like a school of fish. The crowd parted, and I saw my wife from behind. Her partner was another black man who was dancing as close as possible to Abby. I let out my breath like I'd been punched in the gut. She was wearing a short chemise-style slip from her college days as a dress. The weight she'd gained since college meant the translucent satin cloth was stretched tight across her athletic body. Thankfully, her partner's hands were on Abby's trim waist and not grasping her curvy ass.

Once, when she took me shopping at an upscale boutique, I'd asked her what the difference was between the little black dress she was trying on and a black chemise she had purchased minutes ago in the lingerie department. Abby looked at me and smiled in a manner that suggested men were not capable of understanding the mysteries of the universe. To this day, I'm not sure of the difference between slips and dresses.

In this case, Abby's chemise was so translucent that no decent woman would consider wearing the garment as a dress. Her red bra strap and the thin red waistband of her panties were visible through the sheer satin back. I realized with horror that my shy wife was wearing the sexy red lingerie that had come in the empty wrappings on our bedroom floor.

I couldn't believe Susan had convinced my conservative Christian wife to wear the indecent outfit. The bottom of the short slip barely covered her ass. The valley between her flexing ass cheeks showed through the translucent satin as a shadow. The low neckline left a lot of cleavage exposed. All that held up the skimpy garment were two thin spaghetti straps.

My wife and her partner slowly turned as they waltzed around the crowded floor. I saw the chamise had a slit on her left side that went all the way up to her waist. The side of her hip and half her bare ass cheek were exposed. The narrow red waistband of her G-string was visible near the top of the slit. Her generous breasts were flattened against his broad chest.

I stared as Abby's partner lowered his hands to cup my wife's ass cheeks. I smiled as she reached down and pulled his hands back to her waist. After he failed a second time, he tried a simultaneous assault on two fronts. First, one hand slid up to squeeze her breast. While she focused her attention on defending herself, he slipped his other hand inside the slit and grabbed her bare ass.

I cheered when Abby spun out of his grasp and slapped him. She yelled something before rushing back to a raised booth that she and Susan had claimed with their purses. I saw a flash of her long legs and her red panties as my wife slid to the back of the booth. She gulped down the half-full glass of soda she'd left behind before resting her head on the cushion. Her attention seemed focused on the colored lights reflecting off the rotating disco ball. Abby's mouth relaxed into a smile.

A tall, muscular, and very dark-skinned man slid in beside her. He held two tall drink glasses, and he set one down in front of my wife. Her frown suggested she was preparing to reject the advances of another stranger.

Jack said, "You've got to hear this. Marcel is the smoothest talking lady's men in the Bay Area."

The security guard flipped a switch, and I heard my wife say, "Thanks for the offer, but I don't accept drinks from strangers."

Marcel laughed. He switched the two drinks and said, "Then you can take mine. I should warn you that my drink has a double shot of vodka while yours is mostly soda."

My wife studied the man's rugged face before she replied. "Well, I'm thirsty, but you're still a stranger."

Marcel grabbed the two glasses and switched them around and around. He moved them like it was a game of three-card Monty. He rotated the two glasses so fast that even I couldn't keep track, and I was almost sober. My conservative wife had previously consumed a bottle and a half of wine, along with a couple of fat joints and a mysterious capsule. I doubted Susan had let my wife sober up at dinner. Casa Isabel was famous for its pitchers of potent margaritas.

My wife giggled and put her hand on one of the glasses. "I'll take this one."

Marcel said, "Good choice. Tell me if it has too much vodka."

Dancing is strenuous, and the room in the old manor was warm, and overhead fans provided the only cooling. My wife's face was flushed and glistening as she took a long gulp. She finished the glass after a quick breath.

"Thanks, I needed that."

Marcel smiled. "I'm sure you did."

I turned my attention back to the TV. I was used to men hitting on my beautiful wife in public, but I knew she was skilled at rejecting their eager advances gracefully. Abby looked amused by the big black stud's attention.

I was startled when Jack laughed and said, "Now, we wait."

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"Marcel just slipped your wife what he calls a wet ass pussy. It's a designer drug one of the biochemistry professors at Stanford made for him. He uses it to break in new girls. It's simpler, and a lot faster than the weeks of coercion it used to take to 'turn out' a whore. In less than half an hour, your pretty little wife will be friendlier than a hungry kitten. The best part is that tomorrow, she won't remember anything more than having a good time, while her body will retain everything she learned. She will wake up as our newest happy whore hungry for sex with anyone we tell her to fuck."

