Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 13-16

XIII.

So back into the fray he plunged, virtually abandoning his business and his job. Jenn was working most days so he could basically spend the whole of every weekday, from nine to five at The Club. But days unavoidably dragged on into nights and before too long Matt was almost regularly 'out prowling again', as Jenn put it. He knew it worried her; he increasingly felt a desperate guilt about it, but he was caught, it seemed, in a bigger machine. He couldn't get off, and like a junkie, he couldn't get enough.

Still, she never asked him direct questions. She spoke only in generalities – questions he could circumvent with ambiguous retorts – glib and periphrastic answers. She made it too easy for him to evade opportunities for meaningful communication. He felt like a shit every time but he couldn't bring himself to do otherwise, for what actually could he say to her? Now it had gone on too long, progressed too far. He was a coward. He knew it and felt ashamed.

Meanwhile, at The Club, Matt's inhibitions rapidly and easily – perhaps too easily – fell away. He would often discover himself fluently participating in situations that, objectively at least, shocked him. Some part of his mind would wonder what he was doing there or why he was doing that. The answer resided even deeper amongst his confusion: gratification. He realized that he was not only somehow obsessed with self-gratification but that he obtained it in ways that most of the world would consider perverse. Nonetheless, he resolutely refused to consider himself a pervert. The beauty of The Club was that he was voluntarily among other consenting adults, and that was the bottom line.

A small parlour there on the main floor of the facility was particularly crowded that day. Naked sweaty bodies, contorted into amazing positions and combinations, writhed and gasped and groaned in an erotic cacophony while a roaming video camera recorded the melee. Here and their faces turned to deliberately smile into the lens and laugh at their own brashness. It was in the middle of that wild orgy that Matt was suddenly presented with a rampant cock in his face – pushing impatiently at his lips; he opened his mouth.

The turgid tool slid brusquely in. It was already slick and tasted of a complex mixture of the fluids of love and exertion. As it banged the back of his throat, Matt pulled his head back and had to fight to keep from throwing up. He stopped in his movement to regroup and felt the orifice around his own prick shudder like a horse impatient to go on. His mind raced through the long moment before he rocked forward again, pushing his hips against those beneath him and his face into the wiry pubes before him. He quickly found that he could control his gag response in all but the most rapid thrusts, and if he feinted, like Mohammed Ali, and pulled back with the deep lunges, he could actually take control of his oral pummeling. Soon he began to experiment with his tongue, with his lips, and with the smooth suction of his inner cheeks. It was not long before he felt the rigid penis begin to shudder and pulse in its warm prison. The thrusting hips in front of him became erratic and violent in their movement. He knew from experience what was happening. Suddenly he understood why, in the stories, they always said that women knew how to perform cunnilingus the best; he actually knew what this guy was feeling – knew how to prolong it – how to inflame it. He felt the orgasm detonate deep within. The feeling and the knowledge that he was directly responsible for the impending ejaculation, fired anew his own stimulation, and, attempting to find a complementary rhythm, Matt accelerated his own pounding penetration. His own climax ignited at the precise moment the scalding liquor hit his tongue. Splashing forcefully against the back of his throat, the powerful spurts quickly overwhelmed his preparation causing him to sputter, gag and pull back. His own orgasm somewhat truncated, he dropped the still bobbing cock from his mouth to cough and snort. With semen running down his chin and draining from his nose, he still managed to smile up at the owner.

"First time," he muttered, by way of explanation before turning his attention back to the convulsing body below.

"Good for you," replied his felatee with genuine admiration, before vanishing into the sea of flesh.

That day seemed to have marked the flash point in an explosion of felatio. Matt got into a long run of classical orgies and before long his oral inferno had grown to encompass all manner of bisexual experience.

On a subsequent occasion, Matt bounced and shuddered within the felating mouth of someone while giving what had rapidly become expert head to another fellow. There were lips and fingers vexing his nipples and balls, as he vibrated in a mass of glistening, over-stimulation. He felt fingers spreading his buttocks, grasping his cheeks to get in time with him; then the warm slither of a tongue darting up and down his backside. He tried to isolate the sensation – to give it some individual attention without losing touch with the myriad of other stimuli he was receiving, and he was amazed to find that, to some degree, he actually could objectively observe his rear assault.

