The Freyja Club Ch. 21

Our schedules were largely incompatible, I was busy when he was free, and vice versa, but we managed to get together often enough that I considered myself to be a sexually satisfied woman. However, I was soon to be surprised once again when Keith told me about the "Klingsdale Club."

As he described it to me, I was immediately reminded of the "Hellfire Clubs," that I had read about. While those clubs predated the Victorian Era that so captivated me, they were essentially organizations dedicated to debauchery, often as pornographic portrayals of religious rituals, where women, like me, would be "taken" and "sacrificed" in various sexually explicit ways. As Keith described the activities of the club, I began to feel my damp arousal fill my panties, and when he suggested that he would like to take me to this club, I almost orgasmed at the thought.

All of my old memories came flooding back. I could be that woman who was in my dreams! Oh, I was really nervous, but the first time was amazing. I was tied up on my back, a ball gag in my mouth, but I was also blindfolded. That was a first, and it made me feel helpless. I don't know how many men fucked me. I know it was several. One came all over my face and it felt like two came in my pussy. Keith took me back several times, and once I was bent over and fucked repeatedly in my ass.

Another time, I participated in a 'black mass.' I was blindfolded and tied, spread-eagle on the "altar," and had various objects inserted in my vagina, and men and, I think, some women fingered me and ate my pussy. I know I drank the cum of a half-dozen men from a silver chalice. For the whole two years that I was at Cambridge, I was a willing and enthusiastic participant, but by the time I received my Ph.D., I was done. It had been fun, but I just think it was like an itch that needed to be scratched. After Keith went back to Australia, I didn't have a sexual encounter fit several months. Then Frederick Grimm walked into my life.

One day, I was just sitting by myself having a cup of coffee at a little place on the Quad when Fredrick just pulled up a chair and sat down across the table. I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say. He addressed me by name and pushed his card across the table. At the top, the words printed in Gothic Letters said, The F.C. Institute, and below was his name, Fredrick Grimm."

For the next five minutes, I just sat with my mouth agape as he recounted what he knew about me, which was... well, everything. I remember that I was so shocked that I just kept looking around to see if there was any way to escape from this horrible man, but it seemed that I was welded to my seat. Finally, I was able to utter a couple of words. "What do you want? I don't have any money."

Frederick just laughed. "Oh, you have some. There's twenty-two pounds in your checking account, as of this morning." He was right. I had just deposited ten pounds yesterday and had the receipt in my purse that said my balance was twenty-two. "How... how... Do you know all of these things about me?" I stammered. Frederick just smiled and said, "I'm not here to blackmail you, I'm here to recruit you."

Though I remained terrified, my curiosity was immediately piqued. He wanted to recruit me? Recruit me for what? When I started to get up, I remember saying, "I don't think so," but before I could complete the movement, Fredrick reached into his jacket pocket and placed a thousand-pound note on the table on top of his card. I sat back down and stared at the money. I had never seen so much at one time in my life, and I'm sure my face revealed it.

"Care to listen to what I have to say?" Fredrick inquired, and I nodded, never once raising my gaze from the money.

Over the next hour, Fredrick told me that he represented a secret organization whose name he wouldn't divulge, but whose members comprised a "who's who" of the world's elite. The purpose of the club was the 'sexual fulfillment' of its members, but it required people who craved the hedonic pleasures that it offered but could be depended on to maintain its secrecy and be able to pay the substantial cost of membership. Unfortunately, the vast majority of these people were males, but for the club to function, it was necessary to attract an equal number of females. The F.C. Institute was how a workable balance was achieved.

"So, you want me to become a whore for this club of yours," I said. It wasn't a question, I uttered the words as a statement.

For a moment, it appeared that Fredrick was hurt by my comment, but he took a deep breath and added. "No, miss. Not a whore. As a member."

Now I was really confused. "I thought you just said that this was an exclusive club that cost a lot to join?"

