Beetlesmith's Ch. 23

"Touché, my love."

"We're still on course for anything goes, however. Correct? Anything goes?"

"You are such a slut, my love."

"Anything for you, my love" she said, and smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Portnoy climbing the dais steps, and said in hushed tones to no one in particular, "Fuck. Here he comes."

Even after all Portnoy had done for us, building the club, soliciting the clients, as well as making us wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, Karen still didn't trust him. She viewed any interaction with him with displeasure, and when she couldn't avoided the man, she took great pride ridiculing him to his face.

As he came into earshot, Karen did her usual, crass greeting, "Poindexter. How are things? Still stiff, hard, and unrelieved?"

He ignored the insult, and answered, "Very well Domina. Things are always well when I'm in your service."

I asked him, "Where do we stand on attendance, Rodney?"

"Nearly to the five-fifty. I'd say another twenty minutes," then handing me a stack of papers he was carrying, said, "Invoices and balance sheets that need your perusal and your signature, Dominus."

"Does it have to be now?" I commented with annoyance.

"Forgive me Dominus, but this is about the only time I get to see you. You're rarely here after closing."

"You know you can drop by my home at any time. You're practically family. We can settle the accounts there."

"I wouldn't think of disturbing you and Domina in your leisure."

Karen suddenly jumped into the conversation, "Besides, you probably have more important things to attend to on your off times, like frequenting city playgrounds and molesting little girls. Or is it little boys?"

"Vipsania, behave," I chided her, as I looked over the papers.

Ignoring me, Karen continued her torments, "Really Portnoy, what do you do for fun...for release, after standing around all night with that hideous woody you never attend to?"

Portnoy answered, oily, "My supreme pleasure comes from attending to your needs, Domina. It is more than enough reward."

Karen was about to make another snide comment, but I cut her off, "Enough!"

As I continued looking over the ledgers of our operating expenses, Portnoy commented, "Oh before I forget, the President of France sent you and Domina those gifts you requested. They just arrived this morning."

"Gifts?"

"Yes, the Pissarro and Gauguin you had your eyes on."

Several months ago, I took the ladies on a two week vacation to Monaco. It was our only break from the club for the past year. Toward the end, we spent some time in Paris, and visited the Louvre. It was there that Karen fell in love with the paintings. The President is a club member, and I happened to tell him about Karen's affection for the art when he last visited the States.

"How did he get the Louvre to part with them?" I ask with astonishment.

Portnoy shrugged his shoulders. "I guess when one is president you can accomplish the impossible."

"I'll have to thank him personally."

"He'll be visiting the States for a week next month and asks if you'll reserve space at the club for him and his entourage during his visit."

"Done!" Turning to Karen, I asked, "Did you hear?"

"Yes!" she said, her eyes alight. "A magnificent gift."

I smiled, and added, "A magnificentanniversary gift to you, my love."

She stared at me, dumbfounded before tears streamed down her cheeks. Then she grabbed my head, kissing me hard and long in thanks.

It does my heart good seeing her happy.

I went back to the ledgers as Karen heaved a contented sigh, and began whispering to Denise about the gifts.

When I got to the last page showing the month's net balance, I just about choked. Looking up at Portnoy, I asked with even more astonishment than before, "Are these figures correct?" I showed the bottom line to Karen, making her still watery eyes go large as she mouthed a silent, 'Wow!'

"Net profits from the previous month. Yes, Dominus. Most from our pay-per-view ventures."

"My God, how many subscribers do we have now?"

"As of last week, well over half a billion."

"And how many villas in France will your fifteen percent buy?"

He smiled at first, then said, "I told you the club was an exceptional investment, Dominus"

I quickly signed where I needed to and handed back the papers, saying, "I'll transfer your commission into your accounts the first chance I get. Thank you, Rodney."

Portnoy bowed, and said as he walked down the dais stairs, "I'll see where we stand on attendance."

As Portnoy climbed down, Jackie climbed up—ships that pass.

Besides becoming one of the better producers of amateur pornography, Jackie was also the club's demented, Mistress of Ceremonies.

