0 comments/ 17317 views/ 0 favorites Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 07-09 By: Jazz E. VII. For a while Matt had been a bit of a perpetual student. He had gone UBC directly after high school and spent the mandatory five years getting his B. Com. Then, without a break, without even making the generally recommended change of venue, he plunged right into the MBA program at the same university. He met Jenn while doing that, despite a social life that was rather hit and miss. It took place only during the occasional breaks from studying and was rather amorphous in form. Attending a large noisy party at the off-campus parents' home of a friend of a friend, Matt had thought he would stick it out for the night to see if he could get lucky – which he realized was not very likely – or, at least get drunk – which, conversely, was highly probable. However, he had been introduced to Jenn before he’d had too much to drink and, having his attention suddenly occupied, had neither gotten laid nor drunk. Mind you, he did get her phone number. Their first couple dates had been almost old-fashioned in their chastity – a movie, a pizza, a beer – however, as gradual as it was to start, their relationship blossomed. They rapidly became fast friends – friends first. Maybe they had both felt, Matt sometimes thought in retrospect, the well hidden, deep current of sensuality which they shared, but they hadn't kissed until the third date, and then only as friends. Still, they necked on the fifth date, and groped on the sixth or seventh, before getting down and dirty in the back seat of her parent's car on about the eighth date. As much as it was a slowburn, they had definitely caught fire. Matt had realized then that he thought about her all the time; even when he should have been listening to lectures or transcribing notes. His marks suffered a slight setback during those initial hot and heavy stages of their relationship. Nevertheless, he managed to stabilize; his feelings for Jenn, and he suspected hers for him, grew – but grew firm and steady. He finally graduated and landed a job managing Rightaway, a modest but growing industrial printing business. The company took off under his guidance – "Shit house luck," he usually contended. In a relatively short time, what with bonuses and profit sharing, Matt was pulling in an impressive income. H and Jenn were married as soon as she graduated, and soon enough he had parlayed his managerial position into president. The printing business continued to be quite lucrative and the company continued its success under his leadership. Buying out his partners, Matt eventually became the major shareholder in the firm. Meanwhile he had been able to make some very good, income-generating investments to support Jenn and himself, so that he could retire somewhat more than just comfortably whenever he or they decided. He had always been into photography and had taken a few good pictures of Jenn when they were dating, and early in their marriage – before kids. He had felt, at the time, they were the best he had ever done, and maybe they were. Still, he reached a pinnacle when he did several series of Jenn au naturel, a few years ago. They had been done over the period of six months while their youngest child was about two. Jenn had basically recovered her shape, as much as she ever would after childbirth. She radiated a sense of fulfillment and happiness that was magical. Matt had surprised her in some shots; posed her in others; and joined her in still others. Setting up the motordrive on a tripod, he had captured them in multiple images – making love. And that's what the pictures showed, not just the animal heat of raw sex but the shimmering aura of true erotic oneness. Jenn's nakedness in the pictures of her alone spoke in volumes about latent lust and enticing sensuality, while those of the two of them in action removed only the latent factor. They were the best works Matt had ever done, even if the camera had done many of them alone. Although Matt, like most people probably, hated the sound of his own voice on tape, and was usually hypercritical of his own appearance in pictures, there was something – some sort of mystique – about those pictures that moved him – moved them both. Despite the fact that they were essentially pornographic pics, they were some of the few pictures he had ever taken that he considered to be more art than photography. They had more to them than expanses of bare skin, entangled bodies, rigid and glistening parts – more to them than what could just be seen. Although he often thought he would like to try serious erotic photography again, he wasn't sure that he could ever recapture the raw, sensuality, the overpowering passion of those early pictures. He rather felt anything he did after that would be just snapshots, as, indeed for the most part, it was. The lack of art in his occasional nude or lewd picture always saddened him. Even though he never expected to be able to attain that level of art again, he was always just a little disappointed with his snapshots. He had taken countless pictures – candid, action and portrait – of the girls with results as good as or better than most professionals. Still, he lamented, even they – his daughters' beautifully angelic faces shining out from the pictures – lacked that flash of artistic genius he had achieved only for that short time in those earlier pictures of Jenn – "in the nude and getting screwed." Even that changed after the accident. How could it have not? Everything changed. He felt that any glimmer of art he ever might have had left – vanished – was stolen right out of his soul along with his children. After the accident, Matt took a partial retirement. He withdrew from the president's chair and simply sat on the board to offer assistance as a part-time executive officer and consultant. If he hadn't had the love and support of Jenn he knew he would have just disintegrated. "And now I do this to her?!" he admonished. Although, he sometimes wondered if it was to her or himself that he was "doing this”; furthermore, he wondered just what "this" meant. The difference between dreams and fantasies is that, given the opportunity, most people would try to realize their dreams; opportunity or not, most people believe, deep down, that fantasies should remain fantasies. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to tell one from the other. At the fringes, they merge. At what point does the dream become too outlandish, too wild, too intense for realization? At what point in the increasingly realistic reworking of a fantasy does it become an attainable goal? Matt's fantasies of torrid sex, anonymous sex, kinky sex, dominant sex – what he thought of as his improbable fantasies had often strayed back across the line – back from the soft focus and shimmering coloured phantasm of the ethereal to the realm of possibility. "That could happen. Yeah." But his experience with Dara was something else. He would have, before it happened, thought of a situation like that as not just improbable but so unlikely as to only have ever occurred in the minds of authors, film-makers and fantasizers. He had to re-evaluate his position – his beliefs. Of course, he knew, even then, that there was no question of his not trying it again, given the opportunity. It was unbelievable – inconceivable that it had not only taken place, but had happened to him. Matt had no idea whether he was becoming entangled in the gossamer of dreams or the web of fantasy. When he saw Dara, at the next run, he didn’t know exactly what to expect, but she greeted him, lining up at the start, like an old friend. "See you at the finish," she called over. Was there really such a blatant sensuality implicit in her voice as he thought he detected? No one else seemed to have noticed. "Have a good one!" he called back to her. Her smile was radiant, as she gave him the thumbs up and turned her attention back to the start. In anticipation of things to come, Matt inadvertently ran his best time. He had unconsciously tried to keep up with the fleeting figure of Dara – his personal siren – to no avail. As he crossed the finish line, in a haze of exhaustion, she appeared at his elbow and led him away with quietly murmured congratulations. At the water table she whispered, "Let's not hang around too long." It was just like a post-hypnotic suggestion. Back at her apartment, things went very much as last time except that Matt needed less instruction, was less incredulous, more in control. Their post-run affair began to roll freely. And every meeting added a new detail – a little something new: a sensuous ointment, a flavoured lubricant, incense, ticklers, elastic cock-rings to prolong his erections and delay his ejaculations. As running season was in full swing, they managed to meet three more times in that first month, by which time she had him fastening her down on all fours and sodomizing her; after first gagging her and spanking her backside until it was a jumble of red handprints. He continued to experience multiple orgasms of a strength and intensity he had only known in adolescence, if even then. Matt just could not believe this was happening to him. It didn't seem possible. Surely this kind of comic book fantasy didn't happen to forty-one year olds. But then he would find himself hustling away surreptitiously after a race, and before he knew it they would be naked and sweaty. Every time he ejaculated, whether into her mouth, her cunt or her ass, he would shake his head, and tumbling off an orgasmic peak into the high valley of afterglow, he would say to himself, "Yes, I think this really is real." As much as he had thought he would always be open with Jenn, he did not tell her of the affair – did his best not to let on that something was – what? – amiss? afoot? For her part, Jenn, apparently, just thought he had suddenly stepped up his interest in running events. Inasmuch as he was currently running well and running a lot, she was not surprised. Furthermore, she had told him that even though he was a tad distracted at times, he seemed happy for the first time since the accident. He had smiled and told her that he was. He masked his confusion well. Not only did Matt feel like a heel for what he was up to, he felt guilty about the pleasure he derived from his infidelity. He was doing exactly what he despised others for doing: neglecting his wife for a younger woman. Yet, he was not neglecting Jenn. They continued to have satisfying sex – satisfying love, regularly. But thinking of Dara's relative youth always made him think about his deceased daughters. How could he reap such pleasure out of being alive when they – his treasures – had been the ones who had really deserved it, and their time had been so fleeting, their enjoyment of life so brief. Unconsciously Matt began to extend his feelings of guilt to encompass not just his fornication, but the undeserved pleasures of living that he unjustly still enjoyed. But he couldn't stop. His affair with Dara became more and more interesting – increasingly convoluted and complex. At each successive visit to her apartment, Matt would think, "This has to stop. It can't go on like this; there's nowhere else to go." Still, he wasn't going to be the one to put the brakes on. Not yet. VIII. Summer passed. Matt was in great shape. The excitement of his affair with Dara continued to exceed his wildest dreams, although he began to notice, as things progressed, that she had become increasingly distracted during their sessions. Deep down he interpreted it as the beginning of the end; she was getting bored with him. Perhaps that was for the best anyway. Still he would let it run its course. He wouldn't be the one to call it quits. As the fall marched forward inexorably, and the running season wound down, Dara began to tell Matt a little about the 'health club' she had joined. She told him that it was a place run by a group of like-minded people where one could indulge in the kind of sexual and sensual scenarios that she liked best – the kind she and Matt had been refining over the summer. Matt's attention was piqued. Her voice got seductively dreamy as she went on to describe carpeted rooms with four-posters; leather straps and shackles on the walls; leather divans next to night stands whose drawers held feathers and lubricants. She explained that it was very secret and very exclusive. One only