BC Ch. 01: Joining the Club

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Samantha's first fantasy fulfilled.
6.3k words
4.72
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Part 1 of the 3 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 05/05/2017
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SteffiOlsen
SteffiOlsen
1,040 Followers

NOTE: I'm still working on Ch.8 of Beast– hopefully I'll finish this week. In the meantime, this is a series I started writing soon after I started posting on Lit. It's seriously NON-serious, and I have no idea when I'll get around to writing/editing more, but with that in mind... Enjoy! Thank you a thousand times for the comments, hearts, and stars. I LIVE for them. And pizza, of course. :) –Stefanie

–o––O––o–

I used to think that fantasies were better left unfulfilled, that the things I fantasized about in my bed at night– being with more than one man, being tied– could never, in reality, be as arousing or exciting I imagined them to be. In real life, I thought, two men would irritate me. Instead of me being the center of attention, they'd both be demanding mine, pulling me this way and that, splitting my focus. It sounded too much like work. And while a fantasy about being forced might be arousing, in real life, rapists are assholes with stinky breath and dirty fingernails who hurt you in ways you don't want to be hurt.

Actually attempting to fulfill my myriad and multifaceted sexual daydreams was never getting anywhere near my to-do list, I thought. I stuck to serial monogamy, occasionally play-acting with a current beau, but never coloring too far outside the lines. Don't get me wrong, I had some seriously amazing sex... there was the football player with the chocolate skin, big brown eyes, broad shoulders, and the longest, thickest dick I've ever seen. I could come for days on that thing. Since I'm a woman whose melting-pot ancestry is indeterminate, but chiefly Caucasian in origin, that might sound like fodder for my imagination, but I've lived in an urban environment since junior high school: seeing a dark pair of hands caressing my pale body wasn't a one-off.

Getting back to the high points of my sexual history... there was also a nerdy lit professor who had pussy-eating down to a true art form. I enjoy giving head, but I've never been a real fan of getting it– in general, oral does a lot of nothing for me. Even when a guy manages to get me off that way, my orgasm tends to be less memorable than the ones I have while being fucked or fingered. But the nerdy lit professor... I don't know what he was doing, but he'd hold me open, stick his fingers in my pussy, start licking, and I could NOT stop coming. It was crazy. I should have asked him to jot down a few instructions for the next guy.

Then there was the big, dumb Italian guy... I really loved that guy...

He was a sweetheart in every way– faithful, hard-working, generous– especially in bed. He could go for hours, and after he was done, he'd hold me in his lap while he watched baseball or hockey, finger-fucking me to orgasm after orgasm. We tried every position known to man at least twice. He fucked me standing in the shower, fingered me in the back row of the movie theater, and came in my ass while we were at his Gran's for Thanksgiving dinner. Then he proposed, and I just couldn't do it. He wanted a wife and kids. I wanted a wife, too– because who doesn't like getting their laundry and cooking done?– but no kids, and the guy didn't get my jokes. That was sad. My jokes are funny.

After that, I kept it casual. It hurt too much to do anything else.

I had a couple of guy friends– on opposite sides of town– who thought they were in love with me, and believed I was in love with my job. Because of the love thing, I couldn't see either of them too often, but between the two men and my toy box, I was kept sexually semi-satisfied, at least. I'd have gone on killing time like that for who-knows-how-long, if I hadn't heard about the Bill's Club.

–o–

I was having dinner with my best friend one Friday night after work; we were laughing our asses off, a bottle and a half of wine down, with neither of us paying much attention to our food, when she lowered her voice and leaned across the table. "Do you have fantasies?" she asked.

I made some joke about shoe-shopping with someone else's credit card, but Randi wouldn't let it go.

She scooted sideways around the booth to me. For a minute I thought she was making a pass, which, okay, Randi is hot, but I personally prefer a lover to be otherwise equipped. But, no, Randi was just getting closer to make sure no one else would hear what she was about to tell me. She still took a good look around when she got over there, too, like a super-secret-spy movie. At the time I thought she was nuts.

"No, seriously, Sim–" she said.

My name's Samantha, but everybody calls me Sim, because of my initials. On second thought... maybe they're just mispronouncing Sam... who knows?

"I won't ask what they are," Randi went on, "but everyone has fantasies, right? Sexual fantasies, I mean."

I nodded, not convinced I wanted to know where she was headed with this conversation.

