The Gentlemen's Club

This was the command they had been waiting for. Eager hands immediately pounced on her body, stroking, rubbing, and pinching in all places. A hand reached under her breast, taking its weight in the palm and measuring the heft of it. Another, on the other side, immediately went for the nipple, squeezing it none-too-softly.

"Uunngh," Sarah groaned. It was uncomfortable the way they pulled and teased the tender tips of her breasts. The other hand pulled back and twisted, pressing fingers savagely together around the sensitive flesh.

Other hands roamed her rump, fingernails dragged along her thighs; still others grabbed her arms, pushing and pulling, testing her strength, while yet another closed around the back of her neck and pressed together, holding it firmly in position.

They were everywhere at once, seemingly roaming and groping every inch of her body simultaneously.

"Feel these," a voice whispered thickly, "damn thing's as big as strawberries!"

"Really?" a voice answered, followed by fingers determinedly wrapping themselves around the bottom of her soft ripe melons, exploring fully the length, width, and depth of the red-capped ends.

"Fine udders here," another voice added. There was a chorus of approval to this widely held sentiment.

Through it all, Sarah endured, her eyes only slightly watering at the rough treatment.

*

After a while, two hands working in unison captured Sarah's attention. She had almost been able to disassociate herself from what was happening; she had almost been able, as on the nights her husband claimed marital rights, to distance her mind from the ravages of her body and the assault of their callous running commentary on her ears.

The two hands in question, however, demanded her immediate attention: they closed over her ears, rubbed the back of her neck and ran down through her luxuriant hair. After sampling the length of it, they came back up to her face—long, thick fingers traced her jaw line, ran across her chin and brushed against moist, puckered lips. She pulled her head back slightly; immediately one hand went to the back of her neck and held her head firmly in place, while the other resumed its exploration of her lips, a fingertip running back and forth. Next was the nose, the finger tracing its soft curve and flared nostrils. Evidently this man—the one standing in front—had leaned in, because she heard him breathing, inches from her ear.

"Sarah Athena Crutchfield, daughter of Reverend Nathaniel Crutchfield," the voice whispered knowingly, "we meet again."

Sarah gasped loudly. All the freely roaming hands slowly withdrew, save the two now grasped about her face. She felt that her heart might stop beating at any moment.

"Tonight, the privilege of first dessert shall be given to young Master Collins, who only today has come into his eighteenth birthday."

This produced light, begrudging applause; it wasn't the older Collins after all, instead he was staking a claim for his son.

This was only slightly more tolerable.

*

Sarah's mind raced back to that Sunday morning in July, eight years before, at the Atkins, Georgia Primitive Missionary Baptist Church. She was fifteen then, full of figure and possessing the well-known fiery red hair. At services she volunteered, as her father was the Reverend, to teach Sunday school to the younger children. Usually, boys taught the boys and girls taught the girls, but this particular day they were short-handed and it fell upon Sarah Crutchfield to teach the ten year-old boys class.

For the most part, they were polite and well behaved. Naturally, they took advantage, paying little attention to anything Sarah had to say, although they mostly spoke secretively to each other, sharing small jokes and laughing. Sarah, after a few feeble attempts to teach, gave up the effort and instead concentrated on her own studies, fully aware her father would later bring up some arcane point of reference she needed to be fully conversant in.

It was while she was scanning a page, searching for a particular passage, that she became aware of a queer silence. She closed her Bible and looked up: the boys, three of them, sat staring vacantly at her. Catching her gaze, they quickly looked away, busying themselves with some fishing story or other.

Sarah returned to her studies, again leafing through the pages.

She had no idea, but the boys at church had a name for her: Harlot Hair. The older boys started it, owing to her striking features, very curvy figure (such as it was, even beneath Sunday dresses), and the notorious enflamed hair. Many of them watched from afar, ready to pounce in a moment's notice at even the slightest sign that she was willing. Some of the girls were willing, of course; some, like Sarah, were very pious indeed and the boys only wished they might someday get the opportunity.

On this particularly hot and humid morning, something had gone wrong with Sarah's dress: the way she sat, legs loosely crossed, revealed a narrow sliver of underclothes in the depths of her thighs. The sight of pale cavernous inner flesh was irresistible. Perhaps more importantly, her dress was pulled down slightly, showing what appeared to be a cherry tucked underneath, vaguely outlined by her damp Sunday dress.

The three boys, abuzz about it, looked on greedily. One of the boys, bigger than the others—a boy who only came to service because of his mother—paid particular attention. This boy, though ten, looked more like he was sixteen or seventeen, already five and a half feet tall and of impressive build.

Sarah, again aware of the silence, didn't close her Bible this time but instead rolled her eyes up, to see what the boys were doing. The bigger, blond-haired boy—Collins, was it?—was staring at something; she realized that her legs were somewhat opened, and closed them immediately. Looking down, she saw the part of her anatomy that was most annoying, the unruly tips of her bosom that despite all efforts to the contrary continually threatened to make themselves lewdly known. She didn't want to be too obvious in adjusting herself, but she wouldn't permit the boys to continue staring, either.

