Decadence (9 page)

This club was a compartment. The exorbitant membership fee was the cost of privacy and silence.

There were high-ceilinged rooms to the side, rooms with beautiful crown molding and sconces on the walls, those sconces with dim lights. There were rooms with doors, rooms for the inhibited, but their sounds and pious ejaculations permeated the club. I paused in front of a door, a room that failed to contain overlapping sounds of gratification, paused and heard so many audile and perverse sounds of pain and pleasure. A symphony of sex noises. One woman was a screamer. Another an enthusiastic moaner. Guttural groans. Caveman-like grunts. All of that combined with what rang out as the familiar hum of a vibrator.

The crowd rushed to see an event. Heels clacking, I ran with them, hurried to see the attraction.

A broad-shouldered, square-faced man of German stock, a man who sported a black Mohawk and had hundreds of colorful tattoos, colorful sleeves on both arms and on each leg to his ankles, made love to a woman with dyed white hair, a woman who had great cheekbones and a narrow chin, wore a big necklace of silver and faux emeralds, bracelets and earrings of the same, her lips ruby red, her makeup shellacked on her oval face, a face obscured by long, side-swept bangs. He pushed up on his palms, stroked her missionary style. He grunted at her in German, moving fast as she moaned, “
Fick mich hart, fick mich wie ein pornostar
ein fach so, dat ist gut so, fick mich, fick mich wie ein verdammter pornostar
.”

The woman next to me shifted, stumbled, bumped into me, found her balance again and rubbed her palms up and down her arms as she chewed her bottom lip. Shivering, she clasped the back of her neck and squirmed, revealed how vulnerable she was. Severe arousal owned her. She squeezed her thighs, held them tight, moved up and down against her partner. With one finger, she pulled at her pearls, twisted them on her pointer finger. When she couldn't take it anymore, she let her pearls go, shook one leg as she bit her lip over and over, then gave in, touched herself, then she gave her fingers to her lover to taste her arousal, and as he sucked her fingers she whimpered, and then she moved back into her lover, bent over, bent her knees, reached back, pulled at his short and slender lingam, and as he held her waist, she slid him inside of her. Now I was shaking my leg as she had been. I lamented. His erection rested inside of her, rested across her clitoris, sat on the densest concentration of nerve endings of any part of the skin. She winced, clenched her fists as she raised her upper lip, set free erotic sounds as the muscles in her face contracted, as her eyes closed tight, as the bridge of her nose wrinkled. She released a shuddering sigh. Then she cleared her throat.

Pearls hanging, she lamented, “Fuck me. Fuck me right now.”

As they remained in my periphery, they became exhibitionists as well as voyeurs. Watchers transitioned into Doers. He moved into her and she rocked into him and they moaned and watched the main show. She almost lost her balance, her hand reaching out. Before she could topple, her hand found my thigh and she held my leg, held on to me as he stroked her. As she held me for balance he made her bend and again he went back inside of her. She was wet. I heard her dampness. His power rolled through her body and coursed into mine. She held my leg and as she was being stroked I rubbed her back. I looked at her lover, looked at his handsome face, then I rubbed his hairy chest. My fingers traced his neck, traced his chin, moved to his face and across the fleshy parts that formed the upper and lower edges of the mouth, and he opened his orifice. He received my digits, sucked my fingers. I moved two fingers in and out of his mouth, moved my fingers inside of him as he moved inside of his woman, and finger-fucked his face while he fucked his woman. He closed his eyes and sucked my fingers one, two, three at a time. There are close to nine thousand taste buds on the tongue. I moved my hand from his mouth and my hand eased underneath my towel. I touched between my legs, felt my dampness, saturated my fingers, then I raised my hand, put my fingers inside of his mouth again. His sense of touch and taste were being stimulated. He tasted me and worked his woman that much better. She stumbled again, this time her hand gripping my leg, her nails pressing into my skin, that pain making me moan as if I were being penetrated over and over. I moved my hand from his mouth, moved my fingers back down his chest, slid it down and rubbed across her back again. She let my thigh go, then grabbed her own breasts, pulled at her nipples, pulled them hard. Pain remained. She had her balance. Our subtle three-way ended.

Beyond aroused, feeling as if I were in a state of coitus interruptus, the tips of my fingers moving up and down my throat, I returned to watching the main show.

The broad-shouldered German fucked his lover good.

He fucked her hard.