"For most people, that's true, but for graduates of the institute, the membership is free for life, and as a member, you're free to partake or not with whatever and with whomever you choose. It's entirely up to you. You will not be paid or forced to have sex with anyone. The fact that we are having this conversation is the result that we have done an exhaustive study on you, and we believe you will be a positive addition to our membership."

I was still skeptical, but I was also becoming intrigued. I nodded at the money lying on the table and asked, "What's that for? Do I fuck you or perhaps a blowjob?" Frederick laughed, and said, no that's yours for just listening to me. Think about it. If you want to pursue it, my number's on the card." With that, he got up and shook my hand. Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Well, I did think about it. In fact, I could think of nothing else for two days. The rational part of me screamed for me to walk away and never look back, but, as Fredrick had correctly surmised, the 'slut' in me just couldn't. Frederick seemed unsurprised when he took my call.

The Institute is located in a house in Waverly. The headmistress is a woman named Lara Ward. Five other women started with me, but there were perhaps twenty-five in residence. We were from all over the world; French, Japanese, Aussie, a woman from Nigeria, a couple of Brits, and three Americans as I remember.

My group included myself, Lisa, Megan, Patricia, and Greta. We were referred to as the Gefjun Group and for the most part, we stayed together with very little interaction with the other women in the house. I learned that each group of five was named after one of the various Norse Goddesses and Gefjun oversaw agriculture, fertility, and abundance.

We learned that the name of the organization was the Freyja Club and were taught about its history and where the clubs were located. We all got medical exams and shots for every disease known to man and while it was obvious that all of us were selected for our passion for hedonism, we did practice some fairly bizarre sex practices, but truthfully, nothing I hadn't already tried on my own. I roomed with Lisa and we spent every night together perfecting the art of pussy eating.

For the most part, our "education" consisted mostly of private interviews and group discussions that I would liken to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. One of us would be asked to describe a sexual encounter from our experience and it would be dissected by the group. For example, I might have described how I stripped Keith to administer a blowjob and we'd debate the most erotic way I should have done it. Should I be naked first, or did it matter? Kiss and lick as opposed to engulfing him completely? Those, and a thousand other questions or suggestions might have constituted the session. Lest one gets the impression that my performance was being criticized, nothing could be further from the truth. I found the sessions to be extremely exciting and illuminating and my understanding of myself as a sexual creature was enhanced by the experience. The same was true of the interviews which were conducted by Lara Ward or one of her assistants. I was regularly asked to switch places with my lover and describe myself from their perspective. I had initially thought this would be easy, but under Lara's insightful probing, I came to understand that I could only superficially describe it, but the more we talked, the more aware of the dynamics at play. Likewise, we spent a lot of time talking about men and the various ways they view women, sex, and power.

But there were other things too. One day we received instruction on the basics of make-up and the use of various kinds of beauty products and I was grateful since this was an area where I knew my knowledge was appallingly deficient. Likewise with clothing. We learned that sometimes more is better than less, but the 'more' needs to emphasize rather than reveal. We also spent a day on personal finance and how to manage money, another 'flat spot,' in my understanding of how the world really works.

I was there for two weeks and we were taken to the actual club in London on Friday and Saturday nights and let loose. I'm sure we were being observed, but it wasn't obvious. I loved it. The rich decor and the rich men who catered to me were such an aphrodisiac that I was totally hooked. It became immediately obvious to me that the techniques I was learning at the Institute were having a measurable effect on the way I regarded my sexual partners and our mutual experience. I had long accepted the fact that I was a slut, but after my time at the Institute, I was a 'super-slut.'

It wasn't long after that when Fredrick took me to the audience with Charles MacDonald, who he called "The Chairman." He was maybe sixty-five, tall and the very epitome of a British aristocrat. He welcomed me into the membership and I learned that he was the great-great-grandson of one of the founders and that the chairmanship of the club was practically a hereditary title. His father and grandfather had also been "Chairman." Other than the personal welcome, he just asked that I be on the lookout for potential future recruits for the institute. It was all very British, and he never once hinted that we were discussing a sex club. I liked him, but he struck me as standoffish.