found out by explicit invitation. "Are you inviting me?" Matt was keyed up, but unsure of what exactly this was leading up to. "I've told my – er – sponsor about you," Dara whispered, dropping her eyes as if she were somehow ashamed. "He suggested that I extend a introductory invitation to you." She stopped for a moment, and looked into Matt's face, trying to read it. He was peering at her intently through slightly squinted eyes, trying to read more from her. She could only barely detect the turmoil of dread and excitement washing his brain. "Oh," he muttered inadequately, "When?" "How about after the run next weekend?" There was something odd about the way she had spoken – something small and frightened. "I can sort of sponsor you, if you want." She had somehow lost her panache. She was suddenly not the one in control. "So who is?" Matt thought to himself, his puzzlement only glimmering deep in his face, "Certainly not me." "Stewart said it would be all right." "Who's Stewart?" Matt's question was a little more brusque than he intended but the name of another man in this exchange had taken him by surprise. "Oh – um – he's my – ah – he sponsored me – into The Club." She was flustered for a moment, and uncharacteristically unsure of herself. "So, would you like to have a look?" "Oh." Matt sensed once again that it was another critically important 'moment' – some kind of crisis point or juncture – a watershed; but he still didn't understand exactly what it was about. He was just sure that it would be his only chance – the only one like this he would ever get. And of that he was absolutely certain. He simply knew that he could not pass it up; something inside him warned that if he did, he would regret it until eternity. "Okay. Sure, I guess.” What else could he have said? He had a week, then – a week to do what? Chicken out? A line from an old David Bowie song skittered across his thoughts. "Turn and face the strange, ch-ch-changes." Those words seemed suddenly more than just a little fitting. Later he would see why Dara always spoke about The Club with capital letters – and they always had been obvious in her voice. It was all very strange; and was it just coincidence that in the second book of The Story of O, the chateau at Roissy is referred to as The Club? He pondered. Dara had asked him almost pleadingly, after they had taken quick showers at the change rooms following that next race, to recline the seat of the car and not try to figure out where she was taking him. The trip took about twenty-five minutes. Dara seemed tense and unwilling to converse, while Matt, trying to control his growing apprehension as his run-induced tranquility receded, had closed his eyes rather than stare vacantly at the ceiling liner of her Precidia. They paused once in a tree-lined lane, as Dara lowered her window momentarily, apparently at some sort of controlled entrance; they proceeded again without a word. When they finally stopped, just a short while later, Matt was quite disoriented, and was surprised to find they were in the parking lot or courtyard of a conservative institutional building. Completely surrounded by foliage and forest, Matt had no idea where they were. The position of the sun suggested south, and, in that direction, sky was visible through the trees. To the north, the interstices of the trees remained black as if they were against a mountain or hill. The place seemed preternaturally quiet, until a deep rumbling, like that of a working engine, seeped in from the south. "The river, perhaps," Matt mused. He didn't have time to solve the puzzle, for Dara took him by the arm and wordlessly led him to a door in the building. There were no identifying features on the building. It was obviously designed to remain anonymous. At the entrance all of his attention, his fine focus, was set on the door as Dara quietly carded the lock, opened it and ushered him in. Unconsciously holding his breath, he thought he detected a changing atmospheric field, something new in the air, as he crossed the threshold. Once inside, they stopped, Dara apparently unsure, and waited for a moment in the hushed foyer, until a man of perhaps fifty or so, wearing finely tailored lounging clothes, appeared from another door and approached them. Dara stuttered as if she were about to begin introductions, but the man ignored her, extending his hand to Matt. "Welcome. I'm Stewart." "Matthew Ander..." Matt began, shaking Stewart's hand with more confidence than he actually felt. "No need for last names here," Stewart interrupted. "Dara has told me about you," he began, taking Matt by the elbow and steering him through the doorway from which he had appeared, into a large, almost classically furnished office. "I believe our ‘society’ – if you will – will be of interest to you." He directed Matt to an exquisite antique chair and settled himself in a large leather swivel behind the desk. He had not yet acknowledged Dara's presence. She had silently followed them into the office and now stood at attention slightly behind Matt's chair. Stewart began to describe the facility. Visions of the island in ...Eden, the San Francisco house described earlier in the book, the prince's castle, the chateau at Roissy, and Villa Rif in Florville swirled through Matt's mind as Stewart spoke of lounges and parlours, bedrooms and cells, rooms for exercise and discipline. "I'll give you a brief tour of the place, then we can have a drink while we discuss what you think. Okay?" The question took Matt by surprise. "Er – sounds fine to me." "You can wait here," Stewart said, addressing Dara for the first time. Other than a nod, she didn't move. Matt thought that, perhaps, her recent distraction was starting to make some kind of strange sense. He was shown only a few rooms, but even such a small glimpse filled him with an overwhelming sensation of excitement mixed with curiosity, arousal and, no small amount of fear. They peeked into a gym on the ground floor, where several people worked out at various stations. There was nothing too unusual about it except that they were all nude. Up the elevator, in a lounge, a few people – men and women, all well dressed – were sitting around quietly talking, while