The Gym Ch. 02

Chapter 2: The Party

I was lying on a large, comfortable bed. My upper body was propped up by pillows made of clouds. Each pillow was different; one was blue and irregularly shaped. It held my head up. Another, placed behind my torso, was reddish-orange; it had a Mandela design that would have drawn my interest if my eyes weren't already fixed on the form that stood near an open door made of light and glass.

The being was almost formless, like a slab of clay before the mind's eye. But then it, or I – I was unsure which- slowed down, or cleared, and the artist began to work. The surrounding angles softened and cooled, and my vision began to clear. Beyond, a balcony formed; past that a white backdrop materialized. Water dancing with rocks below an invisible bluff proclaimed its existence to me.

I noticed then that the backdrop was not white, but was rather a moon, large and fixed in a starless, black sky. The moon bathed the balcony in white light, producing moving shadows on the balcony's marble floor. It entered the room through the open entrance where the form, which now became a figure, stood. It didn't illuminate; the light seemed to bend down and away from the figure in a kind of magisterial assent. Because of this, the figure stayed in limbo, unfinished by a discerning eye.

However, where there were no clean lines or distinctions, there was a kind of potential beauty --a word at the tip of the tongue, a blank page of an unfinished novel-- standing there looking at me. I'm not sure how I knew, but it was female. Maybe it was the "femaleness" of which Plato spoke: the pure transcendental female form, the fountain from which all femininity poured. Standing there. In front of me.

She moved. She lifted her sleek arm toward me and gestured. Suddenly I found lace lying on my wrists. I couldn't move my hands. The restraints were deep red, like the lustful kiss from someone unknown. They weren't tied around me or attached to the bed in any way. It was like someone placed them on my wrists nonchalantly. Still, I was caught.

Who was she?

She gestured again. I felt cloth around my ankles, holding me tight.

She gestured again. My legs and arms spread out, helpless to her silent decree.

The curtains fluttered. A cool breeze ran up my exposed thighs and tickled my balls. I noticed then I was naked below the waist, and that my cock was one my few parts unfettered. The curtains behind her fluttered again, and I braced for the result. I shuddered as Mother Nature teased my full balls and growing cock with wispy kisses.

In my unnatural pleasure, I noticed that where the moonlight stayed clear, the unassuming touch from the wind traveled with abandon. The sheer fabric she wore flowed over her arm, then the rest of her like a river. The ripples moved from back to front, down to up, converging at her chest. I knew her nipples were hard as the wind played its sensual game. She moved her hand outward, and my shirt opened. I gasped. My cock throbbed in mutual agreement.

She extended her other hand out, and the wind took its cue. A column of air flowed under and around her until it opened and released the gown, which then fell to the floor. At that point the curtains stopped and the music of the wind ended. Her nakedness elicited a pavlovian response in me: my heart rate increased; my nipples, my neck, my balls, and my cock --all of me actually-- tingled in delicious restraint.

I tried to pull up a name, an image, a face, to impose upon her, but nothing was found. However, my body remembered her. It tried to brake free and crawl to her, to do what it could to get her to touch it, caress it, kiss it. Fuck it. She noticed my need, and came toward me. I saw her hair; it was long and blond like strung gold. Did I smell lavender? I moaned as she drew nearer. Whoever she was, I needed her. Now.

My lips trembled as her face appeared. She was beautiful. Blue eyes. Smooth skin. Not a blemish except for a sexy model-like mole on her lower cheek. Allowing her hair to run over my bound legs, my captor slowly crawled onto the bed. I moaned and tried to draw myself up toward her, tried to bring my hands to her smooth skin as her hair lightly caressed my sex. But I was held tight by her dark, sensual spell. She smiled.

"Soon." She whispered as her lips passed over my muscular chest. God. So close.

"Mine." She said. The word blew across my lips. I was so hard. Throbbing. Blue eyes lined up with mine. I felt her heat. I tried all I could to touch her, but her skin was always an inch away. Pleasure so close. If I could I would have jumped off a cliff, fallen into her mouth, her eyes, her femininity.

"Please," I said. "Touch me."

In one fluid motion the woman I knew but didn't reached for my cheek and leaned in to kiss me. My eyes closed... Who are you?

