The Gentlemen's Club Ch. 02


"Fine, Douglas, fine," Evans replied, never looking away from the hardened tips. He allowed his eyes to roam up the swell of her breasts, discerned vague veins running web-like across the top of her chest. Further up, he took in her jaw line, perfectly placed, and smooth cheeks. Eventually he reached her eyes, glacier blue, and was irritated that she failed to return his gaze. Her head was declined, facing slightly down—but her eyes, Evans saw, looked straight ahead, bright and clear. She had an altogether different carriage than most of the strumpets brought to The Visum; a regal bearing that only enhanced her indomitable physical assets.

He felt the first stirrings of a powerful erection brewing in his trousers. Perhaps it would be his night.


Various members came and went, speaking in hushed tones with both Brown and Winthrop. At one point, Charles Winthrop himself stood and walked over to stand between Sarah and Douglas. He remained standing, leaning slightly forward and over such that he gazed directly down into Sarah's lap.

"Relax, dear," he said, a hand easing her shoulder back. Sarah complied, leaning back against her chair.

Winthrop licked his lips as he peered down into the depths of Sarah's thighs, taking in every possible detail. A V-shaped patch of red hid her many feminine folds; still, the pearly white quivering inner thighs more than captivated his attention. Licking his lips again, he looked slightly forward, closer to her person, almost alarmed at the robust half-moons he observed hanging from her chest, tipped darkly with that which Mr. Evans had so recently admired. Winthrop spared a view of her hair, cascading around her shoulders and down her back—she wore it down this time, very fetching—and felt a surge as he again stared blankly at the red triangle that shielded everything beneath.

Abruptly he turned and stooped, whispering quickly into Brown's ears.

"I'm cashing in," he said softly. "Tonight shall be my turn."

Brown was surprised. Winthrop was a man of discipline. He guarded his favors as well as his assets, sparing not even a penny for his dying mother unless he stood to collect a nickel upon her death. Still, it was a request that must be granted.

Tonight, his friend would collect.


Through it all, the staring and heavy breathing, not one of the men said anything directly to Sarah, except for Mr. Winthrop. She sat and endured, breasts aching that her nipples should remain unusually stiff and rigid for such an extended period. Each time she looked down she was shocked and appalled at how much of her personage was on display, clean pale skin with soft curves about her thighs, hips, chest, and shoulders.

She carefully controlled her breathing and made every attempt to keep her eyes focused on the far wall, ignoring completely each man (and sometimes escort) as they approached to share a few words.

Obviously, they were having a good look at her, measuring and evaluating. She had the sense she was on one side of a set of scales, hands holding the chains to balance herself, while each man that came up was trying to best assess how much gold was required on the other side to achieve balance. For some, it was a very high price indeed, one they would gladly pay; for others, as all men are different, the combination of brilliant red hair and pale blue eyes was off-putting.

When Mr. Brown stood and announced, rather loudly, "Dessert, gentlemen!" Sarah felt her courage drain. This was it. Unlike last week, this time she fully understood what she was getting herself into. She had some idea of a few rules, at least. Her sensibilities, so rigorously enforced during her father's upbringing, excluded everything she had done already this day and, certainly, everything she was to do. Her father had not anticipated she might have to work to keep her husband's job or, for that matter, to put a roof over their heads.

She was sure he would not have approved.

'Cover thyself!' she heard him whisper plaintively in her ear. She ignored it, of course.

Her father was whispering to her less and less these days.


Even as her eyes were cast down, Sarah immediately noticed one key difference as she entered the Dessert Chamber: there were three platforms, spaced more or less equally about the room.

She was led to one where, without encouragement, she went to her hands and knees. Positioned in such a way that she could see the other two platforms, she was surprised to see Jennifer mount a platform as well, in exactly the same way, while a dark-haired girl she did not know crawled up on the last.

"What a bounty we have tonight!" Brown said, his voice booming. "As you can see, accommodations have been made. Mr. Winthrop has the honor here," he said, gesturing towards Sarah's platform, "Mr. Evans here," pointing at Jennifer, "and Mr. Thompson in the back."