Sarah brought the Bible up and covered her chest, hugging it close.

"Boys, why don't you clean up?" she asked softly. Two of them sheepishly complied with her request. The third—Collins—did not, and instead sat, just as he was, staring at her frankly. She looked into his fierce gray eyes and saw, for the first time in her life, unbridled lust.

When they were finished straightening up, the three boys filed out of the room, Collins bringing up the rear. He paused a moment at the doorway before turning around. Leaning against the frame, he pointedly ran his eyes up and down Sarah's figure before speaking: "Sarah Athena Crutchfield, daughter of Reverend Nathan Crutchfield, we shall meet again." With that he turned and strode purposely away.

Sarah didn't stop shaking until she got home later that evening.

*

It was inconceivable that this same boy, now a man, should stand before her in this manner. And yet she knew it was true. Many boys and men had gazed upon her wickedly over the years. A few had even spoken to her of it. But this one in particular had seared himself into her mind back on that day when she had tended the boy's Sunday school.

It was he, she was sure.

He had even told her so.

All the men, hands already withdrawn, continued to stand against the platform.

"Young Master Collins, who has today come of age, what right do you claim?"

There was a murmuring of suggestions, each more coarse and ill tempered than the last. Abound, flat on her back, shackled, even bent over touching her toes while standing, were but a few of the proposals.

"She will kneel and pray for me," Collins said. A volley of snorts and snickers followed.

One voice offered congratulation. "Very good," the fat man said enviously, "very, very good indeed."

A long silence followed, during which Sarah was acutely aware exactly who and what was the center of attention. Of course, she was at that center, displayed as she was on an elevated platform about her hands and knees, unconsciously rocking almost imperceptibly back and forth. Nine men crowded around, so close she could almost feel their hot breath against her skin. Almost as many unsavory women lingered as well, standing back in the shadows watching silently. Not only was she the center of attention—her impending desecration, which she was sure would amount to something more than praying forgiveness for what she had already done (to say nothing of what was to come) was equally on stage, an event that seemed to have completely enthralled all in attendance. Without an idea of what to do next, she merely continued kneeling where she was, forearms beginning to tire.

Surely, Master Collins would think of something.

As if on cue, he spoke: "Stand," he said, strong and sure, in a voice accustomed to immediate obeyance.

Sarah summoned her strength and stood, careful to maintain balance on the platform.

"Stand on the floor," Collins added quickly.

Sarah looked down and immediately recognized him, a face she would never forget. And those eyes—

Still, as gray and hard as ever. He gazed not at her breasts, hanging pendulous in his face, nor the triangular patch of matching red hair in the V of her thighs; no, he stared, eyes ablaze with soon-to-be-realized lust, directly back into her own.

Finally on the floor she stood directly before him, hands crossed over her nether regions.

"Now," he said, scorn entering his voice, "it is time to pray. First, one must drop to their knees." As he said this he put his hands on her shoulders and applied downward pressure.

Sarah, looking at his feet, felt her knees buckle and dropped to the floor. The cold, hard wood dug into her knees.

Collins next unfastened his belt, pulling it loose, before allowing his trousers to drop to his feet. Now wearing only woolen jersey long johns—pitched in the front as if a long club was lodged within—Collins stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

The other men made a production of gathering around, forming a semi-circle on three sides.

"In order to worship properly, you have to put your hands together."

Still looking down, Sarah had no choice but to bring her arms up and hands together, covering her breasts with her forearms in the process.

"No, no," he said quickly. Collins reached down and pulled her arms apart. He pushed them back down, to either side of her now heaving chest, and brought them back together before pulling up whilst holding them firmly to her sides. This had the effect of creating massive swells of creamy white flesh, dramatically showcasing the gnarled protuberances at the ends. He pressed her open hands together between his own and held them, just under her breasts. "That will do," he said, releasing her.

With one hand, Collins looped a finger inside his johnnies and slid them down past his waist until they lodged on his massive thighs. As they cleared, what appeared to be a hunk of summer sausage dangled free, the tip bloated as if knobbed.

The phallus flexed, jerking up and slapping against Collins' torso, before returning to a position most directly facing the bridge of Sarah's nose, one step away.

As the men looked on, the sausage seemed to swell, growing thicker and more upright by the second. No one spoke a word.

Collins stepped forward, placing the end of his throbbing member on Sarah's forehead.

Hands together, she rolled her eyes slowly up, staring at Collins with one eye on each side of his now almost completely engorged organ.

"One must first open their mouth," he said flatly, eyes never leaving hers, "before they can pray."

Very slowly, Sarah's jaw dropped and her mouth formed a small 'O' shape.

"That's right," Collins said, reaching one hand down and grasping his raging erection. He placed the sensitive head between her soft, moistened lips.

