Club Himeros (8 page)

“That’s an interesting theory, Ms. Burgundy.  Although it seems to me the hyper-sexualized environment you’re speaking of is largely the creation of the club-goers and not the club.  Notwithstanding the bowls of condoms and lubricant.”

“Those are the people who aren’t here for the first time.”

“Or, when the ego and self is taken away—or hidden behind a mask—this is how we behave, as human beings.”

“That seems one assumption too many,” she said. 

“All right.  But what does naturally follow from this chain of reasoning is that you and I
are
the right kind of people, only we haven’t figured this out about ourselves yet.”

The two behind them had graduated from heavy petting to something much more serious.  Her blouse was open and she was no longer on his lap; he had her on her back on the couch, her legs open and around him.  He was undoing his pants.

Mr. Mocha noted Lindy’s wandering gaze.

“I’m envious,” he said.  “Aren’t you?”

“Of him?  Or her?”

“Of both of them.  Of their lack of shame.  I can’t decide if it’s more fun because they know we’re watching or if it’s just more enjoyable when it isn’t secret?”

“Sex isn’t exactly a secret.”

“Of course it is.  We do it in the dark, quietly, behind closed doors.”

Lindy’s hand had left his knee and was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.  This seemed like a completely inappropriate thing to do but the less she thought about it the more okay it seemed.

“I see your point,” she said.  “I’ve recently come to the conclusion that maybe one of the reasons I’m single right now has to do with what was going on with us, in the dark behind closed doors.”

“Is that so?  Here.”  He started unbuttoning his shirt for her. There was no undershirt.  His bare chest looked sculpted.

“Thanks,” she said.  “You really work out, huh?”

“Only for the last few years, but yeah.  I got up one day, looked at the beer gut I was starting on, and decided not nearly enough gay men were hitting on me at parties.  So what happened with you and your ex behind that closed door?”

“I don’t know.  We never talked about it.”

Mr. Mocha’s collar had a chain dangling from it.  She started fiddling with that, and wondered if he knew what it was supposed to signify, then wondered why she was so unreasonably turned on by having it in her fingers. 

“The more I think about it though,” she continued, “the more I wonder if we just wanted different things.  Not sexually.  Well, yes, sexually, but not
just
sexually.  Hey, can you take off your shirt?”

She gave the chain a little jerk when she asked.  He probably didn’t notice.

“Sure,” he said.  He slipped out of the shirt to reveal muscular, broad shoulders, with a tattoo on the left one.  She sort of wanted to be held by those arms, and hoped he felt the same.

“Is that Tweety Bird?”

“It is.  There’s a long story behind that.  I’ll tell you sometime.  So go on.  Unless you want me to take off something else first.”

“Go on?”

“Your ex.  We were talking about him.”

“Yes right.”  Lindy really didn’t want to think about Michael any more but that was where they were.  “I think we drifted apart, and there wasn’t enough going on in the bedroom to keep that from happening.”

“You weren’t having sex?”

“We were, but we weren’t.”

The couple on the other couch had managed to get out of all their clothes in the minute since she’d last checked, distracted as she was by Mr. Mocha’s upper torso and Tweety tattoo.  The girl was a lithe, pale white little thing with small breasts and a tiny waist.  Lindy could see her ribcage when she leaned back to breathe, and the muscles of her thighs when she squeezed herself around the man on top of her.  He was also slender, with skin darker than Mr. Mocha’s mask.  He had one hand lifting her tailbone so only her shoulders and head were touching the couch.  It seemed all of their muscles tensed in time with each other, and like they had all night to work on that orgasm together.

Mocha was right: envy was exactly what she was feeling.  Among a lot of other things.

“I mean, we were having sex,” she said.  “But I don’t remember enjoying it as much as
that
.  Not even in the beginning.  I mean, look at them.”

He did look, but only for long enough to get her point, after which she took his right hand and put it on her left breast.  He looked surprised—as much as either of them could register surprise under a mask—but not unhappy with this development.

As much as they had talked about not being the sort of people to do the very thing Lindy was starting to push them toward, Mr. Mocha didn’t appear at all reluctant.

“That’s terrible,” he said.  “Not the breast, I mean your story.  You need some better sex in your life, Ms. Burgundy.”

“I think you’re right.”  She wrapped the chain from his neck around her hand, and gave it another pull.  “I like this chain on you.  Why don’t you try that hand under the dress?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

He slid his hand under the dress and pulled the left strap past her shoulder, and uncovered her breast.

The world didn’t end.  Nobody gawked, or pointed, or much saw it other than Mr. Mocha.  They
could
, but somehow that didn’t matter to Lindy any more. 

She thought back to Olive, and how sitting next to her felt a little bit like being near a live electrical wire.  It was the buzz of sexual tension that was in every part of the club, and Olive was in tune with it.  Lindy hadn’t been, but she could feel it, and had been trying all evening to ignore it.  She couldn’t any longer.

“Is that okay?” Mocha asked, regarding her newly exposed nipple.

“Yes,” Lindy said.  “Yes, it’s really okay.”  She jerked the chain.  “Now help me out of this dress.”

He tilted his head and smiled.  “Everyone will see.”

“Yeah, fuck it.  Let’s do this.”

Lindy had no idea what was really going through his mind: whether the trepidation he’d expressed earlier had been genuine but was being overcome, or whether this entire thing had been an act to get her to relax.  They could have been two nervous newcomers working their way through an understanding of the club toward a point they both wanted to reach, or not, and she decided she didn’t care one way or another.  When it was over, she would never see Mr. Mocha again, and he would never know who she was.  She could have whomever he decided he was going to be.