The three men, being congratulated, walked to their respective platforms.

"Each man shall, in his own time, make such request as they see fit. Well then, let us have dessert!"

A low rumble filled the room as men headed to various platforms. Sarah's was, by far, the most attended, with well over half surrounding her platform. After unceremoniously removing her dress, hands began groping, testing, and teasing mercilessly. Like last time, while all of her curves were investigated to the tiniest detail, nary a finger went between her legs to explore any of her myriad folds or lips.

The other girls were treated the same, an almost casual perusal of their wares, with a handful of men walking from platform to platform, comparing certain anatomical features and seeking consensus on whose might be best.

After a fair amount of this, during which Sarah knelt diligently, Mr. Winthrop began to speak.

"It is time to claim my rights," he announced. A small clearing formed around his platform. "It has been a long time indeed since I have participated," he said, standing upright. "I think I should very much like to explore the flower."

This was unusual. Not a man in attendance had ever witnessed or heard speak of such a thing. Unsure what to expect, the mass of them shifted about on their feet and opened a path to allow Winthrop an approach to the platform.

"There now," he said, patting Sarah on the rump. "Lower your arms and place your head on the platform."

Utterly bewildered, Sarah obliged. Red hair pooled around her head, nearly hiding the fact that there was even a head at all, so thick and voluminous was it.

Winthrop grabbed one of Sarah's knees in each of his hands. "Open up," he said encouragingly as he pulled them apart. "Just a little more."

When he was finished with her, Sarah had assumed a sort of three-point stance on the platform. Her head and upper chest rested against the cool leather platform (warming under her direct contact), with each knee spread over-wide such that they were farther apart than her hips.

Several observers noted ironically that this was the perfect position for (using a phrase that absolutely burned Sarah's ears) "doggy-style," evidently a practice wherein a man would mount a woman from behind, pulling her hair and ravaging her not unlike a common dog on a street corner. Sure that there was no allegory between that particular practice and Mr. Winthrop's stated flower exploration, Sarah managed to control her rapidly beating heart, but only just.

"Now, if you open it just so," Winthrop said, placing his hands on the delicate skin just outside her outer lips and easing them apart, "it resembles a sort of flower, the Cunni Lingus, if you well; a variety with petals of darkest red velvet carefully arrayed about a vibrant pink center."

When he touched her there, using his fingers to spread her apart, an earth-shattering awareness of just how brazenly displayed she really was hit Sarah squarely between the eyes—

Or legs, as it were.


"Begging your pardon, Charles, but it looks more like an oyster to me!"

There was a roar of laughter that failed utterly to reach Sarah's ears. She was preoccupied by the actions of Mr. Winthrop's hands, touching her so delicately, and accompanying pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears.

"There now," Winthrop said, ignoring the spectators while holding her vulva tenderly apart, "Take it easy. Sshhhh," he said, blowing gently. "SShhhhhhhh."

The cool puff of air totally disheartened her, causing Sarah to slump heavily on her chest and arms. Her genitals were on fire, having never been touched in this way, not even when bathing. Hot waves of shame washed over her body, coupled with a strange tingling sensation she had never once felt before.

"Now, here, gentlemen, is a small berry, just above—rather, below the petals. I know what you are thinking," he said quickly, turning to give them a look. "Some berries are bad for you! Isn't that right, Sarah?" he asked, having turned back around.

She didn't answer.

"I'm afraid I must insist that you answer my question, Sarah. I've been nothing but polite to you this whole time."

"Yes," she said, voice muffled. "Yes, sir, some… some berries are bad for you."

"Do you think your berry is bad for me? Should I sample it?" he asked curiously.

Now the men were beginning to really pay attention. This was something they had never seen before. Almost anything and everything had, at one point or other, occurred at The Visum. This, however, was entirely new and unexpected. More men, it seemed, cloistered around, swarming the platform to hear Mr. Winthrop's careful exploration of Sarah's blossom.

"I don't… I don't know," she answered hesitantly.

"Well then, I certainly don't want to fall ill. Mr. Adams, would you sample the berry, to ensure there are no impurities?"

Adams, a short man with enormous ears, eagerly stepped forward.