*** Serene ***

I jerked up as my clock radio blasted "Rock You Like A Hurricane" by the Scorpions. Damn. It was the fourth time I have had this dream in the past two weeks; each time it ended at the same place, before her body pressed against mine, before she fulfilled my subconscious needs. And every time I woke up with a hard-on, the last thing on my mind, her name, was the first thing to fade away. The dream, however, did not. It began to sneak into my day like an uninvited guest.

At work, after crunching ones and zeros for a few hours, the dream woman would enter my mind. The code on the monitor would shift and change from ordered lines and columns to a mass of letters and numbers that would coalesce into large breasts that needed my strong hands, lips that needed to be tasted, and blazing blue eyes that commanded sensual obedience. I don't know what was worse, the aching hard-on that arose from my broken thoughts, the work stoppage, or the aching notion somewhere within –where old memories lay of lost toys and hidden fortresses on top of large oak trees– that she owned me. If I were to tell someone about this dream and its effect, I would equate it to what the male black widow spider must feel: caught willingly by the temptress. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't talk to someone. I might have been locked away in some dark underground asylum and would have missed what was to come.

Three weeks after the first dream, I had a party to attend. I received the invite at the gym. That night was like any other. As usual, I found the muscle bound guy at the front desk focused intently on a magazine that had emblazoned on the front page: GET HUGE FAST, THE PYRAMID WAY. This time he gave me more than the obligatory nod.

"This was left for you." He handed me a scented embossed card, then instantly buried himself back into proteins, weights, strange pyramid schemes, and women with cantilevered tits on California beaches.

"Who left it?" I asked.

"It was here when I got here," he replied into the magazine, emphasizing with a turn of a page that this was his final answer.

I walked into the locker room enamored as to who left it. I don't really know anyone at the gym (I'm not here when the rooms are full of people to meet), yet the card had no name on it other than mine. The purple lettering had a calligraphic font. When I began changing into my gym shorts and tight shirt, I brought the card up to my nose. I had to fight the urge to stay in the looker room for the rest of the night in a lavender stupor. And lavender isn't even my favorite perfume, either.

I read the card: "All who receive this card are invited to the Beckston Estates to celebrate the new Hunter's Moon for a good cause. This is a Black tie event." Directions and a map were on the reverse side, as well as the specific date for those who don't follow lunar cycles anymore. I worked out that night with an eye toward my groin. Penises sticking out of shorts are never good at the gym. You never know what the guy next to you will do when greeted that way.

I didn't know who it was that invited me, but the hard-on that took shape whenever I saw the card on my nightstand as the day of the party approached made my decision to go that much easier.

The estate was in Kings Point, Long Island. It's only a thirty minute drive from midtown Manhattan, but it seemed to be in another world entirely. The rough edges of glass, metal, and stone that cut the sky in the city gave way to an open architecture that changed from house to house. The continuity was framed only by the large manicured trees lining the roads and the bare economics of capitalism that sustained it. Whether the modern cedar with a three-car garage on the right, or the Victorian with a large oval glass façade on the left, every family here had money. Lots of money.

The Beckston Estates was on a dead end road which had homes on one side and an inlet which fed into Long Island Sound on the other. With Mercedes, BMW's, and SUV's taking up the large driveway, I parked on the road behind a Hummer that had a "Baby on Board" sign hanging from the back window.

The mansion -like all the rest- was overly spacious, and had a perfectly cut lawn that sloped up towards the entrance. It was made of a dark red wood that seemed alive. Even the front doors regarded each guest as they waited. A woman I have never seen let me in. I gave her my invite. She studied it while I self-consciously shifted back and forth.

"You must be Chris," she said with an inviting smile. "Do come in." As I entered,

I heard muffled sounds and music from a long hallway to the east of the large foyer.

"Carmella." She said as she reached her hand out, palm down. "I am the hostess of this party. You can call me Carm if you'd like. Everyone is in the Entertainment Room. First let me put your coat away." I shook her hand then shrugged off my coat. It felt good getting out of it, especially with the tux on underneath.

