The Gentlemen's Club


"Goodness, Douglas," Winthrop said. Forgotten for the moment was his own escort, Jennifer; rather, his attention was wholly fixated on the thin material clinging to Sarah Higgins' chest, six inches beneath her exposed collarbone. Brown himself couldn't look away, either; there, sitting on the end of what appeared to be twin white honeydew melons, were two large strawberries. Brown licked his lips, for the first time this evening having seen something he did not expect.

For her part, Jennifer stood back, Sarah's heretofore shielding shawl now hung incongruently around her own neck and shoulders. She seemed very pleased with herself.

"Sarah," Brown said, turning his body in her direction.

She turned dark with shame, a deep crimson color even the low light couldn't obscure. She knew too well what these lecherous men were observing; hadn't she, for years, seen the obscene, strawberry-sized and cherry-colored tips about her own breasts? Hadn't she gone to great lengths to keep them covered, even from her own husband?

"Sarah," a voice said, penetrating her fog.

"Yes... yes, Mr. Brown."

"What do you think of our fine club?"

"I..." She had no idea how to respond.

"Do you find it so offensive?"

"No, of course not."

"Very good. I would hate to think we had somehow infringed on your own sensibilities."

"No, sir."

"So respectful," Winthrop said, taking a drink of searing Kentucky whiskey.

"Charles, I do believe it's time to eat."

Charles, eyes transfixed unabashedly about Sarah's substantial breasts, said nothing, merely nodded affirmative.

Brown gestured; trays of food instantly appeared, placed around their table in a dazzling presentation. Sarah, hunched slightly, stared at the empty plate sitting before her.

"Back straight," Brown said, cutting into a slice of prime beef. "Straight!"

Startled, Sarah bolted upright, accompanied by much swaying. Her overlarge nipples brushed against the thin dress and hardened. She felt it, an itchy tightening, and hoped they couldn't be seen. She felt a sudden compelling urge to drop to her knees and begin to pray.

She was only just able to resist.


As they ate their meal, the other gentlemen at the club—alone, in pairs, and even with their own escorts in tow—came by the preferred table to pay their respects to Misters Brown and Winthrop. Mr. Winthrop, in particular, was a man of high prestige, the one they most tried to impress with stories of recent acquisitions; Mr. Brown, on the other hand, seemed to be more of the leader, a man they deferred to in most conversations, whose words carried much weight. In all instances, each of the men hungrily drank in the sight of the new girl's remarkable assets. Full, impressive mammary glands of such a size, tipped with scarlet olives that strained at their thin covering, never failed to captivate.

"Lively one, there," was the only comment that came to Sarah's ears that she felt certain was specifically directed her way. She darted her eyes up quickly—it was the fat man, who stared at her chest the same way Mr. Winthrop had, sparing no glance at her eyes or face. He appeared to be sizing them up, wondering almost aloud how much nourishment he might withdraw from the succulent milk-producing glands, were the poor girl lactating. Just then, however, he did look up—eyes locked, he opened his mouth and smiled, exposing bad teeth to go along with his fat gut.

'This man must be wealthy, indeed,' she thought, immediately followed by more shame that to him she should be so exposed

Finally, all had eaten. Except for Sarah.


"Yes, Mr. Brown?"

"Would you like a bite to eat?"

She looked at Mr. Brown, paused, and shook her head.

"No, thank you," she whispered.

As the table was cleared, two men came in the front door. One was older, perhaps fifty, while the other appeared to be half his age. The older man was broad of shoulder with thick, railroad-tie arms and tree-trunk thighs. He was very impressive. The younger man seemed almost a carbon copy; perhaps a bit smaller about both the arms and legs, but with the same hefty shoulders, it would have been clear to even the most casual observer that the two men were related. As they approached the Winthrop-Brown party, it became even more clear, as they both shared thick heads of unruly blond hair, bulky noses and bushy eyebrows, and had a way of walking with their arms rocking sideways away from their bodies as if they expected a scuffle to break out at any time.

These two were father and son if ever there were such a thing.

"Brown," the older man said, not quite disrespectful, not quite contemptuous, but certainly far from deferential. It was a courtesy bound by financial considerations, and nothing more, which prompted his public behavior towards Brown and Winthrop. Winthrop, in particular, held a special place in the older man's studied condescension. It was an open secret that each tremendously disliked the other.