She was beautiful as ever. Disregarding the traditional tunic, she wore only an ankle-length, sheer skirt, a thong underneath, and a colored sash draped around her waist signifying she was upper echelon. Brazenly, she wore no top, allowing her large breasts to stand out firm and proud—firm like ripe fruit, and just as succulent. Jackie being Jackie, however, couldn't help doing something completely off-the-wall and silly, as she also wore a hideous orange wig, similar to that sported by Cassius, the orator of the Colosseum, from the movie Gladiator.

As she knelt at my feet, Karen remarked, "Jackie, would you please take off that ridiculous wig."

"No. Everybody expects me to wear it as Mistress of Ceremonies. Especially tonight." Seeing the glare Karen continued to shoot at her, Jackie pulled the wig off, and sighed an exasperated, "Oh, all right." Then turning to me, she asked, "Will...I mean Tiberius, do you remember Lydia?"

"Of course. How could I forget?"

Lydia was one of our special members. She was a big girl with long, straight blonde hair, round face, big blue, pining eyes with long black lashes, and very heavy breasts to match her smooth, protruding belly. She wasn't what I would consider morbidly obese, but she did fall well into big, beautiful woman territory.

Her weight could have been a problem with some of the more stuck-up members, and they could have made life at the club difficult for her, except for the fact that she had a particular insatiable appetite for cock. Any cock. Any size, any shape, any color, anywhere. She was always hungry, and always very good.

It goes without saying that given her talents, her dance card was always filled, preferring to take on the men two at a time—one from the front and one behind. One member made the mistake of calling her ménage a, 'true spit roasting pig roast,' in my presence. I was so incensed by her cunty attitude, I lost control of myself and fried her brain.

I felt a little bad about it afterwards, seeing that she needed to be committed to a sanitarium not long after. I hear her prospects at getting better are diminishing, as she continues babbling nonsense to this day. On the plus side, however, I still use her as an example for the other holier-than-thou cunts and pricks, to keep their insipid thoughts to themselves, and their pious mouths shut.

Well enough of that, and back to Lydia. How good was she at cocksucking? She nearly swallowed me without choking.

It hasn't been all peaches and cream for me. Ever since my cock inflated to its present size, I finally had to give up on those sloppy blowjobs I loved so much. The ones where the woman seats your hard cock deep in her throat as copious amounts of her drool slather it thickly, and drip off it profusely. Yep, those went bye-bye until Lydia. She didn't quite get me all the way in, but she got me in enough to where I felt it was close to the old days with Karen again.

Jackie put a hand on my knee, "I wonder if you could do me a favor? I've been thinking of showcasing Lydia's special talents with one of my special productions since we don't have enough BBW stuff on the web-site. Lydia is really jazzed to do it, and we thought it would be extra special if you leant us your...special services for a while." She said that last part while gently palming my cock though my tunic, and almost making it stand at attention. How could I refuse after that?

"Sure. Just get with me when you're ready, but not too soon."

"Great! I'll go tell her," Jackie said as she bounded back down the stairs, and all while putting her wig back on over Karen's continual, shouted objections.

"Another special production?" Karen asked dryly as she continued to watch Jackie walk away.

"She likes me."

Karen thought for a moment, and then asked, "May I be in a special production of my own? I would like you to attend, but not participate."

She had that look on her face, the one that, so long ago, inflamed and chained my desires to her. I smiled back, saying, "Anything goes, my love."

With a satisfied smile donning her lips, Karen was about to sit back in her chair when she caught sight of the slave we met earlier, standing at the bottom of the dais. "Slut," she yelled, "Come here!"

As the slave reached the top of the dais, she asked, "Yes Domina?"

Handing her an empty goblet, Karen commanded, "More wine. Make it the Bollinger. My love? More wine?"

"The red, please, Slut."

Karen continued to ask around, "Gloria?"

"The Bollinger sounds yummy."

"Denise?"

Denise asked the slave, "Is there a white other than the Bollinger?"

"I think so, Domina."

"I'll have that."

"Off with you, Slut," Karen said to her with a backhanded wave, and then she went back to scanning the comings and goings of the grotto.

Ah, it's grand being Emperor and his entourage.

I casually mentioned, "I haven't seen the Grants. I've seen the other regulars, but not them."

"They're here, I saw Lisa with Barbara earlier," Karen answered.

"Still hanging with Barbara? Are they still fucking their daughter?"