What he was doing, how he was delivering sex, every woman, at some point, wanted it that way, demanded it like that, needed it in that crude fashion because getting it like that was the only way to truly salve that aggravating itch. And for some of us, that itch ran deep. Our amazing, educated, outspoken, and loving mothers had had it like that. Our self-assured, beautiful, Jesus-loving, and God-fearing grandmothers had been taken by our grandfathers in that manner; our great-grandmothers had been fucked like that on Saturday night, then praised God on Sunday mornings. And our daughters, if we had daughters, would receive sex like that from someone's son, as would their daughters and the daughters of their daughters. Our souls required love. But our bodies required maintenance, required a good fucking.

Prada had given it to me like that.

Bret had given it to me like that.

Other lovers had done the same.

They had entered my body and gone insane with passion.

They applauded the German. The Sisterhood of the Engorged Labias encouraged him to keep stroking. He raised his head and his eyes caressed mine. He grunted and became relentless again. She yelled for him to come. She begged him to come. His skin beat against hers. He fucked her. I exhaled in short spurts. My knees almost buckled. I knew that she felt him growing inside of her, becoming engorged. And at the same time her yoni was opening, lengthening, doing its best to accommodate him as he grew, as he swelled, as his lingam elongated.

He grunted as if he were coming inside me. I absorbed his energy, felt myself opening up, and became damp as if he had spewed his pleasure, as if his come were rivering inside of me.

Compared to what I was seeing, what Anaïs had shown me during the final interview, it didn't compare. What she had shown were clips. Where I stood I absorbed the energy of the act, the energy of the crowd, was stimulated by fragrances, additional sounds, art, and images being projected on each wall.

Next to me the couple that had been inspired by them, the couple that had touched me as I had touched them, they shared an orgasmic moment. She came. He didn't come. But she came and she was loud. She laughed when she finished her orgasm. She stood up. Reached back. Kissed him. He wasn't done. He picked her up and rushed to the mattress. Laughter ended. He gave her hard-core sex. He pounded her and she cursed and moaned and made the most intense face and begged him to fuck her harder, to not stop fucking her like that, and over and over she told him that she loved him so much. Love. It was about love for them. Her expression of love was like watching musical notes rise.

A man bumped into me and apologized. He was behind me. He was erect. I didn't look back. I didn't react. But I swallowed and closed my eyes. That bump had felt good. My right hand moved back behind me. I moved his towel to the side and I touched his lingam. It was thick. It was meaty. I glanced back at him. He was very handsome. One arm was decorated with tattoos from his shoulder down to his elbow, the type of markings that could easily be hidden underneath a business shirt. He smiled. I smiled. Then I turned around and resumed watching the menagerie, my hand underneath his towel, manipulating his girth and length as if it were no big deal. Breathing deeply, I masturbated a stranger. Arousal modified behavior. Absolute arousal, absolutely. The crowd was absolutely aroused. I was part of the crowd. The power of the group determined what was socially acceptable underneath its roof.

After I caressed his lingam, when he was hard, I felt his ragged breath on my neck; he asked if he could touch me. I nodded. The stranger kissed my shoulder, traced my ass. Then his hand eased underneath my towel and he squeezed my breasts. He moaned. He pinched my nipples. I moaned. He rolled my left nipple between his finger and thumb. His hands were soft with edges of roughness, a self-made man who had risen to wealth. I bit my lips and swallowed a thousand moans. Again I touched myself. Again I put my damp fingers inside the mouth of a strange man while I stroked him. Held him and stroked him slowly and watched the plethora of creative lovers. Breathing heavily, he touched me, touched my neck, my shoulders, my curves, the small of my back, the rise in my ass. He touched between my legs. He teased me. It felt wonderful. It felt romantic. It felt like romance for the sake of romance, the purest kind of romance, with no expectations. I needed to feel love. I needed to be teased as well.

He could've had me. If he had entered me, if a stranger fucked me now, if he took his fantasy, I never would have looked back. I never would have looked back as I closed my eyes and moaned and grinded and surrendered to a much-needed orgasm.

I glanced back at the man I was masturbating, stroking musically with my right hand. He had the body of a man, hard chest and arms, the body of a weekend warrior, but he barely looked twenty-one.

I controlled him, owned him, and stroked him toward resolution.