a young woman wearing only a leash sat at the feet of one of the gentlemen. In a smaller sitting room, a man sat sipping a drink and reading a newspaper while a naked figure hunched over his lap, actively felating him. The last stop on the tour was on the top floor. Stewart indicated a heavy closed door and pointed out the small lens in it. Putting his eye to the peephole Matt took in the fish-eye view of a stark room – a cell. On the bed, apparently alone, was a woman. She had her face on the pillow and her arms reaching for the bedposts; her knees were pulled under her and apart to expose her anus and her pudendum. She was perfectly still as leather straps fastened her securely to the bed frame. Red handprints were just visible on her well-rounded and invitingly spread buttocks. Matt could find nothing to say as he was escorted back to the office to conclude what he now realized was his preliminary screening. He was still not sure exactly what it all meant – not sure of all of the ramifications of what he had been shown. Dara was waiting beside the chair when he returned. Following Stewart's example, he completely ignored her. Stewart told him that they were prepared to offer an introductory membership, if he was interested. Despite feeling a little dazed, Matt nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. I am interested. Definitely." Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 07-09 "Good," Stewart said without surprise. "Of course you'll need a medical first." He went on to explain that before even introductory acceptance can be considered in the very peculiar facility, he must take a wide-spectrum STD blood test. "And come up clean, of course. Upper class clientele notwithstanding, you can never be too sure." "That should be no problem," Matt replied. "I wouldn't think so," Stewart agreed, then with a smile he turned to Dara. "I think Matt would appreciate your talents right now, in anticipation of his joining our group, Dara. Don't you think?" When Matt turned look at Dara, he saw her hesitate, a briefly puzzled look passing over her face as she asked for clarification with only her big eyes. Matt followed her gaze only to meet Stewart's smile. He realized that he must have missed some explicit non-verbal message for, without any more delay, Dara dropped to her knees at Matt's side and reached into his lap. Not saying a word, without taking her eyes off her hands, she opened his trousers and struggled to release his stiffened rod. Forthwith, she set her lips to the task of relieving his growing need. Matt didn't move, staring wide-eyed, mouth agape at the back of her bobbing head as Dara proceeded to expertly suck him off. As familiar as it was, it was completely novel as well. Stewart watched her silently – appraisingly. When she had finished – brought him to climax, cleaned him up and repackaged him – Stewart basically dismissed them both saying he looked forward to seeing Matt's clean bill of health. Matt and Dara walked back out to her car in silence. Dara was pensive as she kept her eyes downcast. Matt wasn't sure what to do to break the oppressive quiet that hung about them. In the car, she asked him, once again, to lie back and not look out the window. He closed his eyes, and was soon aware only of his contentment and the veering of the car as it turned this way and that. After about fifteen minutes Dara spoke. "You can sit up now if you like." A spark of something – life, maybe, self-assuredness – had return to her voice. Matt looked at her as he returned his seat back to upright position. She gave him a little smile, starting to look relaxed once more. He realized that they were somewhere in central Coquitlam, which gave him little clue as to where they had been. "Wow," Matt gasped, thinking of nothing else to say. "So how... how long... when did you...? Oh, shit. Never mind. It's none of my business, anyway." He gave his head a shake. Dara chuckled softly and began to tell him about her journey, as it were. Her voice was tranquil and low as she described, first meeting Stewart, then, being accepted into The Club. They drove about aimlessly for over an hour – Dara, with her eyes firmly on the road, recounting details of her experiences, Matt, watching her in profile, listening intently. What she related was surreal, incredible, literally fantastic, but, as implausible as it sounded, something assured Matt that it was absolutely true. The place – The Club – had an electricity in it that could surely realize the inconceivable. Dara, it turned out was basically an apprentice and, in some ways, an acolyte for Stewart, who was one of the founding members. She had met him in the summer and come under his wing shortly after. "I hope hearing that doesn't hurt you," she said, giving him a glance. "I wasn't really... we weren't... well..." "That's all right," Matt muttered, "I never really held any claim on you." He didn't know how it made him feel really. He couldn't tell if he felt jealousy, curiosity or voyeuristic arousal. Stewart had asked her details about her previous experiences and she had told him all. She said she was surprised, "But pleased." when he encouraged her to continue her affair with Matt. He wanted to know every single detail. It was Stewart who had suggested inviting Matt to The Club, although he never told her why. Consequently, he had done the interview as Matt was sponsored, if indirectly, by him. When Matt finally left Dara and drove himself home, late that afternoon, he was so confused that he could barely function. It took every gram of his self-control to act naturally in front of Jenn. He lied and told her he wasn't feeling well – although it was hardly a lie – and spent a very low-keyed evening, reading, watching the tube and engaging in meaningless small talk with his wife. She must have sensed his preoccupation, for she asked him nothing and soon left him alone. The Club was an exclusive, safe, sexual adventure facility, catering to bondage and discipline, and, to a lesser degree, sado-masochism. It was a rather opulent installation that included, among its various offerings, a posh dining room and an exercise spa. Much like the island resort in Exit to Eden, except on a much