"Glad to, Charles, glad to." He leaned in, flicking his tongue across her delicate pink bud quickly before pulling back. " I say, Charles, I believe her berry's as good as any I've ever tasted!"


Another long burst of laughter broke out, so much so that the men at the other tables looked up from their ministrations to see what the fuss was about. For instance, Mr. Evans was pumping Jennifer, lying on her back, most vigorously. He was so fat his stomach fairly crushed her beneath his unmatched girth, forcing her to time her breathing with his crude lunges. As the men about Sarah began laughing, Evans paused, resting his full weight on Jennifer's body. Jennifer, nearly unable to breathe, threw her head back, desperate herself to know what was causing this most unfortunate circumstance to befall her.



This new girl was becoming a bit of a problem.

Jennifer, anxious to breathe, reached up and grabbed Mr. Evans flabby arms. "Come on," she purred encouragingly, "Give it to me."

Evans looked down, sweating profusely, and grunted. He began moving again, rhythmically driving into the woman beneath him—

But all the while he was looking across the room, wondering what it would be like to do exactly this to the stark redhead owning such voluptuous curves.

Perhaps his day would come.


"There, so we covered the flower here," Winthrop continued, holding her femininity apart with one hand while tracing her outer labial lips with the index finger on his other. "Further inside, you can see the delicate folds are more detailed, crinkled so as to better display the juicy center. Most shocking is their warmth, thin petals that are as tiny ovens capable of generating tremendous heat." He placed his finger lengthwise between her folds and smiled. "Very warm indeed. Mercy. So, being a flower lover, in particular fruit-bearing flowers, I think I shall sample this myself."

Winthrop leaned in, touching her burning button with the tip of his tongue.

Sarah felt immediately as if she had been struck powerfully on the side of the head. Though her eyes were squeezed shut, stars exploded into her vision, shimmering red and blue. An intense tingling sensation began, exactly where Mr. Winthrop's—

No, she couldn't think it. Certainly he wasn't… that is, he couldn't be… not with his… no, it wasn't possible!

Winthrop, unconcerned, continued, paying close attention to every single detail as he ran his tongue about her. He was proceeding leisurely; a detail-oriented man performing a task he enjoyed, thoroughly exhausting every possibility as though his very existence depended on it.

Sarah began breathing unevenly. Waves of—she had to admit it to herself—carnal pleasure rippled through her lower body, causing her thighs to quake. The shame that followed this admission filled her with the deepest dread, a sense that no amount of praying for forgiveness would ever make up for this night.

She felt dirty, wondered if this was how… how it was supposed to feel…

All conscious thought left her as another powerful wave rocked her body and left her gasping for breath.

Winthrop pulled away.

"On your back, then," he said, grabbing her hindquarters between his hands and guiding her down and over. When she lay on her back, Winthrop seized her thighs and pulled her over towards him, until her rear end hung just on the platform's edge.

"Grab your ankles, now," he instructed.

Sarah failed to respond; instead, both her hands were covering her face.

"Sarah seems indisposed. Mr. Adams? Mr. Rosedale? Help a man, would you?"

Each man closed their hands around an ankle and took a position to either side of the prone Sarah, pulling back such that her most private of places was irrevocably exposed.

"The flower is much more formidable in this position, assuming a more circular shape. Do you see the tiny pink center, how engorged it is? That's fairly typical. Now, I don't know about you gentlemen, but I for one think the only way to properly evaluate flower is by smell." Winthrop leaned in and puckered his nose as he sniffed.

Sarah was mortified, lower than low. She went to great lengths indeed to ensure that she 'smelled' like a woman. Having a certain 'aroma' was not even a consideration. Of course, she had never expected… this…

"Very acceptable. Now for the last lesson."

He went to his knees and put his arms on the platform on either side of Sarah's torso, taking hold of her waist between both hands.

"When the bees come, they tend to roll around all about the petals, gathering nectar. Let us just see if Sarah's flower has any nectar within."

With that, Winthrop leaned his face in and, very gently, began methodically kissing her outer lips, working his way in a circle about the hooded pulsating clitoris trembling in anticipation.