I jerked on my handcuffs and yelled. "Oh God, no! You've got to let me go. I have to get my wife out of this filthy shit hole."

Jack switched cameras and zoomed in on Marcel's handsome face. His left cheek was marred by a scar and a tattoo that looked like a stream of tears.

"Now, you look like an intelligent man. So listen up. You wouldn't stand a chance against a fighter like Marcel. You may be tall, but you're too skinny to take him. See those tears on his cheek. Each one represents a confirmed kill back when he was an enforcer in the Black Mamba gang. Those tattoos and his big black cock were his trademarks during his porn star days. I suggest you stop shouting and wait for your chance. One more outburst, and I'll gag you. Understand?"

I nodded and looked back at the TV in horror.

Marcel leaned forward and gently took my wife's hand. "I was watching you dance, and I think you need a better partner. I would be honored if you would join me on the dance floor."

My wife's mouth formed a small familiar smile. It was Abby's tell. Her face always betrays her just before she says no. It was apparent that she wasn't interested in fighting off another stranger groping her ass while they slowly shuffled around the dance floor.

Before she could reject Marcel's advance, the DJ began playing Rihanna's 'We Found Love.' I watched my loving wife spring from her seat and practically drag a smiling Marcel onto the dance floor. My wife loves electronic dance music. Abby's hands punched into the air as her hips popped to the beat. Her breasts bounced around so hard that I thought they would pop out of her pushup bra. The bottom of her short slip fluttered with the heavy beat, regularly exposing her bare ass cheeks and the tiny piece of lacy red silk covering her pussy. The rest of the extended set consisted of lively club dances that didn't involve close contact.

Jack laughed. "The drug's first effect is hyperactivity, but it is kicking in quicker than normal. Did your innocent little wife take something before she came here? By the way that she was staring at the disco ball, I would say she might be rolling on ecstasy. It will be fun to watch how she responds to the combination."

By the time Marcel led Abby back to her seat, my wife had worked up a hard sweat. Her chamise clung to her damp body. She was breathing hard, and her face was flushed. Marcel slid in beside her and ordered drinks from the waitress. My wife smiled at her considerate partner when he gave her an unopened can of Sprite and a tall glass of ice. The big black man was behaving like a perfect gentleman. The ruggedly handsome Marcel had observed her soft drink preference, but even more importantly, he demonstrated his respect for her concern about adulterated drinks. Unfortunately, it was far too late.

I looked at the clock above the monitors and shuddered. It was well over thirty minutes since Abby had consumed the drugged drink. I watched her use two shaky hands to raise her glass to her mouth slowly. I realized my wife must already be feeling the drug's effects. My sweet wife didn't protest when Marcel put an arm around her bare shoulders and pulled her trembling body against his.

He whispered in her ear, and I watched her throw back her head and laugh uncontrollably. While she was still shaking with laughter, he put his other hand on her bare thigh just below the bottom of her short slip. Marcel stroked his massive black hand up and down the tender pale flesh of her inner thigh. I saw her skimpy red panties as he parted her trembling thighs, leaving his fingers mere inches away from his prize.

Jack hit a button on the control panel, and the private video feed I was watching on the monitor was now displayed on every high-definition TV in the club. My response to the horrific images repulsed me, but I couldn't pull my eyes away. I was mesmerized by the sight of a stranger groping the only woman I had ever truly loved. My cock, unencumbered by underwear, twitched under my thin basketball shorts and sprang to life. I hadn't had sex with my wife since this morning, and my balls ached with a fresh batch of semen.

I was surprised it took my good Christian wife so long to react. She finally grabbed the wrist of his muscular arm and struggled to push Marcel's offending hand away. The powerful black man kept up his attack. He moved his other hand from her shoulder and grabbed the base of her ponytail. I watched Abby squirm in her seat as Marcel turned her face toward him and pressed his lips against hers. Her hands released his wrist and futilely pushed against his broad chest. His hand on her leg was now free to explore my wife's charms. I struggled against my handcuffs as the bastard's hand cupped my wife's red panties and began massaging her intimate flesh. I moaned when my wife's arms slid around his thick neck and pressed her body against his. Her body jerked when he drove his finger under the side of her red panties and deep into her hot wet pussy.