She led me past a staircase that arched along the north wall. A chandelier hung just out of reach if you were halfway up, and antique vases and paintings lined the immaculate hallways leading to different wings of the house. As I followed her I noticed she walked briskly, her white shoes tighter than five toes should allow. She wore a long white dress that ended just below her knees. If she had a feminine body, it was hidden well. Her hair laid straight back, ending below her shoulders; not one strand was out of place or overlapped. Prim, posh, and proper. Probably has sex once a week, on her back, and has never given a blow job. I guess she's the one. Oh well.

"Thanks for the invite to this party, Carmella." I said. "Um, Have I ever met you? I received the invite at the Olympian Spa, but I don't ever remember seeing you there."

Carmella hung my coat, then turned and answered. "You haven't."

"No?" I asked, thrown off guard.

"I didn't invite you," She answered while walking down the hall toward the noise and music. She didn't offer who did, but instead talked about the house as she drew me around "the east wing." Carmella and her husband, Martin, were the Beckstons of the Beckston Estates: 12 bedrooms, 8 baths, a person library, weight room, a billiards room, and an entertainment room. "Martin plays 9-ball in the billiards room, but I always tell him never to settle a business dispute or deal on the game." We reached the entertainment room as she finished telling me they were installing tennis courts off the west wing, so she could "wow the girls at the club by trouncing them."

"Everyone, this is Chris." There were almost two dozen people, yet the large scale of the room made the amount look smaller than it was. People cluttered into separate groups that grew and shrunk as they mingled. Some looked up toward us as an older man with a sharp beard and loose hair motioned me over. Carmella joined a group of women.

The bearded man greeted me. "I'm Martin. Carm and I own Beckston Estates. From the look on your face I take it you like the house?"

"I do," I stammered out. His overt friendliness unnerved me. Damn. I rented a tux, drove over 20 miles to an estate for a party I was invited to by someone I didn't know, who may or may not be here. At first it was the mystery that got me here, but now I was getting anxious. Martin seemed to read my thoughts as I scanned to room.

"Your friend is not here yet. She likes to appear after everyone else has arrived. She likes to make an entrance, and usually does." Martin stopped talking for a second, looked away from me and focused toward the foyer from where I came in.

She? It's a her. My invite came from a woman. The lavender fragrance was a give-away yet I wasn't sure. But now the fact hung over me like a heavy weight.

"Martin," I began to say. "Truthfully I don't know who 'she' is. For the past week I have been trying to figure out who it was." I laughed. Martin smiled, but offered no reprieve to my anxious curiosity. "Just who is she?" I finally asked him, almost screaming at my own mixed emotions.

"Don't worry," replied Martin. "You will see her soon enough. Everyone's here now but her." He was right. A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Five chimes to a song I couldn't pin down repeated twice. Martin's wife excused herself and walked into the foyer, disappearing from sight. Martin and I were listening to a stylish man who was talking about the tax havens in the Bermudas that enabled him to buy the Mercedes in the driveway, his "weekend car." But I lost track of his delicate tax system to the sound of Carm's heels on the tiled floor. I had tried to walk toward the foyer to take a peek at who the mystery woman was, but Martin stopped me before I took a step.

"Remember," Martin whispered to me as the tax enthusiast went down step by step on the law he sidestepped, "your friend loves to be seen when she wants to be seen, by making a scene."

I heard the door open, and then Carm speak, but it was all one-sided. I heard the closet door open and close, and for some reason felt jealousy. My jacket was touching hers, knew things about my 'friend' that I did not. Then I heard two pairs of heels. One of them a quick, abrupt click-click-click which was Carm's as she made her way back ahead of the guest, and then I heard the mystery woman's steps: Click....click....click. Slower. Confident. Self assured.

"Everyone," Carm commanded our attention with a wave of her hand, "Serene has arrived." Serene...Something happened. As Serene made her entrance, the universe cranked to a halt, throwing the stars themselves out of their mechanical, predestined dance.

I felt stuck in my body. My mind tried to force the great machine to move, to give birth to time again, but the only one who could stood at the Entertainment room's entrance in a gown made of burnt embers that hermetically sealed her body from the rigors of air. A long slit down the left side gave me quite a view of her shapely leg, and the generous give on top exposed ample creamy cleavage. She looked around the room, saw me, then set the celestial bodies back into their allotted parabolic curves. The others, having had their looks, turned back to their talks of tax havens, stock picks, and tennis tips while I tried feverously to get myself in order. Martin leaned toward me and whispered while she approached.