more modest – if that word can be used – scale, it was basically a cooperative fantasy factory. Domination and subjugation were the overlying themes in an environment of pure hedonism. The people who could afford membership belonged to a fellowship determined to help them realize all of their dreams of dominance and submission – pretty well anything short of physical mutilation and death. Humiliation was both dealt and received with relish. Once he had medical clearance, Matt arranged with Dara for his first visit. Although the secretive lying back was perhaps no longer necessary, Matt reclined his seat and closed his eyes while Dara drove. Stewart welcomed him and congratulated him on his acceptance. "As you can imagine, this society is not for everyone – even some of those whose dreams it appears to answer sometimes find it overwhelming. Nonetheless, you appear to be an ideal candidate for nomination. We, at The Club, are willing to offer you an initiation period – a getting comfortable period of slightly limited access; following which, if we still feel that you fit our expectations and should you, of course, choose to accept, you will be offered a trial or probationary membership." Matt felt a frightening mixture of thrill and awe. He wondered if the whole thing might prove to be just too intense. He had the feeling, though, that he could and would handle it. "Look us over carefully." Stewart had been speaking exclusively to Matt, not just ignoring Dara, but seemingly disregarding her very existence, until he gave a slight nod in her direction when he stated, "Dara is available for your bidding. She will stay with you and answer any questions." With that, he shook Matt's hand. "Once again, welcome," and with a seemingly uncharacteristic wink, he added, "Have fun." "Thanks," Matt muttered as they were shown out of the office. In the foyer, he turned to Dara. Her eyes were lowered demurely but he thought he could detect a glow on her cheeks. Excitement? Anticipation? Shame? "Now what?" he asked, blankly. Dara quietly took his arm, pressing her warm shoulder into him. She began leading him through the building, allowing him to freely observe. Although it wasn't a busy place, there was activity of some sort in many of the rooms. No one questioned his presence. Some people bade him welcome, some greeted him with a nod, while others averted their eyes. In one room they came upon the final movement of an apparently well choreographed thrashing. Both Matt and Dara were completely ignored by the participants, both of whom were intently focused on that fine line between ecstasy and agony. Matt shivered at the muffled squeals escaping around the gag of the man strapped to the table. The leather-clad woman who brandished the whip was puffing and sweating and shaking as she delivered the final strokes. Matt bid Dara to leave at the denouement as the whipper laid down her lash and began to gently apply a balm to the welted backside of her partner. Although he witnessed enough fucking and sucking and teasing, he realized that most of the action there was as much psychological as physical. He knew he had been allowed a privileged glimpse into the fantastic world of not just sex games, but sexual mind games. Not taking advantage of the opportunity to experience what The Club offered was, at that moment, inconceivable. Matt could feel a vibrating excitement starting in his chest. He was moving forward into some alien place and he didn't really know why. He just knew that he couldn't help himself. The possibilities seemed endless. His role as spectator ended when, on entering an empty room on the upper floor, Dara, walked to the corner of the bed, picked up a leather cuff, and looked at him. "Please," was all she said. Even as a novice, Matt took to the situation naturally. He pulled bits of what he had already seen together with his experiences in Dara’s apartment, interpolating them and insinuating them into his own scenario. "Take off all your clothing," he commanded, with quiet firmness, "and lie on the bed, face down." He stayed dressed while he watched her comply. "Now, fasten your own shins to the side tethers and put the bolster inside your knees so you can sit back on it.” As she acceded to his wishes, he found her docility arousing. "Okay. Reach your hands to the corners. Stretch!" Gleefully he fastened the soft cuffs around her wrists and attached them to the corners of the headboard. Opening the night stand drawer, Matt felt like a child in a candy store. Just as he suspected, it was filled with all manner of vibrator and dildo. He selected a long latex 'palm trunk with a monkey at the base'. Moving behind Dara, he ran his hand over her pubis and found it to be adequately, and naturally, lubricated. He was just about to lick the vibrator before inserting it when he thought of an even better idea. He presented it to Dara's lips. Her eyes had been closed and the latex tip of the phallus surprised her. "Suck it in, my dear. Get it good and wet." Matt detected a sort of mocking tone in his own voice, although he didn't know why. He felt like a caricature in someone else’s story. Dara engulfed the device with relish, but Matt pulled it out suddenly, and, returning to her backside, inserted it just as abruptly into her vagina. She gave an involuntary gasp as he fitted the monkey against her clitoris and turned the machine on. It not only vibrated against her and inside her, it swirled in a spiral sort of twisting motion. "Hold it there until I get back," Matt ordered, then, after a long appraising look he left the room, softly closing the door behind him. Out in the hall, he didn't quite know what to do. He wandered downstairs into the main lounge. There was a man in the corner, speaking to the slave kneeling at his feet – Matt realized that that was the first time he actually thought 'slave', but there really was no denying it. Voluntary slavery perhaps, but slavery nevertheless. Other than that, except for the barkeep, the place was empty. Matt mounted a stool at the bar and asked for a scotch, neat. The barkeeper simply gave him a drink, with no mention of paying or signing. "I'll have to find out just how this works," Matt thought to