Karen smiled, then said, "Not so much since we made them members. Lisa and Darcy usually hang together once things start going."

"Ah, they must still be on that quest for the perfect load, in both texture and taste."

"And that's all they really do. Suck, swap, and swallow. I think it's weird."

"Meh, everyone needs a hobby."

The slave was back in short order with our wine. "Will there be anything else, Domina?"

"No, Slut. Just remain at hand if I need you."

As the slave went back to her place at the bottom of the dais, Karen continued scanning across the grotto. Searching for someone in particular, her noggin swiveled about like a dashboard bobblehead in a car careening down a washboard road.

Not finding who she sought, she asked, with just a tinge of panic in her voice, "Gloria, are you sure you sent out invitations to the Virgins?"

"Yes Domina," Gloria answered as she rolled her eyes.

As with BBW Lydia, the Vestal Virgins were also special associates of the club.

Back in the days of ancient Rome, the Vestals, usually numbering two, were priestesses of the goddess Vesta, who saw to the good fortunes of Rome. Besides ensuring the continual burning of the sacred fire, the Vestals took an absolute vow of chastity, freeing themselves from any obligations to children, family, or any other mundane, earthly pursuits.

Our Vestals were anything but virgins, and it was kind of a twisted joke that only Karen could conjure. They were a pair of very flamboyant transsexuals—real Las Vegas panache—always wearing elaborate headdresses that would make Carmen Miranda blanch—though I will say, always in the style of Rome. Often times, their little outfits consisting of just a bra and small panties, were adorned with peacock or rooster feathers, and it was all loosely covered by a golden robe signifying they were high priestesses of the Vestals.

They showed up at the club one day looking for a cheap entrance into the club. Karen took one look at them and made them regulars on the spot—free membership and admission, as well as a monthly stipend. They've been fiddling with some of the male and female members ever since. Given their feminine features, it was easier for the bi-curious husbands to taste the waters of their wild side with their wives, and not feel they're going, 'full tilt boogie,' gay.

Although not my kink, I found them quite alluring in an overly painted, coked-up Kathleen Turner meets Jane Lynch, sort of way. They were, indeed, feminine, having all the right curves. It was only if you stared at them long and hard enough did you begin to notice a trace of masculinity in their lovely faces.

"Oh, there's Ronda," I heard Karen say, "But I don't see Tiffany."

Way in the corner of the grotto I saw her in full priestess regalia, already mingling with two couples. The wives were on their knees passing her cock back and forth between them, while the husbands played with her breasts and kissed at her neck.

Tiffany made her appearance a few moments later, walking into the grotto from the back rooms—probably visiting the bathhouses. She wore the golden robe of the Vestal with nothing underneath, along with a gaudy, Roman headdress. Being well-endowed, more so than her partner, she liked to show off her naughty bits, early and often. So if the robe stayed on it would remain open.

"There's Tiffany," I said to Karen, pointing her out.

"Oh good," Karen said, relieved.

I noticed one of security guards from the main entrance making his way to the back in order to cover the emergency exits. It was a sure sign the first 550 members had entered the building.

Spotting Portnoy, he gave me the 'thumbs up.'

"It's show time," I said, as I took Karen and Gloria by the arm.

A recording of trumpeters blared through speakers, as all four of us walked to the edge of the dais.

The brief trumpeting was Karen's idea, and signaled to the members to stop any activates they were engaged in, put tunics back on if need be, and turn their attentions toward the dais. Some members were caught in the back of the club, and came scrambling into the grotto quickly finding a place to stand along the perimeter of the throng.

When the four of us came into full view of everyone, a chorus of cheers erupted. "Tiberius! Tiberius!" was shouted over and over, producing a near deafening roar as their voices reverberated off the walls.

"It never fails to inspire," Karen said, trying to make herself heard above the mingled roar.

"Never," I answered, then raised my hands to quiet the crowd.

"Good citizens. As your Emperor and host, along with my lovely wife the Empress Vipsania, and my two wards, the Ladies Gloria and Denise, we say welcome to this most auspicious and august occasion of the year; the first anniversary of Roman Wilderness."

I waited for the cheering to die down.