The fingers could have been male or female, he couldn't tell, and the tongue probably belonged to the same person. Following the few tentative swipes across his anus, the tongue, with its attendant fingers gripping his cheeks just a little harder – spreading them just a little wider, began to poke at his puckered rosebud. Insistently prodding, it slowly, infuriatingly slowly, persisted in snaking past the sphincter to lick and tickle the near inner surfaces of his rectum. Ahh, it was a marvelous new sensation – or perhaps just an old sensation revisited. After a bit, the tongue withdrew slightly only to be replaced with a finger – a lubricated finger, plunged in until Matt could feel himself closing about the knuckle. The felatio, of which Matt was both subject and object, went on automatically. His whole awareness had been captured by the activity in and about his rear. The intrusive finger, having let one of his cheeks go, sawed aggressively in and out of his bum. After a moment’s hesitation, the sawing recommenced, this time with two fingers. His stretched anus was on the verge of becoming numb when the fingers abruptly withdrew. His conspicuously empty rectum buzzed with the unexpected desertion. It pulsed in greedy anticipation.

Once again, a finger began to push and poke at his rear entrance, only this time, he realized, both cheeks were being held firmly apart. There was indeed another hand or two back there amidst his most private region. He felt the investigating finger joined by the hard and smooth, rounded bullet end of a dildo, vibrating gently against his rose. Slowly the force on the machine increased and suddenly the door opened to give passage as with an inaudible pop the well-lubricated vibrator slipped in. Slowly and inexorably it slid in well beyond the reach of the fingers. For a moment it just sat there, vibrating gently against his gripping rectal muscles. Then it began to withdraw slowly. Like a pendulum, it moved in and out. Slowly to start, but with an almost imperceptible acceleration. Gradually it picked up the oral rhythms already established and began to drag them along faster and faster.

Matt wasn't sure he could stand it. His mind reeled. Even the automatic movements of his own head and hips began to skip and stumble. Then, just as smoothly, the rectal attack dissipated. With a small anal gasp, the phallus pulled out leaving his rectum feeling unaccustomedly barren and forlorn. In the few seconds the feeling persisted, Matt thought it intriguing that his basically virgin bum should already feel empty disappointment at the loss of the invader. That thought was rapidly chased from his head by another sudden insertion into his backside. Without even knocking, as it were, his anus was stretched beyond its experience by the peremptory entrance of a massive erection.

The spreading, accommodating hands retreated as a pair of strong, obviously male, hands gripped Matt's hips and pulled them relentlessly onto the hot and rigid pole. There was no gentleness as the sodomy began in earnest. Matt fought to maintain the oral caress of the cock in his mouth as his rectum was pounded mercilessly. As the ordeal progressed, he felt his own responsibility begin to approach apogee in his mouth. Only as he redoubled his lingual efforts did he finally become, once again, aware of the straining in his own genitals. The ramming of his rear became unimaginably wild – frightfully violent in its roaring pursuit of orgasm. At every in-stroke, his own penis was driven deep into its attendant mouth. He felt himself beginning to quiver and buck independently. In response, he pulled his face onto the trembling tool deeper than he had ever before. He was much too involved to gag, too blinded by sensation to be apprehensive. He felt the sudden and ultimate swelling of the already huge tool in his backside as it pinned him against the body below. He forced the other rod so far into his throat that it felt as though it would meet the rear intruder somewhere in chest. He sensed the detonation in his mouth just as he felt the jetting gush of come flood his bowels. The strength of the novel sensations were almost enough to make him swoon, and, coupled with the spasmodic rush of semen into his throat, ignited his own climax. Within moments of the loss of his anal virginity he pumped himself dry into the anonymous throat of his felator and fell insensate against the mass of warm wet bodies – still mounted – still impaled. He was only barely aware of the wandering, always wandering video camera.

If his introduction to anal sex was surprising, it was far and away more exciting and stimulating than he'd ever imagined; and maybe it was even pleasant in some strange and twisted meaning of the word. His initiation into the libertine arts of The Club was apparently through. After that, he participated without second thought in all manner of bisexual activity: sodomite and sodomizer; felator and felatee.