"She's beautiful. Never seen anyone walk like that. Not even my wife, her sister. Carm once told me Serene turned down Sal Drummen's advances, then in a few month's time owned his company." Martin turned and walked away as she neared, "and then she owned him, too."

I barely heard his last remark. Serene had the same stride as the woman in the dream. She had the allure of a mythical sensual being who took human form. But there were seams. The transcendental allure of her thighs and the prize hidden within; the blue eyes that held my world within its boundaries; she was intimately capable, ultimately fuckable.

"Hello Chris." Serene held her hand up, palms down of course. A white glove hugged her skin, making her hand look strangely delicate. I drew her hand, slightly tilted myself down, and kissed it. Her perfume drove me wild. I wanted to follow her hand up to the nape of her exposed neck and take her while everyone watched.

Yet who was she? Have I ever met her before? The name, Serene, rang a bell, but a bell across a wide frozen lake. Do I dare to cross?

"Your sister throws a good party" I said quickly. I suddenly felt warm in my tux.

"Yes she does," Serene replied. God what a voice. Raspy, low, like she was in perpetual arousal. "Throwing parties, playing the socialite wife is her gift. You can say it's her passion." Passion... she emphasized the last word, kissing the air. What would it be like to kiss them?

"I have my own...Passions." She ran her gloved hand absent-mindedly over her cleavage. "I know all about yours too. Come," She quickly changed the subject, "Let us mingle Chris." She grabbed my arm and began drawing me from group to group, entering and exiting conversations that ranged from International Politics to raising Pure Breeds, as she wished. I tried keeping up. At times she would run her fingers up and down my arm, lick her lips, or emphasized the peeks of her breasts, whenever I began to fidget or attempt to draw her attention to the aching sensation I had --the sneeze that subsided, the déjà vu beneath the shallow water-- that all was not well in my world.

What did my body remember that my mind did not?

Everything about the dream reverberated in Serene. And just like the dream, I was helpless before her. For all my fears, my confusion of her intimate knowledge of all my intimate, erotic secrets, Serene was confident, proud of her control. During a rather boring discussion on accounting practices with supply side manufacturing, Serene asked me to get her some wine. While I went to get it the night began to amalgamate for me. For over an hour and a half I have been with this woman who, with a touch, excites me. Yet I don't know her. Yet I do. Why when I look at her do I remember something fleeting like a glance between two busy people on a crowded street? But as soon as the logic of memory and past sensations began to sequentialize, Serene appeared behind me and blew lightly on the back of my neck, spinning all into disarray again.

"Don't tally Chris. I don't like to be kept waiting for anything... except, of course, for what's to come." She pressed her breasts against my back and blew on my ear. I shivered and gripped the goblet which held her wine.

"Now now Chris. Don't grab it that hard. Did you forget what happened the last time? Your palms were sore from gripping that iron bar so... tightly." She licked my earlobe. "Remember?"

"Oh my..." --The gym, weights were heavy; she came up to me to help; beautiful, breasts close; slow; slow. She did something, and them she was naked. I was hard, so hard. I was hers. I was beneath her. Warm, Cumming, cumming. Cumming-- "...God it's you!" I gasped.

Serene deftly grabbed the goblet as my fingers lost their grip. "That's Goddess to you."

I turned around to face her. I didn't know what to say, what to do. I began to stammer without saying a word. My face, always an open book, must have looked like a Picasso. Serene had a fixed look, like that of a poker player with the winning hand.

Serene called out to Carm, who was with Martin: "I am going to show Chris the rest of the place. That is if you don't mind us leaving the party for a while." Martin nodded knowingly. "Don't worry. We will stay busy," Carm replied.

"While you look like the cat got your tongue Chris I will show you around. Come with me." She grabbed my arm and drifted down the long end of the room toward a hallway partially obscured by a hanging flag of some foreign origin. I looked back. The calm, friendly people disappeared behind a wall. We walked toward the north wing, past several locked doors and rows of portraits, plaques, vases, and other items that exuded wealth and monetary excess.