"Well–- "

She glanced around again, and I blinked back an eye-roll.

"– I found this place– sorta– where women can go and get their fantasies fulfilled– without getting stabbed by some internet stalker, without paying for it, and without risking, well, anything, I guess. It's..." A fog of happy distraction momentarily obliterated the intensity on her face. "... it's amazing," she finished, shaking herself out of her memories with a small smile, her cerulean eyes gleaming from beneath the long eyelashes I'd always envied her.

"Okaaaayyyy..." I answered, trying to sound nonchalant.

I was mildly curious, I admit, even though my closest friend in the world suddenly sounded like an Amway salesman, and I half-thought she wanted to sign me up for something.

Randi laughed. "C'mon, let's pay the check and get outa here. We'll talk at my house." Partway back around the booth to her purse, she stopped and laughed. "Don't worry, Sim, I'm not hitting on you– or selling you anything."

Randi knows me really well.

Long story short, that's how I found the Bill's Club.

Randi was right, at least from my point of view: it is amazing. And what makes it even more amazing is the fact it's free.

If you're a woman, that is.

For whatever reason, there are way more men out there trying to get their fantasies fulfilled than women. Maybe we have an easier time finding someone to do what we want between the sheets, or maybe fewer women are willing to experiment, or maybe men are just horny dogs who can't get enough. Whatever... there are plenty of male candidates and not enough female. So, if you're a woman, you don't pay a dime to join the Bill's Club or to enjoy the benefits of membership, as it says on my card.

Finally, after centuries of discrimination, the vag pays off.

I have no idea how the club handles trans-gender or transsexual folk– I'll have to ask Julie that someday– but the men who join pay a lot of money to hook up with women whose fantasies complement their own. That's why it's called the Bill's Club.

Luckily for us women, we don't get the money.

No, seriously... if you have enough money, you can always pay what you're looking for, but Bill's Club– the Billionaire's Club– doesn't provide that kind of service. It's basically a matchmaking service for people with specific sexual fantasies– any kind of fantasy that doesn't involve killing or kids, that is, because that's just sick. I imagine there are plenty of other "sick" fantasies going down behind Club members' closed doors, though.

Because Randi was right in another way. Everybody does have sexual fantasies, which is what makes the Bill's Club work. For every kink, there's a kinkee. For every bi-curious girl, there's a couple looking for a third. For every man who wants to be spanked, there's a frustrated middle-school principal who wants to discipline grown men. For every would-be rapist, there's someone like me, with an unfulfilled fantasy about being raped.

Unlike the real world, in the Bill's Club you get to put in an order for your fantasy. You fill out oodles of forms and are interviewed by someone who fills out oodles more, then all your nit-picky data is entered into a mega-jumbo-server and tossed around with everyone else's data until a match shows up. There are a LOT of members in the Bill's Club, men who don't want to pay for a woman who will PRETEND to be submissive, but who want to fuck an honestly submissive woman. Other men, too, who get off on hurting women, holding them down, making them cry and scream in pain instead of pleasure. Oddly– to me– there are women who honestly want to be that woman, too.

Some of us have milder fantasies– I am not into being caned, or having needles stuck in my nipples, and you can forget about choking me, for instance, but I'm open to a lot of other non-consensual stuff. I won't get every single thing I want, of course– the guy might be a ginger instead of a brunette, or he might have a goofy voice and not enough chest hair. Whatever... but if I say NO needle, NO choking, NO caning... they guy I'm matched up with won't have those things on his list of fantasies, either.

It's not like a man couldn't omit something from his list and then do it anyways, but men pay an awful lot of money to get exactly what they want. If they don't care what the woman wants, they could pay a prostitute a lot less money to act out their fantasy, or just go ahead and rape someone, instead of risking a million bucks a year and prison time. I mean, the club has their personal info and signs all over the place– if a guy pulls a stunt like that, they're going to prison and they're gonna lose the million bucks.

So I went in and checked it out.

I met with a Bill's Club Admin, aka "BCA," and I diligently checked the references they gave me. One of them was a very nice, middle-aged security guard in the mail room of my building. After I talked to her, I got serious about filling out forms. I mean, she's a middle-aged mail-room security guard, and the happiest person I've ever met in my life. That woman fucking GLOWED when she talked about the club, for Christ's sake. If she can get her fantasies completely fulfilled– again and again for almost three years, by the way– why shouldn't I try it out? I mean, some of her fantasies were more specific and way kinkier than my middle-of-the-road stuff.

