The Freyja Club Ch. 29 - The Return

As the cab turned onto Rue St. Denis and the building that housed the Paris Freyja Club came into view, I experienced a bout of déjà vu. Almost exactly one year ago, I approached this very building with a thousand questions racing through my mind. I had received a mysterious invitation to join something called the Freyja Club on an Air France flight and out of curiosity I'd kept the stated appointment. Now, I was returning.

The Paris Freyja Club is located in the St. Denis section of the city. It's one of the higher-end business districts and from the outside, it looks like a small upscale office building that sits on a corner surrounded on two sides by small strips of nicely maintained grass and enclosed by a black wrought iron fence that I've thought looks more decorative than useful. A driveway snakes to the back of the building where there's an entrance to an underground garage.

There are three entrances to the building that can be used by the public. None of them show any signage. The entrance off the street is nondescript with only a street number visible. That door leads to a nicely appointed reception area manned by Henrietta. While she speaks passable English, don't expect this lady to engage you in conversation since I've learned that Henrietta is mildly autistic and is reticent around strangers, particularly men.

The managing director of the club is a woman named Danielle du Val, who had not only initiated me into the club a year ago but had spent the night in my bed the previous evening. My thoughts swung between those most pleasant recent memories and my excitement about visiting this particular club again.

The other two entrances to the club are located in an elevator lobby that's accessed from the parking garage located below the building. One elevator is for the hotel which occupies the top floor of the building, the other opens at the members' entrance to the club itself where one must use an ID chip embedded in the web formed between the thumb and index finger of your hand to gain access. Once through security, men enter the club directly through a richly paneled wooden door carved with the likeness of a Viking longship. Women, on the other hand, are required to be nude while in the club, so they make a detour through a door with a cut-glass swan motif which leads to the ladies' dressing room.

Once inside, men are greeted by the club hostess, whom I've learned is the second-in-command to the club's director and is usually responsible for the club's nightly operation. As with all of the clubs I've visited so far, pains have been taken to ensure that the first impression is memorable. In Paris, the entrance foyer appears to be two stories high with a large crystal chandelier hanging from the ornate ceiling. This is an interior space because there are no windows, but the walls are rich cherry-panel all the way to the top. Several niches in the walls contain small statues and two large erotic paintings hang at either end. The oval carpet is cream and burgundy and deeply padded. A bronze statue of Freyja, the Norse Goddess of love, occupies the center of the room.

While the decor and appointments are breathtaking in their own right, one also notices that the room is comfortably warm. The temperature is maintained at 75F as an accommodation for the ladies in the club since, as I've mentioned, they are required to be naked. Porticos off the foyer reveals two further rooms; to the left, a large bar area, and to the right a restaurant.

During my first visit to this room, I had been escorted by Danielle and her husband Phillipe, and truthfully, I had been so overwhelmed that I hadn't taken the time to fully appreciate its rich ambiance. This time, I did.

In my first year of membership, I visited five of the Freyja club's twenty locations and I noted that while they all contained some central features, they all had distinct personalities too. Paris, like the clubs in New York and Washington, reflected the persona of the 'gentlemen's clubs' of yesteryear; rich paneling, thick carpets, overstuffed furniture, cut glass partitions, lamps, sconces, and chandeliers abound. Miami reflected a more open, tropical motif and included a pool and an extensive outdoor patio, while Tokyo was located on a secluded estate and had hot and cold baths that are central to Japanese Culture. I was anxious to visit the others at some point, but none more so than the original club in London.

In the last year, in addition to enjoying the hedonic pleasures of the Freyja Club, I had become fascinated with trying to solve, what I considered, a key question, namely...

"How had this club survived almost one hundred years into the modern age, expanded to twenty clubs around the world, and done so while retaining almost complete anonymity? How did it recruit enough members (and staff) of the right genders and mindset and how had it maintained the secrecy of its existence?"