*

Sarah was awash in shame. Here she knelt, hands together, her position a mockery of everything she stood for. She wanted to look away but couldn't; the boy's ('man,' she told herself) eyes unrelentingly fixated upon her own. He stared down boldly as he placed his disgusting manhood against her lips, sliding the glistening tip between. The silence in the room was nearly thunderous; she heard the creaking of boards settling, of breathing, and of oiled leather shoes squeaking as their owners pivoted about their position, angling for a better view.

As the bulbous head of his erect penis—she knew what it was, even though she had never seen even her husband's—plopped between her lips, a small gush of thick fluid issued into her mouth. It was slightly bitter, not entirely unpleasant. Sarah swallowed it down as she would excess saliva when gazing upon a most scrumptious meal. The head remained between her lips, randomly pulsing, for a full minute before Collins spoke to her again.

In that whole time, neither he nor she looked away from each other.

*

"It is time to pay tribute," he said steadily, still fully in control. "Do you understand?"

Sarah allowed her eyes to close as a shudder passed through her body.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes... yes, sir. I understand."

If it was possible, the room became even quieter. It was if everyone were holding their breath at the same time, completely absorbed by the prospect of Sarah wife-of-the-junior-clerk taking into her mouth the prodigious length of young Master Collins—Master Collins who, after tonight, would most assuredly and in all ways be a Man.

"You say you understand, Sarah. Still, I think a lesson is in order."

One beefy hand reached out and closed over the top of Sarah's head, gripping it firmly between his gargantuan fingers.

"Open your mouth—surely you can remember that?"

She complied, wrenching her jaw as wide as she could muster and again forming her lips into an 'O' shape, this one a bit larger.

Without a word, Collins centered her mouth over his jutting sausage and applied downward pressure.

First the tip, then the knobby end, and then part of the shaft passed between her lips. Collins stopped, allowing her a moment to breathe and become accustomed to what was, for her, this unnatural act.

As he released the pressure she raised her face back up, away from his adamant presence, the shaft sliding between her lips. As she approached the top and felt the enlarged head pass over her tongue, there was again downward pressure and she obliged, understanding his very simple request.

She moved her face down, a bit farther this time, before moving back up. Again at the top, she paused at the head and again resumed the downward motion.

It wasn't until the third time down that she realized his hand was no longer on top of her head.

That was when the first tear fell.

*

"That's it," Collins encouraged. "I dare say you pray very well indeed, Sarah Crutchfield."

So deep was her shame, Sarah was certain she would pass out. Her hands steepled together, bowing over and over before the Collins boy, his length alternately filling her mouth and throat, she could stand no further debasement. As before, she rolled her eyes up, gaping at him while gamely continuing her efforts.

He continued staring down—had he ever stopped?—and began counterthrusting, moving his hips forward as she went down and withdrawing as she pulled up.

"Well, well," Collins said, an edge to his voice. "I believe your penance is almost done."

Sarah felt it, a hot surge discharging from his rampant member as it bottomed out at the back of her throat. She coughed, paused, and then continued, breathing forcefully through her nose as she moved up and then back down again. On the next down stroke there was more, a much larger issuance as her mouth was flooded with salty semen.

"Don't move," he said thickly, his fully sheathed phallus pulsating in her mouth.

Unable to watch anymore, Sarah closed her eyes—

—and kept her lips fully encapsulated over his slowly deflating invader.

*

Finished, Collins quickly stepped back, pulling up his woolen jersey long johns, followed by his trousers.

Having properly arranged his garments, the younger Collins received many congratulatory backslaps and handshakes.

"Well done!"

"Jolly good!"

"Great show, my boy, great show!"

One man did not participate. The elder Collins stood aside, neither watching his son nor the congratulators. Instead, as the celebration continued, he stepped forward, where his son had been, and stood gazing down at the temptress on her knees before him.

Sarah, aware of the penetrating glare, looked up at the elder Collins staring down upon her. As she reached her hand up to clear a stream of milky-white ooze from the corner of her lip, Collins began humming softly to himself. She didn't know the words to this particular song:

"My day will come.

Oh yes!

My day will come..."

*

Minutes later, obviously done, it was time to call an end to the evening's festivities.

"Every man in this room has taken a solemn vow," Mr. Brown's voice began, booming inside the room, "to maintain the sanctity of that which occurs here. There are many indeed who wish to meddle in our affairs, who would like nothing more than to end what we have come to enjoy so very much. They say we are decadent, disillusioned, out of touch. They say our time is over—"

"DIS ALITER VISUM!" rang out in chorus, shaking the walls with its intensity.

"Very well. Good night, gentlemen."

In twos and threes, escorts in tow, the exodus began.

Finally, there remained only two, Douglas Brown and Sarah Higgins. Sarah was still kneeling, though her hands were no longer pressed together. Brown, crouched so that he was at eye level, extended her dress in his hand.

"I promise you no one will ever speak of this night."

Silently Sarah took the garment and began hurriedly sliding into it.

"Your husband shall keep his job."

Sarah certainly hoped so.

She had tried very hard to be a proper Southern wife.