Beetlesmith's Ch. 23

One visit to a club as a guest, or one viewing of our web-site, was all it took for the unsuspecting to become hooked for life.

All of this increased our membership rolls and subscription services a hundred-thousand fold, and the money continued to roll into our Cayman accounts faster than we could possibly spend given several life-times. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that if and when I'm gone, Karen, Gloria, and Denise would never want for anything.

The only real annoyance—and it was just an annoyance—from our increased popularity was the increased scrutiny from 'normal' society. As our fame grew, so did our exposure to the more pious in society, and many of those took immediate and great offence at our existence.

It didn't help our anonymity that Karen and I did more than a few interviews with various magazines and newspapers, promoting the club and outlining our philosophy and opinion of changing culture mores. The ones we did for Maxim and Newsweek were real plums, and fomented us as leaders of a new, cultural vanguard. Now, an evening doesn't go by without the presence of more than a few protestors.

There isn't much the societal scolds can do about us. They tried to pressure legislators to pass laws to shut us down, but since many of the state and city politicians were members of the club, nothing came of it. And none of them had the courage to confront us physically through violence or other acts of righteous terrorism. Mostly, they're relegated to standing across the street, holding signs, assaulting us verbally with empty and anonymous threats, and wailing in frustration like so many weak and impotent bullies, hoping we'll go away on our own.

Not a chance. I'm having too much fun, and getting filthy rich in the process.

Lastly, two things of minor note.

After considerable whining and pleading from the women, I adopted Tiberius, second Emperor of Rome, as my club name. He wasn't as wickedly malevolent as some of the others, and certainly not filled with too much Roman virtue like Augustus or Aurelius. Plus, being the true patriarch to the era of Roman decadence to come, I thought it fitting.

With that, Karen became my Vipsania, first wife of Tiberius, and the one he most deeply loved and cherished. When I first saw a bust of her on the internet, I was floored. Even though the tip of the nose was broken from the sculpture, I could see that Vipsania's likeness was the near spitting image of Karen—truly uncanny.

Oh, and that last item? My cock stopped growing. I figured it stopped right after my last talk with Beetlesmith, when all was revealed. From tip to base, it finally settled down to a meaty, thirteen inches—lucky thirteen. When fully erect, the damn thing was as long and thick as my forearm, from fist to elbow.

Maybe it was from not using the elixir, or maybe it was Asmodeus taking pity on me. Whatever the reason, I was happy it stopped growing—and so were the others, as their cunts dripped profusely every time they begged me to slide it through their primed and needy assholes.

Heady days of Rome, indeed.

********

The limo was an exquisite ride, though a bit of an extravagance. Normally, I would drive us all to the club in my Range Rover, but tonight was special. Tonight was demanding indulgence and spectacle. Tonight was the first anniversary of opening night at Roman Wilderness. For the past month, all the woman had a hand in planning what would be a gala extravaganza. Attendance was restricted. Only the crème de la crème of the club's membership from around the globe received an invitation.

Karen and Denise sat across from Gloria and me in the limo. All three deeply inhaled the heavy scent of newly polished leather, and sighed. Decadence, along with newfound fortunes, has its rewards.

I told the driver to take it slow as we exited the expressway into the city. I wanted us to arrive fashionable late. Plus, I wanted to enjoy the complimentary twelve year old Macallan for as long as possible.

The four of us were all dressed in typical Roman fashion of the club, a short, white tunic with a purple sash, covered by a more expansive purple wrap of the toga. Gloria was the exception. She wore a purple tunic and sash along with the colored toga—or stola as is the case for women.

We kept the dress fairly simple for the members, although there was a hierarchy to it all. Everyone in the club wore a short tunic—all white. The more powerful or well-healed members could pay for the privilege and prestige of an additional white toga, as a cover for the tunic. These were also white. If you were part of the upper echelon of the club, the white tunic had a colored sash. The togas of the upper echelon are also colored, which also separated us from the other members. Tonight, we all wore purple.

The presence of a colored sash was a signal to the other members that permission needed to be asked for, and granted, by the wearer, before engaging in any sexual activity. As such, a male member couldn't just pull Denise or Jackie off the dais and start skull fucking them like he could any other member.