And from there, it was only a small step further – only a little later that, just as smoothly, he slid into the role of primary submissive – not always, but now and then, as necessary. Held or strapped or simply ordered to remain motionless, Matt voluntarily allowed himself to be subjected to torment and humiliation. Stimulation without release; pain and mortification – nothing vicious, just choreographed oppression. Most of the time Matt felt he was in sensory overload. Things were so good that they hurt; feelings so bad they were wonderful. It was very confusing, for although he liked it all – hated it all – hated himself for liking it all, he’d found – what was it? – could it be satisfaction, a perverse satisfaction in his submissive roles? Superficially, that realization surprised him. It ran counter to the vague picture he had always carried of himself in his head – the sort of quasi-macho stud. But deep down he appreciated it – understood it. Do not adjust your set! This was reality. The picture was right. It was just. All's fair...

So it goes.

XIV.

Matt carried an immense guilt that ran through every aspect of his life. He had in the past felt guilty about his work – the time spent there, away from his family – the time he spent with his family, to the neglect of work. He felt guilty about his daughters; had he been a good enough father; were their deaths somehow his fault? He felt guilty about having ‘let the company down'. He shouldered guilt about the recent aggression and borderline violence in his sex with Jenn; and further guilt in his neglect of her. He carried a burden of guilt over his affair, now long past, and piled on more over his activities at The Club. He felt guilty about his own submission and his spinelessness. “Although,” one corner of his brain observed, “it takes a lot of courage to give up oneself – one’s self so completely.”

Nonetheless, he was soon to have more reason to feel guilty about Jenn herself. His burden grew and grew and never left him. Only enfolded in the secure isolation of The Club could he forget it.

Surprisingly Matt still had no real friends at The Club. Certainly there were a number of familiar acquaintances: Stewart, Nigel and Tiffany, and, to a lesser degree, Marg, Marco and, perhaps, Rebecca. (Dara was no longer familiar nor acquainted, having escaped into the depths of her current relationship, but that was how it went.) They were mainly mere acquaintances – club mates, users and sharers. Still, Matt thought it interesting that such apparent impersonality could provide so much deep personal satisfaction.

Some afternoons or evenings, before or after whatever sexual athletics were in store, Matt would relax with a few colleagues in a parlour and watch videos. Often they were in-house tapes on which he recognized some of the participants – including himself, from time to time. They would point and laugh, making both humorous and ribald comments about the scene unfolding up on the small screen. However, sometimes the films were alien and frightening in the depth of their depravity. An eerie quiet would descend on the room as those present watched, eyes riveted in rapt attention. Matt observed video records of unimaginable humiliation and submission. He watched as men and women had intercourse with dogs and bitches in all combinations including felatio. He saw an extremely well hung fellow, attired in leather, being felated by a nursing calf. There were scenes of serious degradation with lots of shitting and pissing; and serious sadism. Matt found the severe sadomasochism incredibly unsettling. At the conclusion of such a tape Matt noticed that it was far more than just he who gasped a few times in order to recover some semblance of normal respiration. As vile as most of them agreed those films were, they continued to view them from time to time – continued to be repulsed yet aroused – turned off and on simultaneously. Such extremities caused in Matt a strange tumult of emotions; frightened but curious, disgusted but envious, he would depart the parlour in a trembling sweat of distraction.

"Matt?" Stewart had caught him as he entered the lobby. "Sorry to bother you, old fellow," addressing him as he usually did when they were not 'in character', as it were, "but I'm afraid that we need to talk."

"Uh-oh," Matt mumbled as a cold worry swept across him. What had he done? It wasn't deliberate, he wanted to say, as Stewart took his arm and guided him into the office.

"Not to worry, my boy." There was a note of mischief in his voice as he dropped it to his rather familiar conspiratorial level; "It's nothing too serious."