himself; then, as he sipped thoughtfully, he pictured Dara waiting for him. His cock, which, up to that time had only reached a semi-engorged state all day, suddenly sprang to life. Squirming on the stool, to relieve its uncomfortable position, Matt finished his drink – his wonderful single malt scotch – in a toss. Then he stood, straightened his shoulders and headed back upstairs. Stopping at the door of the room, and cracking it open silently, Matt could hear the quiet whir of the vibrator, punctuated with soft staccato gasps from Dara. Without a sound, he unfastened his pants and climbed onto the bed behind her. He simultaneously snatched out the buzzing machine and plunged his own rock hard tool into its place. Without a pause he began pounding himself against her buttocks, pulling her hips in to meet his every thrust. As he felt the explosion rising from his balls, Dara began to buck and scream – not the shrieking scream of distress but the whimpering scream of overwhelming release. Jetting his load into her quivering cunt, Matt collapsed on her back while her still convulsing muscles alternately squeezed and released his pulsing tool, milking every last drop of come from him before he gradually deflated and slipped from her pouch. Shortly afterwards, at the car, Dara asked Matt to drive and settled quietly into the right seat. Throwing her head back, she closed her eyes and let out a deep, satisfied sigh. "That was great. Just great." "Yeah." Matt's nerves were still just returning to normal as they left the driveway and entered the realm of reality once again. Dara's simple directions quickly got them back to familiar territory. "You know, I never ever thought it could be that great." With her head back and her eyes still closed, Dara began to reveal something of herself. "I was looking for that extra something for years. I mean, I started sex early and I've always loved it, but no matter what role I took, it always seemed to fall just short of perfection, just short of a potential that I sensed was – what? – achievable, I guess. I played the innocent; I played the nympho; I played the princess; the slut; the aloof; the dominant. Patsy's wedding was at the end of my bitch period." Matt saw, from the corner of his eye, a smile pause on her lips. He was very tempted to ask her if and how the boyfriend actually got it that night but he realized that it was, by now, absolutely irrelevant. "And they were all fun," she said, continuing her reminiscence. "More than that they were all wonderful incarnations of my sexuality. Still, none of them was completely fulfilling. It wasn't until just before I met you that I thought I'd try yet another flavour – submission. I acquired all the trappings, but I'll tell you," she snickered wryly, "I scared off more than one little boy. They just couldn't take it. Shortly after our own great – and successful experiment I met Stewart. I let him buy me a drink and, in a very roundabout way, he told me about The Club. And, well, the rest is history." She seemed to recede into her own thoughts for a while. Matt waited, saying nothing. Eventually, she continued. "You know, it's funny. As much as I loved sex – sexual adventures – I just knew there was more to it – something more intense – a still higher reward. In submission, I think I've found the ultimate – the ultimate high. I can't really explain how it makes me feel; only that it makes me feel better than anything else ever has. You know, even when Stewart treats me like I don't exist, I know why he's doing it, and that knowledge is unbelievably exciting. When you left me plugged in on the bed just now, I almost exploded, not only in anticipation, but, somehow, in how your leaving me exposed made me feel – objectified me or something. Oh, I can't explain. It's just wonderful." Her eyes were still closed as she rubbed her hands over herself and purred. "There's something about completely giving up all control – giving it over to someone else's will. I don't know, but I love it." She paused before adding philosophically, "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that in complete submission one sort of assumes control." She opened her eyes at last and turned to look at Matt. "D'you know what I mean?" "Yeah, maybe, a bit. I remember reading something like that before. The submissives run the scene because it can only go as far as they let it – providing, of course, all participation remains voluntary." "True," Dara nodded pensively, "That's what I like about The Club – no force, no pressure, no coercion." IX. The length of the introductory period at The Club was variable, depending on how well an initiate fitted in. The first several weeks passed in a blur. Matt, with Dara always close at his side, managed to visit The Club two or three times a week. Mainly playing the part of inconspicuous spectator, he occasionally took an incidental but active role. Sometimes it was to help hold a 'victim'; sometimes to tend to an active participant; sometimes it was as 'gopher'; and once he was asked to be one more perpetrator in a staged 'gang-bang'. Usually, he and Dara would find a room or a nook, and bring one another to climax at least once during a visit. In less than two months, although still excited about the prospect of belonging, Matt realized that he no longer found the whole scenario bizarre or odd or strange or frightening, just wonderfully titillating and attractively satisfying. Although he had never been conscious of it, his entire experience there had been under observation. And it had been noted by the administration that Matt had fit in very well – incredibly well for one with so little related experience. In fact, he was eventually offered full-privilege membership on a probationary basis. Earlier that visit, Stewart had taken Matt by the arm and whispered to him, "I'll need Dara for a bit, this afternoon. But you can manage by yourself for a while, eh?" "Uh, sure," Matt replied guardedly. Something about Stewart's tone made him think there was some hidden agendum, if not an entire agenda, in the question. "Dara," Stewart sounded like he was speaking to an errant child, "come with me." He turned to head down the hall. Dara followed briskly, her