It was perhaps a lucky coincidence that, in my career, I had developed some skills in discovering things that people wished to remain hidden and so my quest to understand the Freyja Club was just an extension of the kinds of things I did every day.

Twenty years previously I had resigned my commission in the U.S. Army after completing a tour in Vietnam and had joined a small company in a niche business located in the Mid-Atlantic region. The firm had just installed a new youthful management team that had big plans. While I had been hired initially for my Engineering knowledge, I had independently pursued an MBA in finance and had been assigned to a team that was working on our first major acquisition. Apparently, I had displayed some unique abilities to ferret out information and build contacts that impressed the Chairman, and a few months later at the age of twenty-eight, I was offered the position of VP for Business Development. I was elevated to the Executive Committee of the company, given some general parameters, and told to go find compatible firms to acquire.

With only one exception, the companies that I went after were privately held. We wanted leaders in related niche businesses and we were meticulous in doing our research. As a result, I acquired some real-world skills in accounting, finance, tax and corporate law, negotiations, and perhaps most importantly, human behavior. To begin to answer my questions about the Freyja Club, I just did what I routinely do with a potential acquisition. I started asking questions.

My curiosity had not gone unnoticed and among the things I had discovered was the club's intention of keeping its secrets... well, secret. I had been confronted twice by club representatives and I had been open about my intentions. So far, I have only received warnings to 'be careful,' but I am well aware that security has my name on their list.

So far, I think I've got a good understanding of the financial picture of the club, how a myriad of shell companies insulate it from direct observation, how it ensures disclosure of its existence by members and staff, how it monitors communications with the outside world and recently I discovered the answer to one of my most nagging questions, namely... How has it recruited enough women to the club?

When I had been initiated by Danielle, she had explained that the club membership was limited and exclusive. She told me that there were only twelve thousand members and that the male-to-female ratio was roughly 60/40. If this was true (and I've discovered that some of what I was told hasn't survived scrutiny) then the club has just short of five thousand female members.

Because of the nature of my work, I've had a chance to circulate in the strata of society that constitutes the target membership of the club; fortysomething independently wealthy individuals desirous of the hedonic lifestyle offered, and I knew that the vast majority of these people were men. Where did the club attract 4,800 women?

Some, I knew, were the wives, girlfriends, and mistresses of male members who were admitted as a couple with the woman's membership being paid for by the male partner, but I didn't think that could account for the number required. I did know a few, like Susan, who I'd met in Washington, had started her own business and could afford membership on her own, and had decided against children and a traditional family life but I suspected that women like her were few and far between, even given the fact that the sexual revolution of the '60s had emancipated a whole generation of women, the nagging question remained. How had the Freyja Club achieved the 60/40 balance?

My "ah-ha moment" came after meeting a woman named Hayley in the Washington Club. It turns out that she, and an unknown number of other female members, had been individually recruited by the club and spent a couple of weeks in what she called, the Freyja Institute. These women had been admitted to membership but were not subject to the initiation or monthly fees of other members.

It was this revelation of the existence of the Institute as well as some other insights that Hayley had made about the mysterious people at the head of the organization that convinced me that the answer to my remaining questions could only be found in one place... London!

While, for some reason, I was thinking about London, the fact of the matter was I happened to be in Paris. When I returned to the here-and-now I looked around the foyer in which I found myself and pushed all of my thoughts about the unresolved mysteries of the Freyja Club to the back of my mind to enjoy the heady experience of where I stood. I was still gazing at the nude statue of Freyja when I heard someone call my name and I turned around and discovered that the voice came from the hostess who was standing behind the dias next to the Viking door.

I had never met the lady in question, but I knew that she knew who I was because as soon as I had "buzzed in" at security, my profile popped up on her monitor, and I knew that it showed not only who I was, but where I'd been in the various Freyja Clubs and a lot of other information including notes posted by various staff members over the last year. I was dying to read those, but the closest that I'd ever gotten was one time when Michelle had paraphrased some of them for me.