Sarah felt that she veered in and out of consciousness; there was talking, certainly, many things going on all around her, but she had no concept of anything except the building pressure threatening existence itself. When first put on her back, she had opened her eyes once—and saw, to her dismay, the greedy eyes of more men than she could count staring down upon her. Two of the men held her legs back, bawdily displaying that which only her husband should see—if even him.

She clasped her hands over her eyes, trying to block out all that was happening, to escape the pervasive humiliation she felt knowing that these men were getting a wicked thrill from seeing her so crudely displayed and frankly discussed. Their exploration of her body was devoid of passion, it seemed; a task performed for no purpose other than their amusement.

And yet, Mr. Winthrop was gentle. Now, the way he kissed her down there was eliciting a response she would never have believed possible. Far removed from any thoughts of her father, her husband, or any of her daily responsibilities, the only thing in the world that mattered at this moment was Mr. Winthrop, who was circling a part of her body without ever touching it that gave her the most guttural feelings of pleasure she had ever experienced in her life.

She was breathing unevenly, mouth open, and felt something inside her alternately contracting and releasing, outside her control. Indeed, it seemed Mr. Winthrop was firmly in control. When he licked a bit more urgently, she felt this muscle clench so powerfully it threatened all reason; when he slowed and instead kissed her gently about the thighs, this muscle released, allowing her to breath a moment before the next. Each time he was just a bit more aggressive, working his way just a little closer, going just a little faster.

Sarah feared what might happen if he continued—

But, in absolute disgust, wanted more than anything for him not to stop.

Not until it was done.


"She's panting about like a dog," Adams said, amused.

It was true. Now she breathed rapidly, slack-jawed, sweat pouring across her body. A small squishy sound of careful licking could be heard, the tongue being placed rapidly here and there.

Rosedale reached down, unable to control himself any longer, and seized her strawberry-tipped breast, squeezing and twirling the nipple between his fingers. Adams, on the other side, placed his fingers around the base of her breast and gripped, forcing the nipple to rise and stretch on what appeared to be an expanding balloon.


Sarah felt the hands on her chest—at the same time, the insistent licking reached a crescendo as Winthrop took her engorged clitoris between his lips and flicked very rapidly with his tongue, just grazing the hooded tip and pressing in on both sides, all seemingly at exactly the same time.

For one brief instant time stopped: her arms thrown to either side, grasping the leather platform sides tightly between her fingers, face twisted in harsh denial, one nipple being pulled up while the other whole breast was being squeezed all at once, and her back arched almost painfully into a reverse C.

Then a low, guttural moan escaped her lips, stretching so that it lasted five full seconds. Her legs quaked, shaking.

"No," she whispered, before repeating it again more forcefully: "Nnooooooo…"

It seemed she had erupted into flames, dramatic intense pleasure coursing powerfully through her veins, a sense that in this single moment, nothing else in the world mattered.

The sight of her, straining against the powerful orgasm running roughshod over her consciousness, as if she could somehow reject it, left more than one observer adjusting himself uncomfortably. It was all well and good to see her exposed and explored, but something altogether different to see her in the throes of reckless passion, as if she had never before experienced anything like it.

"Well, Charles, it looks like you've made a new friend."


Sarah, still, lay on her back, hands again firmly covering her face. She willed herself into the platform, as if she could shrink away from the prying eyes and rough commentary. It wasn't the men, their gaze, their words, not even her journey here tonight, that was foremost in her mind, however.

That point was reserved solely for the still smoldering fire between her legs, the cataclysmic orgasm that had so recently obscured all sense of time or reason. This must be what her husband felt, those nights when he climbed above her. It seemed so, for he panted and wheezed before bellowing and then, almost as quickly, pulling away from her.

No matter how wrong it was for her to be lying here—she feared no penance would be enough to make up for what she had done tonight, she had enjoyed it as a common whore—she could not escape the feeling that, for the last eight years, she had been left out of what should have been something truly awe-inspiring. It was beginning to make a weird kind of sense: if God wanted man and woman to join, together, shouldn't that joining be equally pleasurable to both?

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