Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
“Ooooh!” she moans, coming up to straddle my huge form, her small hands on my shoulders as she offers her tits to me. “Mmmm!”
I pop off her nipple, leaving it shiny and wet, before giving it a worshipful lick and moving to the other one.
“Ohhhh!” Melinda moans again as I lave her other breast, enjoying the taste of succulent womanflesh. “Mm-mm-mm!”
But after a minute or two of hedonism, something makes me stop. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the glitter on her skin, or the fact that her red mane keeps getting in my mouth. Or maybe, it’s that I’m too fucking jaded and I’ve done this too many times, with too many women, in the past already.
“Thanks, baby,” I grunt after popping off her breast and squeezing her round rear end with appreciation. “That’s just the hit I needed.”
Melinda backs up, adjusting her top as she stares at me with dazed green eyes.
“That’s all?” she mewls. “You don’t want more?”
I shrug and smile.
“I’m good for now, sweetheart. But if I could get a gin and tonic—”
That’s when my mouth snaps shut because a particularly fetching young thing just appeared at the side door to the bar. She’s blonde, curvy and absolutely gorgeous, wearing a handkerchief masquerading as a dress. Her big breasts sway as she teeters behind the bar for a moment, only to reappear with a bag in her hand. Then, she turns and disappears into a stairwell leading to the basement in the lower level of the club.
Holy fuck.
The Red Room.
Don’t get me wrong because the walls of the Red Room aren’t painted crimson or anything so cheesy. That’s for women who read psychological thrillers, not to mention the influence of Fifty Shades of Grey. But the Red Room is what we informally call the playroom at Club Z, and what goes on inside is exactly what you’d expect.
Suddenly, I have to know what the young blonde is going to do. Obviously, she’s gorgeous and works here. Obviously, she’s not a day over twenty. Obviously, she’s got the huge, heaving tits I adore, not to mention a slim waist, wide hips, and long legs clad in sexy stilettos. But it seems this particular young lady has a dirty mind too ... and I’m just the man to help her explore her fantasies.
4
Emma
I can’t believe I’m doing this, and yet I can because to my embarrassment, this isn’t my first time. Actually, I shouldn’t even feel embarrassed because this is exactly why places like Club Z exist: to allow people to explore their kinks in a non-judgmental environment.
But Club Z is different from the usual because it’s a private club, yet very filthy while also being extraordinarily exclusive. The lame places you see on TV are hopeless, with ten-page disclaimers, mandatory lectures on sexual health, and non-stop talking. So much lecturing, about everything and anything under the sun, from consent to non-consent, to safe words, to the latest sexual health mandates that the “lead committee” has decided is best for membership. As you can tell, that kind of stuff isn’t sexy, and it’s not what Club Z is about at all.
Instead, this is the real thing. The club is worth millions, if not billions, and spends its money developing a clientele that reflects its position of prestige and exclusivity. Again, only men are members, while the women on premises are ladies like me: we work at Club Z, and serve as “hostesses” for the pleasure of the male clientele. It works. I usually moonlight as a server in one of the cocktail lounges, and yes, my uniform is scandalous. Many times, I wear only pasties and a g-string paired with high heels, but there were a few nights that I even went topless so that my girls bounced free and open, ready to be kissed and fondled.
But the good thing about working at Club Z is that we’re welcome to use the premises for our own enjoyment too. All of the women I’ve seen are gorgeous, and therefore, we’re actually encouraged to explore the different playrooms and to hang out with the wealthy male clientele. We exist for their pleasure, so the more we make ourselves available, the better the club does.
But tonight, it’s not about the men. It’s about my needs and the stress relief my body craves. Shaking with adrenaline, I push open the door to the Red Room, and blink a little from the darkness. After a few seconds, my eyes begin to adjust and I smile because the night’s already started and I like what I see. Sinuous shapes twist around each other as breathy moans and gasping grunts hit my ears. There are a number of paddle benches set up, as well as wooden stocks, a St. Andrew’s cross, and best of all, the toy I’m looking for: a restraining chair.