As I mentioned, the last time I had been here, Danielle was my escort and I hadn't remembered even seeing the hostess, much less meeting her, so as I turned around, I made it a point to correct that situation.

The voice belonged to a beautiful strawberry-blonde woman with wonderfully flawless pale skin and a set of 36D tits that jutted from her chest with just the slightest hint of sag. I'm sorry to admit that I gazed longingly at those before I was able to see her face. When I quickly glanced up at her gold tiara, I discovered that her name was Lily. In Freyja Clubs, all women on the staff have their first name engraved on the tiaras they wear since the fact that they were otherwise naked leaves no other place where a nametag can be attached. Tiaras worn by the chief hostess are gold while the rest of the female staff have silver. The male stewards are dressed in uniforms, so their identification is a normal blue and gold badge worn over the shirt pocket.

Lily greeted me by name and in slightly accented English welcomed me back to Paris. Like every good hostess, she spoke in a manner that sounded like we were long-time friends, even though we had just met a few seconds ago. Because of the information about me that was being displayed on her monitor, she was able to speak with a familiarity that was designed to put guests immediately at ease. I appreciated her genuine smile and I wondered about her choice of lipstick; it wasn't red, nor was it pink, but a somewhere in-between color that complimented her hair and skin in a way that I found exciting.

Lily asked me if I was meeting anyone and she glanced to her left where I could see the twin of the ladies 'swan door.' Had I had a female companion, she would enter the club through that door in a few minutes after she'd disrobed.

Actually, I knew that Lily's question was superfluous, because had I entered with a companion it would have registered, so I assumed it was just a normal 'ice breaker' question. I smiled back at her and said, "No. I'm alone tonight, but I hope to rectify that soon." Lily gave me a knowing smile back and stepped out from behind her dias. This permitted a view of the bottom half of her body which was just as spectacular as the top. The wonderful curve of her hips framed the lovely "V" of her shaved pussy and Lily allowed me a moment to savor the view. She was also displaying her legs and I wondered if she was a runner, because they had the sinewy muscles that I knew could only be the result of some serious exercise.

She asked if I remembered the layout of the club and when I said that I did, she gave me her drop-dead gorgeous smile and said to let her know if she could make my visit more enjoyable. I immediately had a vision of her writhing beneath me impaled on my hard cock, but I knew that hostesses were generally the least available when it came to copulation with the staff because of their need to remain on station, so I just waved my thanks and headed toward the bar.

In some ways, I was reminded of the famous "Long Bar" located in the Raffles Hotel in Singapore because the one I beheld was its virtual twin. However, the one in Singapore fronts cabinets filled with every liquor known to man, whereas the Freyja Club version sits in front of a long mural painting reminiscent of Goya's "Naked Magi," the difference being that what I was viewing was so realistic that it could be mistaken for a photograph. Every strand of the woman's raven hair was visible both on her head and between her legs and I felt an immediate throb in my groin as I took in the full picture.

Not that the mural was the only source of stimulation in sight. There were perhaps twenty members in the bar area and half were naked women. That plus the three female bartenders that I could see were more than enough to prime my pump and I had to reach down and make an adjustment before climbing onto one of the barstools. A couple to my left greeted me in French, but when I replied in English, the woman's hand signaled that it wasn't a language they spoke, so they just raised their glasses in a salutation of sorts and went back to their conversation.

Just then, one of the female bartenders approached and I ordered a Heineken and asked for the bar menu. If I had a companion I would have opted for the restaurant, but when I'm alone I prefer to eat at the bar, where there's a chance that I'll find someone to talk to. While there were several more 'sophisticated' options, I chose to just order a Jambon Beurre, the famous French baguette ham sandwich. I had lived in France for a couple of years as a teenager, and that particular item is my "go-to" choice when I have the chance. In my opinion, it doesn't get much better than a good Jambon Beurre and a cold beer.