"Mr. Collins. How are you this evening?" Brown replied.

"I am well."

There would be no 'sirs,' little polite discourse, and no civic gestures.

"Excellent. We have a job for you."

"I'm sure," he said, still looking at Brown. He failed utterly to notice Winthrop or his escort, who he had seen before, and spared no glance for the other woman at the table.

"There is a property in Valdosta that we simply must move on with maximum possible haste. I trust you will have it taken care of in short order."


"Our terms, such as they are, remain the same."


"Very well."

Now, as they shook hands—nothing was ever put in writing, Brown and Collins understood their hand-struck deal was more binding than any contract—Collins finally cast a glance at the young woman sitting next to Brown.

His eyes opened rather more than usual, accompanied by a strange set of his jaw. He smiled—rare indeed—a small smile that appeared most out of place on his non-symmetrical face. He appeared to be in the deepest concentration, eyes burrowing holes throw Sarah Higgins. He forced himself to look away.

"Mr. Brown," he said, having never released the man's hand, "might I have a word?"


After stepping away for a brief conversation—during which the elder Collins and his son both exchanged words with Brown, and at one point which all three men turned in unison and looked back at Sarah—Brown returned to his seat, while Collins and his son walked towards the door and left.

"Dessert," Brown said, snapping his fingers. Winthrop, upon this announcement, seemed a bit livelier, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

Sarah noticed that no food came to the table. Arms askance, she was painfully aware of her exposed breasts, felt the weight of them heavily in her own mind, dragging her down into depths of shame.

Brown stood and moved towards Sarah, grabbing her chair. "Up we go," he said, sliding it back.

Sarah, mortified, stood.

Brown began walking; his escort followed, eyes down, religiously tracing each of his steps.


"Look, he's doing it again," the fat man said hungrily.

"Yes, so he is," Winthrop replied with vigor.

The other four men laughed heartily.

"Put her through her paces, Douglas," one voice said.

"Yes, indeed, put her to a good lather."

More laughter followed.

This was proving to be quite the show.


Brown, as before, started at a pace Sarah could only just keep up with; this time, however, he slowly increased his speed, weaving a path back and forth. As he walked he adjusted his tie, stopped briefly and scratched his temple, or searched his pockets, seemingly searching for something he had lost. Sarah, ever diligent, followed, beads of sweat forming on her forehead, on the swells of her breasts, the curve of her lower back, and all about her arms.

Brown stopped and turned around, mock searching. "There you are," he said.


"Chh, chh," he said, snapping his fingers at his side. He started walking.

With barely a perceptible pause, Sarah followed, trying to resist the sense that she was a prize dame being led to show.

"That's it, Douglas, walk the bitch," the fat man said. His face was beet red, eyes abulge as he stared at the silky dress now clinging scandalously to Sarah's sweat-drenched body. Her chest was bared in nearly full detail, large and round with nipples clearly discernible in both size and shape; her rear end, soft and curvy, was equally clung to and exposed in the back. With each step her breasts trembled just so and rocked enticingly from side to side.

Having stopped one final time, as if to retrieve an imaginary object from one of the now-cleared tables, Brown gathered himself upright, straightened his tie ostentatiously and headed towards an unobtrusive brown door in the corner farthest from the main entrance.

Sarah, naturally, followed, flashes of hot shame rushing through her body each time the slightest breeze played across any of her womanly parts.

As he approached the door, Brown ignored the engraving on the upper doorframe and instead walked right in. Sarah followed, eyes down.

The other girls—escorts, to be more precise—immediately left their menfolk and themselves entered the room, Jennifer pulling up the rear. She looked up as she walked through the doorway and noted with no small satisfaction the engraving:

The Dessert Chamber.

Eyes alight with anticipation, Jennifer pulled the door shut behind.


As she entered the room, Sarah dared to take a quick peek around. It was a medium-sized chamber, twenty-feet by twenty-feet, with just the one door to come or go. There were no windows; rather, the walls were lined, every five-feet, with wrought iron candleholders holding long lit candles. The flickering candlelight shimmered, almost alive, casting minor dancing shadows in all directions. In the very center of the room was what appeared to be a chair.