After bidding Matt sit, and getting him a drink, Stewart moved behind his desk. He sat silently staring at Matt, his fingers steepled at his chin, making Matt shuffle self-consciously. "I'll get right to the point," he began, "And the point is that your complimentary membership has run out – your probation here at The Club is fini." He paused a moment. Matt remained motionless – waiting. "The necessary observations have been made – and that's basically what this time has been about: candidly observing you and your participation – your performance." His smile was somewhat reassuring, still Matt listened intently. "The executive members have made their recommendations. And here's the upshot of that." He lifted some papers from his desk, straightened them, scanned the top sheet, then looked appraisingly at Matt once again. "You are welcome to become a full, active, decision making member of The Club. As an active and dominant member you will be required to pay an initiation fee as well as the monthly dues." That was basically a good news/bad news thing, and before Matt had a chance to ask the sixty-four dollar question Stewart continued. "'How much?' you want to know. The initiation fee is thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars – we are an exclusive club." Only Matt's heart dropped farther than his jaw. Thirty-seven thousand? "And the current monthly dues are twenty-four hundred."

"Shit." Matt slumped in his chair. He felt that his balloon had just been punctured. "I don't think I could possibly afford that," his flat voice unsteady.

"I understand, Matt," Stewart said sympathetically, "however..."

"Yeah," Matt filled in for him, "rules is rules, right?"

"Usually," Stewart agreed. He seemed to be seriously considering how to handle an obviously hopeless situation. Matt almost missed the sly smile that briefly escaped across his lips. "There is an alternative."

Once again, he looked carefully at the papers on his desk, the supposed executive recommendations. Matt began to suspect that things might not be quite so bad. "Considering your performance these last months, I do believe the alternative is a viable possibility." This time he couldn't hide the smile on his face.

Suddenly feeling a whole lot better, Matt asked with not-quite-mock impatience, "Well, what is this great alternate possibility?"

Stewart went on to explain that Matt could sign on as a casual or part-time 'employee' of sorts. He would not get paid, nor would he be a voting member, of course, but he would have free use of the whole facility with only one proviso. Any time spent there would be under an agreement to observe mandatory compliance, that is, he would be required to do whatever any full member requested or ordered. "In view of how you have participated in scenes and events thus far, I don't believe that would make a noticeable difference in the quality of your experiences here." He raised an eyebrow at Matt, "Well?"

Matt swallowed hard. "No, I think you're right. It wouldn't really."

"So what say you to that?"

"Sounds good to me." Trying to keep the almost childlike relief out of his voice, Matt felt giddy. He had been pulled from the jaws of the dragon. They weren't sending him away after all. He could do nothing about the silly grin that he felt painting his face. "If that was an offer," Stewart nodded that it was, "then I gladly accept the terms and conditions you've explained." He felt buoyant as he stood to shake Stewart's proffered hand.

Stewart went on to explain that, as a working member, it was possible for him to make a few bucks on the side by hiring out his services to private parties some of the members had from time to time. He also warned that mandatory compliance meant that he would be allowed only one balk; however, he went on to say that in the over six years The Club had been in operation, they had never had an incident of either refusal to comply or intolerable request.

Just as Stewart had suggested, Matt's change in rank had little if any effect on his involvement. He continued to be, in many cases, just an extension of the dominant or primary member in a gathering. Some of the paying members were, of course, submissives or part-time submissives, so Matt was required to play a dominant role from time to time. Sometimes he was asked to join a party as a dominator of other submissive 'employees'. Increasingly though, his duty was to be a submissive himself – in a group or with a single member. He wasn't sure he actually liked those roles but he knew that he didn't dislike them either. There was certainly no fear of his jeopardizing his position. And he realized he'd do much more than that in order to stay in The Club.

The lights in the main lounge had been subdued; all except for a single spot that shone on a circular rug in the middle of the room. Matt, wearing only a silk bikini, had been invited in and stood in the shadows against one wall. He had watched with interest as the gentleman whose scene this was settled himself into the rocking chair that had been placed in front of the lighted rug, just beyond the glare of the spot. It was Roland, an older fellow and officer of The Club, whom Matt had met on several occasions; his neat silver white hair gave him an air of quiet sophistication. The intensity of his eyes was tempered with a good humour that spilled into his cheeks and around his mouth. He nodded sagely at Matt, acknowledging him with a simple, "Matthew," then seemed to retreat into a trance while he waited. It was nothing less than surrealistic.