And that's how I joined the Bill's Club.

=========

Downtown

=========

In your welcome packet, the Bill's Club suggests you don't dive right into the deep end of the perversion pool, so to speak, that you stick your toes in the honey and have someone lick it off before heading for the hive. I realized I'm mixing my metaphors here, but this isn't a high school term paper, and whoever's reading this probably isn't an English professor. (My pussy still tingles when I think "Lit professor," btw– I miss you, Raj!)

Anyway– I digress– all the fucking time...

Back to the welcome packet... I took the BCA's advice and picked a straightforward, low-risk fantasy for my first outing. Sex with a stranger. Not like I've never had sex with a person I didn't know very well– hell, I went to college– but I wanted an absolute stranger. No names, no nice-to-meet you, nothing. Just a drive-by fuck with one small twist. I wanted to get all prettied up, put on a killer dress, and go sit at the bar in a nice club. I hope to get hit on by a few other guys before Mr. Right Now arrived. We'd take one look at each other and leave, making no secret of our intentions. When we walked out the door, everyone in the place would know that I was going to let a complete stranger fuck the daylights out of me. I wanted to feel, in my own deluded way, that the guys who hit on me were still sitting there imagining what we were be doing while I was having hot, wet sex with the stranger.

Yes, I know it's weirdly mild and mildly weird, but I don't bother analyzing most of my spank-bank stories.

I filled out my Yes, No, Maybe List, covering hard limits like nipple-needles, requirements– dick visible without optical assistance, and bonus wishes– so if more than one man's desires matched my own, the BCA might be able to kick one of them up to the head of the line. My wish list was smart, funny, big dick (duh), glasses. The scenario in my head wasn't about the stranger being handsome, but I'm partial to nerds and not ashamed to admit it. I then had the BC's requisite pre-scheduling consult, which everyone bitches about and, with sweaty palms and dripping pussy, I signed on the dotted line.

As far as timing goes, some BC fantasies are a surprise to one of the participants, but this was necessarily not one of those. When the Club phoned me with a match, I told them where I'd be, and they told me what the guy would say when he approached me– so I could go home with a nice, STD-tested, fingerprinted, Bill's Club stranger, rather than the diseased, psycho-killer variety.

After work that night, I settled down and did the whole nine yards of prep work to look my absolute best. I'm not naturally a beautiful woman– I'm kind of girl-next-door pretty, but if I put the time, effort, and cash in, I can be very pretty, even very, very pretty in good lighting!

I always thought life must be easier for a beautiful woman, until I got to know Randi, who is drop-dead gorgeous. She gets free drinks, and scads of attention, and job offers up the wazoo, but the guys who hit on her are only seeing the surface Randi. Fair enough, we all do it sometimes, but finding a good guy becomes exponentially more difficult when you have to wade through a million men who are really full of themselves and a lot of guys who just want to fuck. Ninety-nine percent of the men who approach Randi aren't interested in the woman who graduated summa cum laude from Yale and does oil paintings that could make the pope cry.

It didn't take long for me to see that being pretty is easier than being beautiful.

Randi might get more attention, but I get the beer-drinking, football-watching guys who ask me to shoot pool and go to movies and ask what I do at work all day and what I'm laughing at on Reddit. You know what I mean. Randi gets guys who want to show her off, which is nowhere near as much fun as pizza and barbecue at someone's brother's beach house.

If you care, which you probably don't, I'm average height, average weight, average build, with fan-fucking-tastic legs, longish brown hair, and brown eyes. I'm an average white girl, but I work out to keep my butt off my thighs and my belly flat. I liked to get dressed up, but that particular night, I went the extra mile. I curled my hair into that tumbled, slightly-tousled look, did the make-up, teeny silver purse, high, lace-up sandals which almost matched the bare skin of my long, tan legs. I wore a classic, sinfully-short, beautifully-cut t-shirt dress– in black, of course– and my favorite necklace, a big silver hoop on a long, delicate chain. It hangs right between my average sized boobs, and I love it because when anyone asks, I say it's a measuring device– minimum diameter cock ring.

Yeah, I think I'm pretty funny.

So me and my high heels and short skirt and teeny silver purse went downtown. I won't tell you where I live, because that'd just be stupid, but it's a small riverside city on the east coast of the USA. It's kind of arty, somewhat liberal, and has a great entertainment scene. No airport within fifty miles, but if you can get here, you can see a play.