If one of my ladies wanted to totally disrobe, she wore the sash around the waist so no 'accidents' would occur, and accidents came fast and furious early on in the club's history, before the system was implemented. Punishment for taking liberties with one of my entourage without permission was total banishment from the club.

Gloria, because her whole tunic was colored, was totally off limits to the other male members of Roman Wilderness. No exceptions. The continuality of the act, using Beetlesmith's words as it relates to her virginity, needed to stay intact.

I was the only male allowed to have any type of sexual contact with her. She could, of course, take a female lover, but Gloria is even more hetero than Jackie. So, more times than not, she needs my undivided attentions, which, most times, were extremely divided. As a consequence, and as I predicted so long ago, her 'monogamy' to me was causing her problems, and she increasing sought refuge in the Caligula Grotto to dispel those...difficulties.

As I sipped at my drink, enjoying the ride, I felt Gloria's hand squeeze my thigh. I was going to take it into mine, but I felt her finger languidly tracing the outline of my flaccid cock through my tunic. She did all this as she stared blankly outside her window at the passing city scenes.

I looked over at Karen and Denise, who stared with reserved amusement at Gloria's playful fingers. They just smiled at me and shrugged their shoulders. We were all getting used to Gloria's, sometime detached behavior, and without further comment we went back to our scotch.

After a while, Karen asked, "How should we start things tonight, my love?"

"Same as we've been doing, slow and steady. Let's not push too hard right off, but we should see to it everyone enters, 'Anything Goes,' territory rather quickly."

Saying as she cocked an eyebrow, "Anything goes?"

I knew what she meant with that whimsical brow. "Yes, my love. You've earned it."

She smiled at Denise and they kissed briefly before Karen began humming to herself.

I love it that I can make them wet with such little effort.

As we turned onto the street for the club, I heard the driver say with some alarm, and slowing the limo, "Sir, we may have some trouble ahead."

Looking past the driver, I saw two large crowds gathered on either side of the street. The crowds on our right were the members waiting to enter the club. The crowd on our left was less organized, consisting of the usual assortment of social busybodies, protesting clergy, and third wave feminists, as well as their meddling congregations and adherents. All complete with painted signs and loud, verbal scorn. In days past, they'd be spitting their derision at each other, and leaving most of us alone. Now, with Roman Wilderness as their common enemy, they've became strange, protesting bedfellows—the enemy of my enemy is my friend, as the Arabs say.

"It's nothing," I assured the driver, "We see this every night. Just pull up in front of that red pylon on the right."

"It's like the opening scenes of Two-Thousand and One," I said to the others. "All that's needed is a watering hole and a jaw bone of an ass to beat the other tribe with. Speaking of ass, look who's here, the good Reverend himself is even attending."

Karen put on her Medusa face and began swearing when she heard the news, "Goddamned, weasel-dicked cocksucker and his brain-dead mob. Doesn't that goat humping fuck face have anything better to do than make an asshole out of himself?"

"Other than fucking goats, I'd say he's good at pissing you off."

"Funny," she said, sarcastically. "Can't you do something about this?"

"What's to do? It's a free country. As long as he and his hoary horde stay on their side of the street, nothing can be done."

Members were already filing into the club as our limo pulled up. I first spotted the two security guards dressed in tuxedos, flanking either side of the entrance. There would be two more inside. Once most of the guests had entered, they'd mainly watch the emergency exits.

"Oh, there's Darcy and Gabby," Karen noted.

They were in full Roman regalia talking with the waiting members in turn. Darcy was carrying a PalmPilot and checking for each member's reservation. If someone was in line but not on her list, Gabby would pull them aside and have them wait with the other Glommers.

The great thing about Gabby, although she barely topped five foot two, no one would fuck with her. Especially after hearing her rain the vilest expletives down on their heads, all shrouded in that husky, whiskey voice of hers. 'Peckerwood' and 'fuck-stick' were commonly heard above the din of the waiting throng, as she yanked another Glommer out of line.

Heady days of Rome? Well, at least the heady days of West Virginia hill folk when it came to Gabby.

Sure enough, I saw Gabby crook a finger at a couple, and then pull them out of line to stand with the other uninvited. These Glommers were easy to spot. They weren't even wearing a toga or a tunic.

"Glommers or Uber-Glommers?" Denise asked, rhetorically.