I stayed at Cambridge for another year as a T.A. when one day I was having a conversation with one of my counselors, and the topic turned to Victorian Erotica. I doubt that she knew of my history and intense interest in this very subject, but she piqued my interest with a question. "Do you wonder why all of the most famous works are written by authors who chose to remain anonymous or write under pseudonyms?"

Of course, I had wondered. I'm sure a lot of readers did, but she continued. My doctoral dissertation was on 'literary forensics,' and she went on to explain that, among other things, it was a technique that could be used to associate some text with the style or technique of a known writer. In her case, she thought she'd identified the real authors of some of those works, and when she told me the names, my jaw dropped to the floor. Jane Austin? Thomas Moore? Maybe Lord Byron! From that moment I was hooked. Later she taught me some of her techniques and ultimately recruited me to help.

Unfortunately, later that year, she was diagnosed with lung cancer and was gone six months later. However, she bequeathed me her research and I brought it back with me to the United States when I received an appointment to teach at Georgetown. It continues to be an area that I continue to work on, albeit in secrecy.

Of course, the proximity of a Freyja Club was a major reason that I chose the position at Georgetown as opposed to a couple of other opportunities that I was presented with, and it turned out to be a good choice. From my apartment on Volta Place, it was an easy ten-minute walk to either Georgetown University or the Freyja Club. Recently my father relocated to his company's office in Crystal City and he spends most of his days across I-395 in the Pentagon. We see each other on occasion, and he wonders why I haven't yet married. Et Tu Brute!

While I have had numerous partners in the time I've been going to the club on P Street, I recently was introduced to a man who is primarily responsible for my writing this memoir.

He, like me, was introduced to the allure of Victorian erotica about the same time, and the same age as I, however, he doesn't seem as interested in finding the real authors as I have been, but he's made me aware of a different sort of mystery. One that, I'm embarrassed to say, lies right in front of my eyes in plain sight. The continued existence of the Freyja Club into the modern era.

I am not one to think deeply about all of the things that have to happen in the real world that must be in place to allow organizations to thrive and prosper, much less to do so while remaining anonymous. But he is, and now he's piqued my own curiosity. Indeed! How has it done so?

I once tried to count how many sexual partners I've had, and the precise number will never be known but I know it is more than two-hundred. But the man I'm describing doesn't seem to be like any of them. Oh, he is a wonderful lover and he's taken me to the very apex of sexual ecstasy, but no more so than some others that I remember. It's not just that though, because when his cum rests comfortably inside me, I still yearn to be in his presence. I have yet to find a topic that he cannot discuss from a foundation of knowledge and though it may lack depth in some areas, the breadth is awesome. It's as if I have just discovered another dimension of reality that I hadn't known existed.

Three nights ago we met and adjourned to one of the activity suites at the club, and for some reason, I felt compelled to have him dominate me. I found a blindfold in the drawer of the bed stand and put it on while he was undressing. When he turned around and saw me, I had extended my arms and legs and spread myself in exactly the manner that I would be if I were bound to the bedposts. In my blinded state, I couldn't see what he was doing, but I imagined that he was looking at my naked body and would soon either feed me his cock, or impale my wet and open cunt, but surprisingly he didn't do either of those things. I thought I could hear him rummaging in the drawers of the bed stand where I had taken the blindfold. What could he be doing?

Soon, I felt the mattress shift as he climbed in next to me, but by now I had no idea what he might be planning. I was about to find out. I felt him straddle one of my legs and I could sense his cock pressing down on my thigh, but the first unexpected touch was his lips gently kissing mine. It was barely a touch and when he pulled away, I instinctively lifted my head seeking to reestablish contact, but he was gone.

The next thing I felt was something that swept softly across my forehead and continued around my eye and across my cheek. I moaned in surprise and quickly felt the touch on the other side of my face. I twisted my head to try to identify the source of the ticklish sensation and suddenly realized that it was a feather!

He traced the outline of my body, down my neck to my shoulders, then over my arms, and hands, and back up the opposite side, down my rib cage to the swell of my hips, down my legs to my feet, and up again. He avoided any contact that would be sexually stimulating, but it was obvious that the caress of the feather was having an effect. My body squirmed as the feather tip continued on its journey.