As she got closer—for the single furnishing was their destination—she realized it wasn't a chair at all. Instead, it was a large padded leather footstool, of sorts, the largest she had ever seen; more accurate to call it a platform, perhaps. Six-feet to a side, the platform was elevated three feet off the floor and... she gulped, gasped: there were iron shackles at each of the four corners.

She hadn't heard the other girls come in behind, or the door close for that matter, so when Jennifer spoke in her ear she almost jumped out of her skin.

"Don' usually be needin' those," Jennifer said, shoving Sarah in the lower back. Sarah looked around for Mr. Brown, having lost him. He stood over to the side, his back to the door, watching with an unreadable expression. "Mos' girls be knowin' their place, by the time they get back 'ere!" Jennifer added, cackling at her little joke.

Sarah pulled up short of the platform, hands clenched into tight little fists. Forgotten for the moment were her swollen breasts, so painfully uncovered by the thin clingy material of her white-laced dress plastered to her body; also forgotten was the cool breeze that played across her thighs.

"Go 'head, climb up. Mos' of 'em be wantin' ya on your han's an' knees like," Jennifer said, oblivious to any fist-making or posturing on Sarah's part.

Unable to withstand another word, Sarah turned abruptly on her tormentor, eyes afire to match her hair. A small growl escaped her throat; as she opened her mouth to speak, Mr. Brown took a step forward and strode over towards the platform, a jaunty bounce in his step.

"Go on, then," he said, hands on hips. "Take your place, Sarah."

Sarah stared at him for a fraction of a second before closing her mouth. After another pause, this one more noticeable, she turned back to the platform, shoulders heavily slumped. 'No more chances,' he had said, back in the carriage. Sarah Higgins placed Douglas Brown as a man of his word.

Hiking up her dress, Sarah put first one knee and then the other on the platform. When her weight was settled on her knees, she fell forward, dropping her hands to the platform and distributing her weight evenly between both hands and both knees. For a brief second, she felt her heavy breasts wobbling rudely back and forth.

"Tha's right," Jennifer said, taking over again. "Very good! They'll be righ' pleased wi' you. Now, ease forwards a bit, center y'self on the platform." She shoved Sarah from behind. "Forward, tha's it. Better!"

Sarah shuffled into position.

"Sarah?" Jennifer asked.

Sarah didn't answer.

"Woul' you like ta pray firs'?" Jennifer asked sarcastically. The other girls snickered. "I'm sure you migh' be in a more receivin' mood, given the circumstances!" Raucous laughter filled the room as the other girls piled on.

Just then the door opened, followed by a shuffle of feet as (Sarah assumed) members of The Visum entered the room. A heavy latch clicking ominously into place indicated the door was bolted shut.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Sarah's face, around to her nose and perched there momentarily before dripping down to the platform. She felt stale, the coolness of perspiration ever-present all about her body. She had a sneaking suspicion she might yet be doing a fair amount of sweating before this night was done.

Rather abruptly, Sarah felt hands unfastening her buttons before grasping the hem of her dress, gathered at her knees, where they began pulling, easing the soaked material up past her thighs. She immediately flushed, felt overwhelmed by the now-familiar hummingbird pitter-patter of her heart thumping impossibly fast within her chest. Surely she would faint soon; was there no end to this humiliation?

She thought of her husband, Robert, and kept telling herself she was doing this for him. Mr. Brown had forced her hand—and loyalty obliged her to play it, even one so dreadful as this.

The dress, now hauled up so that it exposed her supple rounded haunches, was being dragged somewhat more vigorously over her torso. Cool air played over her naked skin, causing an eruption of goose bumps that spread like waves in a duck pond over the exposed flesh.

That was when the handling began.

One hand rested on her bottom, cupping the softly padded curve and pressing its fingers into her pliable flesh; another traced the back of her leg, running along the flexed tendons; still another ran up her back, forcing the dress around her neck.

"Now, now," a voice said: Mr. Brown. "No need to hurry, give the girls a moment to clear things out."

The hands withdrew, though not before the one on her backside slipped a finger along the length of her crevice, darting in quickly at the bottom.

Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at the intrusion; her thighs bristled, flinching like a skittish mare. Her breathing was horse-like as well, panting loudly as she sucked in great lungful after lungful of air. Combined with the profuse lather—a result of nerves as much as physical exertion—she resembled nothing so much as a filly fresh from a long afternoon sojourn, still blowing hard, ready for a rub down and bit of rest.

The dress, such as it was, slipped free of her head and rested on the platform, where it was held in place by her arms, which were still within the sleeves of the crumpled gossamer material.

"Arm," a voice commanded severely. She lifted, first one arm and then the other, and watched the dress quickly disappear.


She was now buck naked, save a pair of white knee length stockings, on her hands and knees, displayed as a favored ornament or prized possession—or worse—in a room full of strange men and women. Every instinct in her brain told her to get up, now, and run as fast as her legs could carry.

But where would she go? She had no idea of her location, no sense whatsoever that she could even manage to escape should she try in the first place.

And then there was Mr. Brown; head hanging low, she could see nothing but the indistinct shape of legs, moving randomly in and out of focus. There was no way she could assign identity, except for one: the fat man, who wore plain black slacks, because of the way he waddled up in front, directly facing her. She was fairly certain she knew who he was, at any rate.

Just as she was certain she would do nothing but remain, hand and foot, on the platform, come what may.


"There, she's fully on display."

"So she is."

"Most satisfactory!"

A small outburst of lewd commentary began, on everything from padded fanny to heavy-hanging breasts to still pent-up hair.

"Release the hair, Jennifer," a voice encouraged. Jennifer was only too pleased to oblige.

Sarah felt fingers at the back of her head, roughly pulling at the bow she had used to efficiently tie up her long, thick hair.

Quickly it fell, obscuring her view on all sides. She only vaguely saw the man in front, fat thighs at the fore, alternately opening and clutching his fingers in anticipation. The fat man seemed anxious.

"So, a prime example, the best breeding," the voice resumed. It wasn't Mr. Brown or Mr. Winthrop, Sarah noticed. She clung to every word, absorbing the entirety of what was said. "Look at those flanks!"

Several voices murmured approval.

"Perhaps a bit heavy, but certainly not overly so. In the racing parlance, she's a bit above racing weight, but would be able to easily work it off."

She couldn't believe they were speaking of her so candidly, as if she weren't even there. And then the theoretical wall of separation came crumbling down: "Isn't that right, Sarah, wife of the junior clerk?"

Derisive laughter spewed forcefully at her expense.

"The clerk's wife? Really?"

"Goodness, our clerk really shouldn't leave this at home alone too long!"

"Thoroughbred material. I'd love to straddle this filly, ride her hard and put her away wet!"


"Here! Here!"


Sarah knelt, bereft of any self-respect. Was it possible she, a good Christian woman, was so exposed and so disrespected? She fully expected to wake, at any time, from this terrible dream.

She noted in a detached way that only the men spoke of her this way; Jennifer seemed to have fallen to the wayside. This was quite clearly the Sarah-wife-of-the-junior-clerk show.

Just then they heard a pounding about the door.

"Douglas?" It was Winthrop, plainly annoyed.

"Now Charles, this will save us a pretty penny indeed."

But it was far from clear that the rest shared Brown's sentiment; evidently with full knowledge of who stood on the other side of the door, there was much rumbling about not permitting the newcomer to lay claim.

"Bah! He's undeserving!"

"What about my chance!"

"And me!"

"For half," Brown said, louder than usual. The other voices immediately shushed.

Profit, above all, they understood.

A fifty-percent discount from Thaddeus Collins for future services was no small amount of currency.


There was another knock before Brown opened the door.

"Mr. Collins," he said, beckoning with his arm.

"Brown," the elder Collins said, immediately followed by his son.

There was no talking, not even a murmur, as the two new men came ambling into the room. After some dragging of feet, all the men in the room—nine, to be exact—surrounded the platform. There were three to each side, two to the rear, and one in front. The women, still in the room, were standing well back against the walls, completely silent.

Sarah, still unable to see anything due to her long draping mane, trembled softly under their critical gaze. She could see the man in front enough to determine that it was no longer the fat man; this one seemed taller and thinner.

"There, I think we all stand ready to sample the dessert," a voice said, the same one that had spoken prior to the new arrivals. "Have at it, gentlemen."

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