"Uber. Definitely Uber," Karen answered, shaking her head. "Could the morons at least make an attempt to show up in costume?"

There was a sudden influx of noise that invaded the interior of the car as the driver opened the door to get out. The protestors across the street were in full derision and high dungeon, producing an unceasing mingled roar of verbal fire and brimstone.

"Just ignore them," I reminded everyone.

When the driver opened our door, I stepped out and into a roar of cheers and acclaim erupting from our side.

Shouts of, "Tiberius! Tiberius!" from the waiting members echoed off the buildings and pavement, drowning out the frustrated protestors from my ears.

When I offered my hand to Karen, the crowd erupted still louder as she exited the limo.

"It never fails to inspire, doesn't it, my love?" she said, close to my ear.

I kissed her a reply, as the continual roar became near deafening, and they continued to chant, "Tiberius! Vipsania!" as the four of us made our way to the entrance.

Calls from the left of me, "Tiberius, hear us, hear us! Pick us," I ignored. They were the last pleas for mercy by the uninvited, attempting one last time to worm their way inside.

As we entered, two slaves worked the counter of the greeting area, taking the members credit cards for payment in turn.

Two slaves worked the hatcheck, taking coats, wallets, or small purses with credit cards and other valuables from the members. The slaves would relay a check number to the member, and it was up to the client to remember their number. We found out this system was better than handing out a numbered slip.

I recognized one of the hatcheck slaves. She was coming to the end of her tenure, and had an inexhaustible love for double teaming. Karen and I had played with her quite often.

"Are things running smoothly, Turtledove?" I asked her.

Turtledove wasn't her real name, of course. Each time a slave entered into a contract with the club, they were given a new identity by Karen and Denise. After twelve months and 600 odd slaves passing through our doors, it was becoming hard for the two women to come up with anything original, let alone Roman.

"Oh yes, very smooth, Dominus. There's high excitement tonight."

Turning to the other slave checking coats, I commented, "I can't seem to recall who you are."

"This is Anonna," Karen answered.

I smiled at her, and then asked, "Anonna, such a lovely name for a lovely girl. How long have you been in my service?"

"Just over two weeks, Dominus."

"Two weeks? Then why haven't I seen you?"

Gloria giggled an answer, "Denise has been hording this one for herself."

Denise turned a brilliant red, and said to Gloria in a harsh whisper, "Snitch."

I laughed. "Well, that's all right then. We all have our weaknesses. But perhaps you shouldn't be so greedy. Share her with us sometimes."

"Yes Dominus," Denise said with down-cast eyes.

I took another look around at the entrance hall before leading everyone into the club.

Members were filing by in an orderly fashion, making sure to introduce themselves to me and Karen before entering the main grotto, which, after minimal debate, was renamed the, 'Tiberius Grotto.' A decorative, gold leaf sign bearing my name hung above the wide entrance.

Also on the walls of the entrance hall, and prominently displayed as a warning to all, were the pictures of twenty, or so, ex-members, and details of their crimes. Most of these were ones who tried to take liberties with my entourage without permission. However, seven of them did the unpardonable acts of attempting to bring in underage children, trying to deal drugs, or just coming to the club in possession of drugs. Although libertarian on drug issues myself, I didn't need to give the authorities an excuse to exercise warrants. In any event, pederasts and druggies alike were banished without hesitation.

As we entered the grotto, a loud din from the gathering members filled the great hall. Most were standing in small groups and conversing as they waited patiently for the events to begin. Numerous slaves shuffled about with trays laden with goblets of wine for the assembling throng.

As always, when Karen and I entered the main grotto, the last movement of Beethoven's fourth piano concerto was played as a signal of our arrival. It was ritual that Portnoy began, and although clashing with the Roman atmosphere of the club, the music was still apropos.

Everyone stopped what they were doing when they heard the music. Members and slaves alike, turned in our direction and presented themselves with a short bow. A tip of the head and a raised arm from us allowed everyone to resume what they had been doing.

With the perfunctory greetings concluded, Denise and Gloria peeled away and walked ahead of Karen and me toward the dais. It was then I spotted a new slave standing with a tray full of filled goblets and looking around as if unsure of what to do.