People watched us. People watched his distress. People watched him lose control on my behalf. This was what it felt like to be the center of attraction. As eyes turned in curiosity, as labored breathing rose, I felt the power. Felt its high. I owned all who watched. His strong hands gripped my soft shoulders and he fucked against the rhythm of my hand. His jaw was slacked. He quaked violently. In those final moments, when he was severely engorged, when he had grunted and told me that he was about to explode, I stopped masturbating him. He was forced to finish what I had started. He jacked off feverishly.

It was beautiful. Watching him masturbate was beautiful.

Stirred, Watchers witnessed the arrival of his orgasm. Women wanted to see him come. They leaned in. Some moved closer, their eyes fixed on his lingam, watching, waiting. Men watched as well, maybe to see his volume, to compare, see how they measured up. He shuddered and jerked and spewed into his black towel three times, three voluminous spurts. Then he milked it until there was no more. A Rorschach, art made of semen. His volume could have shot across the room. People applauded him. They celebrated his pleasure. I rubbed his back, touched his face, then placed my hand over his heart. Moments later he calmed. With heated breath, he thanked me.

Then he kissed my left shoulder. A soft kiss. A tender kiss. The kiss of a servant, a gentleman. I fed him three fingers of honey once again and told him, Good fucking and good night.

What I had done stimulated me. The fire that I fought to contain roared, cursed. Evocative music throbbed, a hammer tapping my swollen clitoris. The images on the big screens alternated among live sex throughout the compound, sex from dozens of alcoves, to provocative movies. It paused on the debauchery in this region, focused on the wicked menagerie of erotica. Lust was magnified on every screen. This was hell. I was in paradise and now it had become a living hell, a hell worse than Sartre's
No Exit.
As I burned, as I suffered, I had no idea that as I stood entranced, my past—the man with the build of a running back, the man with hypnotic sea-green eyes—stood right behind me. With one step, I could've backed into him right then.

Suffering, I broke away, I moved in the other direction. I was ready. I was open. I searched alcoves, open areas, hurried from room to room looking for her. The exotic woman who had approached me, the sensualist with the plum lips, the hedonist who wore golden seven-inch stilettos, pearls, who I then, like a fool, like a poltroon, had rejected—now I desperately pursued what she had offered. I was determined to find her. I was ready to be inducted into her party, was willing to connect with her party, was ready to exchange fantasies and spice up their orgy with the singsong hallelujahs of a randy Caribbean woman. Every nerve was alive. I was on fire, yoni throbbed, flames leapt from my pores. She said that she loved to eat yoni, had asked me to become her sexual buffet. I was ready to let her dine. I needed her tongue.

I ended up facing the elevator, in a crowd, again kneading my neck, again tapping my thighs, blood rushing away from my brain, struggling, unable to decide if I wanted to search one floor up or down.

Then all heads turned when we heard extreme moaning in the land of the morally unrestrained. The moans came again. Musical moaning, sweet sexual torture came from a woman with a delicate, beautiful voice. Many hurried toward the moans as if they were a seductive chant, a call to a religious service.

Someone was at the main altar of Eros putting on a show.

I eased into the crowd of excited worshippers, moved by erect lingams and stiff nipples, my skin touching the skin of unembarrassed nudity as I tried to hold my towel and see. A man and a woman with a magnificent wedding ring were on a giant mattress. His lingam laid to the side, covered his thigh like a snake growing from his groin. His face was between his lover's trembling legs. I witnessed the pinkness of his tongue swirling in and out of her yoni. Her back arched, her intake of air was sharp. Everyone had rushed to Eros to catch sight of his lingam. It was bronze, the veins like coils, pulsating wires spiraling from the head toward his testicles. It was a fucking amazing tool of yoni destruction. As people whispered, I swallowed. He sucked and lapped the pinkness of her sex. Her wetness was a mushy sound. The woman that he was pleasing, the woman who uttered beautiful sounds and called us all to hear her sermon, I had seen her earlier. Her eyes opened for a moment and she panted, expression severe, painted with orgasm as she took in the crowd. Then he opened his mouth wide and consumed her sex, and she tensed and moaned loud enough to rouse and disturb sleeping gods before closing her eyes again. Her back arched again. Once more her dramatic moans reached the four corners of the pantheon. My spine tickled with warmth. Frantic, she gripped his head again. She wore luxurious shoes adorned with rubies. Her hair was the style of a flapper. It was the high-society British woman I'd engaged in conversation in the dressing room. The unfaithful Brit was with the pilot, the conquest that she had nicknamed Quince Pulgadas.