I went to the newest, hottest club, and got in without a problem, because I was just on the edge of early, I was only one person, and I didn't want a table. Nonetheless, I got a table. I wanted to sit at the bar because I figured I'd get the most attention there, but the table actually worked out even better. The hostess put me at a high table next to the dividing wall between the bar and sunken dance floor, which was surrounded by minuscule booths. Until the band came on later, there was a cute DJ on duty.

I turned the tall chair away from the wall so my legs weren't hidden by the table, ordered a glass of wine, and split my time between people-watching, a Cavs-Raptors game on the monitors, and making casual eye contact with single men. I got attention. First, there was the mandatory drunk broker-type who'll be passed out alone by ten o'clock, probably in the back of someone's Beemer. I smiled nicely and said no thank you, but did an eye-roll at the cocktail waitress as he walked away, so other men would know it was just that one guy I was rejecting.

Then a stockbroker type who wasn't drunk, fairly good-looking. Looking at my legs, not my face: "Can I buy you a drink, gorgeous?"

I shifted in my chair just enough to flash the teeny red satin g-string I was wearing. "Thanks, but I'm taking it slow."

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Wrinkling my nose with a cute laugh: "Thanks, anyway, I think I'm taking it slow with that, too."

He took it well, didn't argue, went away.

I hung out.

After that it was one every fifteen minutes or so for the next hour. There was a really hot guy, tall... I would've given him a shot if I didn't have other plans. After ninety minutes, two glasses of wine, and six offers, I was getting plenty of attention, but starting to wonder if I'd been stood up. I was also thinking how critically, truly pathetic that would be– getting stood up for a sure-thing drive-by-fuck. I'd have to get a boob job and a three-hundred-dollar haircut to restore my self-esteem after something like that. What if the guy was there and left cuz I wasn't his type... even though he'd already seen my photo! My BC photo isn't even very good– I definitely look better in person!

I was inching ever-closer to anxiety when I caught a peripheral glimpse of a guy standing at the bar, halfway through a pint glass, watching me. I turned my head slowly, caught his eye, and I knew. A distinct, sizzle shot across the room. After holding his look for a few seconds too long to be polite, I turned back to my wine. He wasn't really handsome– kind of average, tallish, like a high-school basketball coach with a couple of daughters at home– the kind of guy who goes to town council meetings in his Volvo.

He was wearing glasses, with non-prescription lenses. Nice touch, I thought. Then I thought, Geez, I HOPE that's him. Even though he wasn't classically "hot," my pussy was certainly hot for him.

With perfect timing, the DJ put on something with a slow, bluesy intro, and the guy at the bar came over to stand beside me, a hair too close. He didn't say anything, just stared down at me. I looked back. Neither of us were smiling, but oh yeah, there was definitely chemistry there. A corner of my mind noticed the cocktail waitress and the bartender watching us, along with a few of the guys who'd hit on me, and it was exactly what I'd wanted, but I didn't care.

My heart rate had spiked, and I was breathing faster to keep up with it. Even my mouth was dry, for god's sake!

The stranger gave me a good look, head to toe and back up, slowing over the important bits, and I shifted again, not on purpose that time.

"Come home with me." It was a statement, not a question, and loud enough to be heard over the music.

I licked my upper lip and bit my lower, and didn't answer for about thirty seconds– which is a long time in a situation like that. I nodded abruptly and stood, no longer working from a script.

Everyone watched us leave.

He did the hand on my waist thing as he opened the door, my nipples hardened, and I didn't think about the stranger-in-a-bar scenario again for days and days and days. In retrospect, that piece of my fantasy was the least important part of the night.

"My car's right down here," he gestured. He'd lucked into a spot just around the corner and hadn't valet'd it. I stood on the curb while he bent to open my door, but we were very close together, and it was too much for us.

I don't think either one of us was first– it was a mutual thing: we froze at the same instant, then just fell on each other, kissing and pressing our bodies together like we'd been celibate in the jungle for ten years. In two minutes, he had me lying against the side of his car with one leg wrapped around his waist, and his hand cupping my ass under the short skirt. I was moaning into his mouth and he was working on tugging the shoulder of my dress down so he could get his mouth on my breast when the cops pulled up.

SteffiOlsen
SteffiOlsen
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