I had just gotten my beer when the voices of the couple on my right began to sound agitated. It was a little confusing because the man was speaking French, but the woman in the stool next to me was responding in English. I glanced in their direction just as the male slapped his hand on the bar, pivoted off his seat, and walked away. The woman, who I could see was crying, took a drag of her cigarette and glanced in my direction. "I'm sorry, sometimes he..." The woman choked back whatever words she was about to say, and looked at the half-empty glass in front of her. Generally, I am not one to insert myself in a lover's squabbles, so I just said, "Okay." But just that vanilla response seemed to be interpreted by her as permission to tell me what had just happened. I'll spare you the emotional angst that I listened to over the next twenty minutes, but here's the gist of what seemed to be a recitation of a relationship coming apart at the seams.

It seems that Marc, the male who just departed the scene, had been a long-time member of the Freyja Club, first in New York and now here in Paris. I hadn't had time to get a good look at him, but he was in his late fifties and had joined with his ex-wife who was also a member. After their divorce, he met Anita, the woman recounting the story. Somewhere along the line, I was informed that Anita was also from New York, but I never did learn how she happened to be living with Marc in France.

According to her, she was oblivious to the existence of the club until Marc revealed it months after they became an item. Her initial shock gradually disappeared as Marc finally convinced her to at least try the lifestyle. She was initially just a 'guest' but a year later she became a member, and much to her surprise, she found that she not only tolerated but came to crave the sexual variety and freedom that the club offered. So much so that she sponsored her twin sister Amelia.

As she explained it, she was the one who had to deal with feelings of jealousy when she learned about the club and heard about the other women who had been Marc's sexual partners, but in the last year, as she had grown comfortable with her own hedonic nature and had even done some things outside of the club, it was Marc who was now dealing with those feelings, and she didn't know what to do. It had culminated in the spat that I'd just witnessed and Anita thought that she and Marc were over.

While I pride myself on having a good grasp of human nature, I don't pretend to be a relationship counselor, so I was feeling a little out of my element, plus Anita's heaving naked bosom was a distraction that I don't think most counselors have.

I had finished my sandwich and beer and was looking for a way to extract myself from listening to Anita's problem when I noticed a woman approaching. I looked at her and then back to Anita, and immediately concluded that since both women looked identical it was probably Anita's sister Amelia.

It turned out that such was the case and as Amelia put her hand on Anita's shoulder, I heard her say, "I just saw Marc storm out. What happened?" The interruption was most welcome, and while Anita began to explain to her sister the nature of the deteriorating relationship with Marc, I was able to order another beer and savor the view of the ladies' naked bodies just a few feet away.

I had initially judged Anita to be in her mid-thirties, but it was hard to tell given her distraught condition. Amelia provided a better gauge, and I upped my estimate a few more years. Both had nice bodies with just the beginnings of the 'pooch' that women seem to develop. Since Amelia was standing, I had a much better view of her charms than I'd had with Anita, and I concluded that I would enjoy a 'go' with either of them.

Anita was still seated on the bar stool next to me, but she had half pivoted to talk with Amelia and I had a better opportunity to appreciate her nakedness than was the case previously. She rested her left arm on the back of the stool and was leaning forward which displayed her fleshy breasts in a delightful profile. As many women do, Anita used her hands to emphasize her words and I was treated to a view of her nipples dancing with those tiny jiggles that drive me crazy.

Amelia was similarly equipped and she was leaning forward as well. Since both women had adopted a posture that most people use when trying to keep their words private, I had a chance to marvel at nature's perfect design of the female breast since I could see Amelia's hanging orbs head on, and Anita's from the side, both less than three feet away.

My girlfriend Karen had once observed me ogling some woman during our recent vacation together and had accused me of being a "tit man." I had responded with indignation and informed her that I appreciated everything that nature designed in the female figure, and while that certainly included tits, I liked it all. So it was that my gaze didn't just remain riveted on the girls jiggling boobs, but took in the whole picture.