"Out of all our many tens of thousands of members, you alone have been invited to help in our celebration. For thanks, my entourage and I ask only one thing of you... Let yourselves go. Be unburdened by the world at large. Don't hesitate to taste those forbidden desires that have long been denied you by the prudes of society. If you do this for us, then this will be a night long remembered."

I paused briefly to let the laughter, excited babble, and overall tittering and anxious mirth to die down. When all eyes were trained on me once again, I raised my hands, and shouted, "Let the festivities commence!"

A loud, collective sigh rose up as everyone lay on the red satin all at once.

"Ready my love? Focus on the tunics with just a gentle push."

An unusual problem presented itself early on in the days of the club. How to put all the members of the club in frenzy without affecting service personal in the same manner? We had security guards, cameramen, and even slaves, who needed to perform their duties without being in a perpetual sexual fog.

Comparable to my first attempt in inducing group psychokinesis, where I focused my mental powers on the guest's wine glasses, Karen and I would focus our powers on the tunics of the members.

That's all it would take, at least for me, lude and lascivious thoughts directed at an ordinary tunic. Once done, the whole hall trembled from one loud, protracted moan. For the rest of the evening, I would occasionally feel a soft tingle in my gut, as if a current was moving from me or through me, but that would be all.

Karen kissed me on the cheek, and said, "I don't think I've ever felt it this intense with anticipation and pent up erotic tension."

"That's why I want a slower, gentler push."

Metheny'sAu Lait softly played over the loud speakers, given the grotto a dream-like, macabre quality of a Poe masquerade.

Because of our gently prodding, most of the members fell into a nice languid rhythm, lying on their sides in the traditional sixty-nine position—cunts and cocks, fingers and mouths, all in perpetual motion, while their bodies rested listlessly on the mats.

.

This was actually one of my favorite parts of any Wilderness get together—the startup—it's what I always imagined it was like in Ancient Rome. And Jackie was right about the tunics.

Such a wonderful sight to see all the pretty young maids, or the mature ones for that matter, flip up the tunic of a fine stud, and revealing that thing they most desired. Most times, they'd pause for a moment, running their fingers across his semi-flaccid meat, tickling his balls and making his sack clench. Then, with a brief lick of their lips, they would pull him in deep, sucking gently, but earnestly.

Angelic expressions always donned their soft faces with eyes closed, nostrils flared, moist lips ringed tightly about the growing pole. They slide that muscle ever deeper, through their hungry mouths, and down...down...down into their tightening throats. Over and over, they repeated the pattern until it felt ripe in their mouths. Then pulling back to expose the cock to their perusal, the maidens would stare at it, longingly, and admiring their handiwork at making it stiff and slick.

Playfully they'd blow on it with cherry red, pursed lips, or nuzzle it with a nose, kiss it and lick it, work their playful mouths down its shaft to finally kiss, lap, and suck at his swelling balls, all while lovingly cradling the hard cock to a cheek. Then up the pole they'd go, gently licking and kissing throughout that sensual traverse.

Once at the apex, again, they'd open wide and pull him back in—deep, deeper, deepest—working him in until the cock was fully seated inside. Then, while holding him fully inside their lovely throats, their curious noses would lewdly tickle his balls until his sack wrinkled as it tightened snug against the shaft.

It was the same with the men as they serviced the women. With the folds of the women's tunics riding high, exposing their well-formed, and plump globes to my view, the men would sink their faces deep between their thighs and gorge themselves on the musky sweetness of their partner.

Seeing the women spread their legs wider, inviting the men deeper, the noses of the men tickling the fare ones' openings as they plied cleaver lips and tongues to their hardened pebbles.

Hard hands and fingers running rampant across their buttocks, pulling that dark cleft open so that they can massage that tight ring with a digit or three. Then, at fever pitch, when, at last, she can tease his tightening balls with that playful nose of hers, he'll brand her asshole with his tongue, setting the couple alight.

Then, a great heaving of the throng would occur, as pairs moveden masse toward dominance, one on top of the other—man on top, or woman, it made no difference.

The woman on top I found the most erotic. Most came off their man's slickened cock, and left it unattended as they sat upright while shifting their hips and bottoms about. Back and forth, to and fro, they ground their drenched cunts against the faces of their lovers, forcing his tongue deeper into their holes.