downcast eyes avoiding Matt's altogether. And he knew, intuitively, that saying good-bye, indeed, saying anything to Dara as she left would be inappropriate. He watched her only a moment before turning away; he deliberately displaced the confusion with a considered decision as to what to do next. Where they were going and what they would do was none of his business – none of his concern. "Oh, Matt," Stewart called back to him, just before disappearing into a stairwell; Dara stood passively aside. "See if you can make it down to the main lounge right around..." he pulled a pocket watch out to check, "ah, let's say, about quarter or ten to three. Okay?" "Main lounge; quarter to three; right." "Good. See you then," Stewart smiled and was gone, Dara at his heels. The nude and semi-nude figures that constantly spirited about no longer even warranted a second thought for Matt. A beautiful body was still a beautiful body and goodness knows there were quite a few of them around, but he had finally trained himself to stop wondering where they were going or what they were involved in. Wandering through the corridors in only his silk briefs, a short silk Japanese happi jacket and slippers, Matt was now seen as one of the group; just as he now recognized many of the regulars as they flitted by or engaged in whatever took there fancy. By himself, he realized, for the first time, Matt quietly watched a naked young man laying over the lap of and being spanked by a formally dressed middle-aged woman. When, in the middle of the punishment, the fellow came all over his chastiser's dress, the woman became irate, heaping verbal abuse on her victim and doubling the severity of the spanking. Matt quietly left the scene. "It's just a game," Matt reminded himself. Still, it made him feel a little strange. He puzzled over his own reaction. In some way, he thought he felt some sort of admiration or even awe for the woman in the gown. And certainly he didn't feel sorry for the guy, in fact, he sensed just a bit of, perhaps, envy in himself. What would it be like to be in that position – the helpless, naughty child? He found that he didn't particularly like being alone in the rambling facility so he made his way to a parlour and, rather self-consciously, stopped at the door. Marco and Marg, a couple of the older members were sitting side by side in easy chairs, dressed in lounging outfits. Marco was leafing through a Paris Match. Marg was sipping a drink, leafing through a newspaper on her lap. "Ah," she looked up to see Matt at the door, "Matt," she gave a small wave of welcome indicating the third chair in the grouping, "fix yourself a drink; join us." A little apprehensive at first, Matt walked to the bar and poured himself a generous Johnny Walker. He settled into the soft leather chair next to them with some trepidation but soon found himself comfortably joining their conversation, which, other than casually asking him how he was liking the place, stayed entirely separate from The Club and sex. It was only Matt's rather skimpy attire that even hinted of anything libertine. They sat and talked like nothing more than the members of a rather exclusive and proper private club that they were. At two-thirty both Marco and Marg excused themselves, leaving Matt alone in the quiet parlour, nursing his second scotch. He watched the hands on the wall clock move glacially. He thought about meeting Stewart; he thought of the spanking upstairs; he thought about screwing Dara; and he thought about his continued deception of Jenn. He really did still love her, so he should tell her. He knew that she would understand. But... Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 07-09 The minute hand had reached the nine. Matt stood, drained his glass, put it on the bar and headed for the main lounge. His heart rate suddenly accelerated. He felt the sweat of anticipation spring into his pits as he reached the door of the room. Hesitating a moment, Matt took a deep breath before entering. A small crowd of people stood murmuring appreciatively around a divan in the middle of the room, watching while a naked figure was being lowered onto its leather surface. Stewart seemed to be directing the activity, and, on seeing Matt, called him over. "Ah, there you are my boy. Our dear lamb here is feeling a bit overwhelmed. You can help by holding this arm," he gestured to a limp arm, dangling off the side of the couch, "while we finish our ministrations." Matt recognized many faces in the gathered assembly as they turned to watch him approach, including Marco and Marg. Matt took the limp hand as Stewart turned away. "Marg, you take that side please." Matt looked down at the naked, swooned body. The sculpted thighs trembled; the black bush, surrounding the pulsing pink venus flower, sparkled with dew. Still panting, the body's swarthy skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration. As Matt's eyes swept up the supine figure, a clamp began to tighten on his heart – alarms started jangling in his brain. She faced away from him, but her profile was unmistakable. It took a conscious counseling of self for Matt not to drop her wrist and speak to her. He asked himself why he was even slightly surprised that this was Dara. He should have expected it. Somewhere inside, he had. His reaction, he explained silently to himself, was just a start, not fright or shock or dismay. He just hoped that he hadn't betrayed any of that to the others. If they had been watching, however, they'd done so surreptitiously. A fully dressed, grey-haired woman, whose name Matt hadn't got, knelt down on a thick mat at the end of the divan. Stewart gestured to Matt and the others to shift Dara down on the couch and, without a word, the woman, who was apparently old enough to be Dara's grandmother, dove face first into the exposed pubis. It took very little time at all before Dara was moaning and writhing against the restraining hands. Her agonized tossing became uncontrolled trembling and her moans breathy whimpers as she approached orgasm. The grey head between her legs was merciless, and the unceasing cunnilingus brought on climax after convulsive climax as Matt and the three others continued to hold