She was a cute young thing with large heavy breasts and wide hips. Her face was round and cherub-like, and perfectly framed by a short, brunette mane. She froze like a statue when she saw me approach her.

"You're new," I said to her.

She stood silently, doe-eyed and stiff. At least she didn't faint.

"Tell the Emperor your name, dear," Karen prodded, as she took a goblet from her tray.

"Slut, Dominus," she answered. Then pushing the tray closer to me, she asked, "Wine?"

As I took an offered goblet, Karen explained, "Over my objections, Denise engaged her services earlier this afternoon. I think she's too chunky to be a Wilderness slave. Don't you?"

Karen's words nearly shattered the poor thing, as she turned her tear-filled eyes downward, and shivered uncontrollably where she stood.

Placing a gentle finger under her chin, I lifted her face to meet mine. Then staring her in the eyes, I said, earnestly, "On the contrary, I think she's perfect."

She heaved a great sigh and beamed a great smile, and then turned beet red from my gaze.

"Such a way you have with the young ones," Karen noted. Then touching the young slave on the shoulder, said, "Forgive my harsh words, Slut. Besides all my best efforts, it would seem Tiberius has taken a liking to you. Maybe you should attend to us this evening. Stand at the base of the dais and be ready to fetch wine and other things for us when we call. Can you do that?"

"Oh yes, Domina! Thank you!"

"Now, finish handing out wine to our guests, and then make your presence seen at the dais."

"Of course, Domina."

"I knew she would catch your eye," Karen said, as the slave scampered off.

"You know me too well."

Karen and I climbed the steps of the dais to our 'thrones.' As we settled into our chairs with Gloria flanking my left and Denise on Karen's right, I'd always take this moment to scan the great hall and look over my domain.

That same feeling washes over me. The one I had at the dinner party when I first took the elixir, when I felt like an Emperor having absolute dominion over all. Except now, it wasn't a feeling. It was reality. I had become that personification of absolute power, and I've learned to exercise that power with impunity.

Besides the members and the slaves, the cameramen I'd hired were also milling around the main grotto, checking equipment, filming some of the members as they conversed and drank. Their images were transmitted to the wide screens that lined the great hall. In the center, supported above from the ceiling was a moderately-sized Jumbotron having screens on all its sides. The live feeds were always projected on the big screen.

More than a few members were already engaged in heated encounters, and their antics were being projected on the wide-screens for everyone to watch.

Images of one enterprising young lad with his face buried between a mature woman's buttocks as she sipped from a goblet. An older gentleman, probably her husband, walked up and offered her his cock to play with. She stroked it lovingly as they kissed.

Images of a black couple and a paler friend made their way to a wide-screen. She was being spit roasted between the two. A slave stood above her with a towel at the ready. Sure enough, their paler friend pulled out of her mouth and jerk a heavy load across her beautiful face. The slave was quick to wipe her off with the towel.

Still other images of three couples in a daisy chain, alternately arraigned—boy, girl, boy, girl—each with their faces buried deep between the others legs.

There were many Doms—male and female—leading their submissives—male and female—around on leashes. It was rare that the disciplinarians would make themselves noticed so early in the evening.

I watched one particular well-formed sub being led on a leash toward a man seated on one of the low platforms Karen insisted upon. Her ass, which wiggled seductively as she crawled, was a breathtaking sight. The seated man flipped his tunic up exposing his rock-hard cock to the sub. Once she was in front of him, all I could see was her head bobbing up and done into the man's lap. Her Dom lovingly petted her hair, as he and the seated man talked.

Karen also noted the early encounters, and commented, "The fire won't need much kindling tonight."

"Well, it is special. Let's push enough to send it into the stratosphere, but nothing more."

"Controlled anarchy?" she said with suspicion, and a slight smile.

"Indeed. More Eyes Wide Shut, and less Clockwork Orange. I don't want another dungeon incident."

"Why is Kubrick on your brain lately?"

"He just is."

"Well, more Spartacus, and less Full Metal Jacket from you," she said as a counter. Then thinking for a moment, she cocked her eyes up and to the right in that fetching way I love, and began talking in a horrid Asian accent, "On the other hand. Me so horny. Me love you long time. Me fucky, fucky long time." Finishing with a smile, she added, "Maybe just a touch of Full Metal Jacket, after all."