He repeated the outline one more time before he paused and I thought was considering what to do next. My breasts are only a B-cup and with me on my back, they had flattened on my chest, but they are very sensitive, so when I felt the feather slip under the slope of my right tit and then the left, it caused my body to twitch and I let out a long moan that may have been from pleasure, but also from frustration.

He circled both of my breasts several times but avoided approaching my nipples which had hardened into eraser-like nubs. Instead, he traced the feather down my stomach in a slalom movement that stopped short of my pussy mound. Then skipping over my cunt, he resumed the same kind of trace down the front of each leg and up my inner thighs. As he approached my center, I felt the tension in my leg muscles as I struggled to keep them spread.

As he approached my cunt, my mind cut back to one of the things we'd discussed at the Institute. Like most women, I know that my sexual center lies between my legs in the area of my vagina and my clitoris and I regard the smooth curve of my mound as just an interesting landmark on the way. However, it was pointed out that men don't look at it at all like that. Our mounds are in the precise location of their center, and they relate to that particular area much differently and with a lot more interest than we realize. So, as the feather approached, I pushed this underappreciated -by me- aspect of my womanhood forward to entice contact. I knew that I was leaking 'girl juice' because I could feel it seeping into the crack of my butt cheeks and would soon drip onto the bed. I suspected that my vagina was open as well.

At that moment, I was wishing that I could see his reaction to my blatant display. I had chosen to expose my naked body this way as a signal that I was ready to accept whatever he chose to do with me, and I was hoping that he was feeling a rush of sexual dominance and his beautiful cock was standing hard and proud ready to thrust into oh-so-aching pussy, but he wasn't saying anything and the slight movements I felt as he straddled my leg wasn't providing any clues either. Would he continue to tease me with the feather, or use his fingers, or perhaps his nails to rake my skin? Would I finally feel the head of his penis press against my lips, or impale me with a savage thrust into my oh-so-wet, pussy? Those and a thousand other thoughts raced through my mind in that moment of uncertainty.

I felt the first touch on my flattened breast when his fingers found, and pinched my nipple, but at the same time, I jumped when I felt the feather run straight up my slit. The combination of the two sensations caused me to lift my hips off the bed and I threw my head back and moaned a long torched "Ahhhhhggg!" I was really struggling to keep my hands and ankles anchored in their positions, but I couldn't stop my thighs from rolling inward to protect my pussy from the ticklish sensation he was creating with the feather.

He flicked the tip of the feather across my clit and I uttered an unbroken series of moans, groans, and spasms. I couldn't keep my body still and I wondered where he had conceived this form of torture. If it had been on the spur of the moment as I suspected, he was both more creative and devious than I had given him credit. I thought that I had been prepared to endure more, but I just couldn't.

"You fucking bastard," I said, as I abandoned my 'submissive' pose and pulled the blindfold off, and pushed him into the space between my legs. I don't honestly remember the words I used, but they were along the lines of, "I need your fucking cock... Now!"

When I saw him raise on his knees, I wrapped my legs around his and pressed my heels into the back of his thighs, then my eyes dropped and found his cock. I sometimes wonder how other women feel as they regard a ramrod-stiff shaft poised above their pussies, but I have always treasured that brief moment when I glimpse the instrument of my sexual pleasure just before it slides into my hole. The initial thrust into my welcoming wetness was partially him, but a lot of the impetus was generated by the forceful pull of my legs as I found that I simply couldn't wait any longer. As he slid in all the way, I knew that my eyes widened and my face registered the intense feeling of his invasion. I took a deep gasp followed by a long expelled "yeassess... oh God... yesssss!"

The sudden warmth of my vagina hit him too. All of a sudden, his embedded shaft seemed to gain added firmness and I responded to the exquisite spasms that l was feeling by flexing my vaginal muscles to clamp him tightly inside as my hips wiggled to find the most pleasurable angle to savor this most welcome invasion.