What he decided to be was an eager lover.  With his left hand he pulled the other strap down off her shoulder, and then both her breasts were uncovered.  His hands were rough; she decided he must do a lot of work with them.  Carpentry, or something outdoors.  The skin was thick and callused, not soft like Michael’s.

Stop thinking of Michael
, she thought. 

She pulled Mocha forward and kissed him aggressively on the mouth.  He had been leaning forward and over her, but with the kiss she guided him back to a sitting position on the couch, and then she stood between his legs.

Now everyone in the room who wanted to could see her and her breasts.  A few did.  She could feel their eyes.

Don’t cover up
, she thought. 
Nobody knows who you are.  It doesn’t matter.

The dress had a zipper in back.  She let go of the chain and reached around to undo it, and then let Mr. Mocha pull the dress down to the floor.  She kicked it aside.

In the middle of the room, a man in a dark mask stopped what he was doing to look her up and down.  She was, save for the G-string, shoes, mask and gloves, utterly naked. 

The part of her that had sat in the cab afraid to put on the ridiculous mask, that blushed when the driver had gawked at her legs, that tried to run when she walked past the second floor curtain… that part of her gave up and either fainted or died. 

Look at me
, said a new voice.

Mocha caressed her thighs and hips with strong hands while remaining where he was on the couch.  He was waiting for her to tell him what to do next, she realized. 

He
did
know what that chain was for.

She ran her fingers along the crew-cut hair on his head, and leaned forward.  “Take them off of me,” she said.

Without a word, he slipped the mandatory G-string down to the floor.  She stood back again, her hand still on his head.

Across the room, dark mask had come closer for a better view. 

Get a good look
. 

He was joined by a woman, and another man.

She was ready to tell Mocha to lick her, the way Olive promised to, but there no longer seemed to be enough time for it.  The low hum of arousal had become far more urgent in the past minute, and she was ready for something Ms. Olive couldn’t have provided.

Lindy knelt down and unbelted Mr. Mocha, and then got him out of the club-issued underwear.  He helped without being told, which was a good idea, as he was fully erect and might have been harmed if she’d torn the pants off on her own.  Also, he needed the time it took to extract a condom from one of the pockets and slip it on.

He kissed her hard on the lips.  “We have an audience,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you want me to—”

“Just shut up.”

She knelt forward, opened her thighs and straddled his erection, and pushed herself down on top of him.  She gasped, and just flat-out stopped breathing for a few seconds as he drove into her.  Then his hands were on her hips and butt and squeezing, guiding her up and down.

She could see the other two on the couch behind them, still going at it, working at an almost frantic pace, nearing the end.  The girl was trembling through what was undoubtedly not her first orgasm of the encounter.  Lindy could almost feel what the girl was sensing, and then a gushing avalanche of a release as her own orgasm snuck up on her, completely by surprise.

This
, Lindy thought, as she squeezed Mocha tighter,
this is what I’ve been missing.

She held on tightly until the first wave was over.

Her partner was making good use of those impressive ab muscles, flexing and thrusting up in time with her, driving deeper and hitting that
spot
, that itch she’d been feeling all night, the one that had exploded once already.  He seemed to want to touch every part of her, with his hands, with his tongue, with everything, while she wanted to order him to do something—bite her nipples, lick her ear, something, it hardly mattered as long as he obeyed—but she couldn’t speak.  All that jogging she’d been doing every morning and she was out of shape for this.

But it was okay because he could feel her lagging and had started to take charge, and that was just fine with her.  He wrapped one of his strong, strong arms around her waist and pulled her tight.  His other hand gripped the back of her neck, and then he pushed with his hips and picked her up by the groin.  She wrapped her legs around him to keep their balance and also to cope with the violent second orgasm he’d just given her.  She was still having it when he got her flipped around and on her back.  Her shoulders landed on the armrest of the couch, her breasts jutting into the air and no doubt looking spectacular for the many onlookers they were pointing toward, her head dangling over open air beneath them.

She was still coming, unless it was a third or fourth one, she couldn’t tell any more.  The muscles of his lower back and butt writhed beneath her legs, her ankles locked behind him.  Her right arm was intertwined with his left, his left hand still latched on to her neck.  It was the only thing keeping her from falling over, it seemed, even as his right arm continued to squeeze her waist.

Once it was clear they had found an ideal balance point between their bodies, he pulled out of her, and stopped, held himself out for something like forever, and then slid back in.  Slowly.  Very slowly.  He was strong, and steady, and it never felt like he was going to lose control and drop her, but his initial thrusts were gentle, and fully in control.  He was holding back, slowing them down, working back up toward something for them to share together.

Harder
, she thought.  She wanted to grab that chain again, but not badly enough to risk unbalancing them.  And the command never made it past her lips.

He was
teasing
her. Every time he pulled out it seemed an eternity before he pushed back in again.  Each absence made her tingle, and each return brought her right to the brink, each time a little bit closer but not over the edge.  She felt like all it would take was a gentle breeze on the right body part and she would burst like a balloon.

When he picked up the pace again Lindy basically forgot to breathe.  He was driving so hard and so fast into her that it was a legitimate wonder they didn’t either break the couch or push themselves right onto the floor.  She spent most of that few minutes before he came with all of her muscles locked, stretched to the limit of her strength and dexterity.  Something snapped and broke loose inside of her, an orgasm that had to touch every nerve in her body before it faded.