Dara still. The spectators were spellbound; amazed at the continued violence of the orgasms. Finally the older woman pulled back. As she rose from her place she accepted a cloth from one of the spectators and returned to stand in the circle surrounding the 'sacrifice'. The sweating, panting form of Dara still quivered and squirmed in the hands of her captors when Stewart doffed his jacket and opened the front of his trousers, leaving them hanging by his suspenders. Revealing a huge erection, he positioned himself at Dara's altar and drove in without warning. Dara went momentarily rigid, as the invasion forced a huge gasp out of her, then, once again, began to rock her hips rhythmically as Stewart pounded into her in deep quick thrusts. Her writhing whimpers signaled the onset of yet another orgasm just as Stewart grunted and pushed, jetting his load deep into her abdomen. As he withdrew and stepped aside, he was immediately replaced by another member – another rampant cock protruding from the open front of formal trousers. Matt watched in stupefaction, his own tool becoming hard with the visual stimulation of a ravaging of which he was a part. Stewart swept around behind him and whispered in his ear, "Just another part of her – ah – initiation, as it were." Then he seized the arm Matt was holding and said to him, "Get yourself in line, my boy. Take your turn. Do your duty." Matt gave up his hold on Dara's arm and moved back from her tortured body. Sure enough, he noticed, at the foot of the couch a loose sort of queue had formed. Men and woman alike were offering cheers and encouragement to the fornicators as each took his turn. Matt found himself at the end of the line. He realized that he was the only one there who wasn't wearing some sort of evening wear or lounging clothes. He felt a little foolish in only his silk briefs and pyjama top, but his fears were allayed when, at the departure of the man before him, he heard someone say, "Oh. The new fellow. Good for you." Suddenly his erection was almost tearing the thin material of his bikini briefs. "Go ahead Matt, you can do it." He couldn't remember ever having such a desperate hard-on – such an urgent need to come. Grabbing Dara's waist, he threw himself into her and it took only five or six solid thrusts before he felt the molten essence of his release boil up out of his testicles and roar into Dara's hot and slimy vagina. Momentarily loosing all control, he bucked and bounced against Dara's insensible form, for she had apparently swooned with her final orgasm just as he got there. Matt became aware of spontaneous applause that coincided with his ejaculation, the echoes of which still rattled through his psyche. As he withdrew, Dara, although barely conscious, was helped from the table, wrapped in a satin cape and led from the room by a younger couple that Matt hadn't noticed before. Before he had time to ponder that, Stewart took him by the arm and led him out of the lounge, down the corridor, and into the office in which he had originally been interviewed. "Well done, Matt. Well done." Stewart was effusive, showing Matt to a chair by the desk. Three other older members quietly joined them in the room and Stewart introduced them. “Matthew – Roland, David and Elizabeth, a few of our officers." Everyone was still glowing and slightly breathless as Stewart offered drinks all around. The office hushed. Matt felt all their eyes on him, and resisted the squirm he felt building inside. Then, in a soft voice, Stewart spoke. "We see a real potential in you, Matt." "Potential for what?" he began to wonder before his thoughts were once again interrupted. "We are prepared to...." And thus were the surreal circumstances under which they offered him a complimentary, probationary membership. "Why complimentary?" Matt puzzled to himself, "and what are the regular dues?" he thought, before the old adage came to him, "If you have to ask the price you can't afford it." "Would you like a few days to think about it?" "No." Matt stammered, perhaps a little too loudly, before adding, "No need for that. I gratefully and respectfully accept your generous offer." Matt wondered what he had just got himself into as his mind reeled from all it had seen in the past many weeks. In a dazed stupor, he mechanically shook hands with them and was shown out of the office after a modicum of talk, which he only vaguely comprehended. "Don't worry about Dara. We'll get her home," Stewart whispered conspiratorially as he patted Matt on the arm and closed the door behind him. A funny little old-boys style fitness club was how he described it to Jenn. An acquaintance had told him about it in passing. He had looked into it and joined. Goodness knows he needed to do more than just run. If Jenn thought he was somewhat vague on the details, she didn't show it. And Matt simply kept rather circumspect in any mention of it. He continued to make dates to meet Dara there or give her a lift, and certainly the time with her was extremely invigorating but his infatuation for her was being overwhelmed by the thrill of his new circumstances – the thrill of being at liberty in the confines of The Club. He soon found it easy to wander alone from room to room, watching or joining in this activity or that. He began to visit the exercise room fairly regularly and found a real pleasure in true ‘gymnastics’ – exercising in the nude. More and more, even if they arrived together, Matt and Dara quietly went their separate ways. Matt reveled in the freedom of being one of the members, in being able to do whatever he liked. There was suddenly a thread – no, more than a thread – a beam of excitement ripping through the mundaneness of life – an excitement that far exceeded the intrigue of extramarital affairs. It was an upheaval – the emergence of a new order. Yes, these were significant changes. His activities at The Club had accelerated rapidly into the realm of his most private fantasies – or were they now becoming realized dreams – perhaps, in some ways, even nightmares. Erotic, multi-hued tableaux continually assaulted his senses. Was this The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty come to life? Lesley's Days of Florville incarnate?