Dirty Daddies

I stand before them, bare and unadorned, a sacrificial lamb for their lusts.

My world is black, the blindfold ensuring I can’t see a thing, but I can feel them. Feel them arrayed around me, their eyes raking over me, devouring me from head to toe. Making my skin shiver with gooseflesh as the heat of their eyes burns across my breasts before licking down the flat of my belly to my...

I can hear them too. Their murmurs and bawdy jokes. I know I should feel insulted. They’re acting like I’m some prize stud mare they’re preparing to bid on. But the game is just too exhilarating.

I’m standing before them, naked and blindfolded, waiting for their command, and I love it.

I feel him coming up behind me.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a sound, but the sensation he always sends through me when he’s near ripples up my spine, sending the pit of my belly into cartwheels. Then he’s right behind me. So close, I can feel it nestling between my buttocks. I have to force myself to stay still, my heart fluttering like a robin redbreast in a cage.

Don’t move, he orders, his voice low so only I can hear, his breath curling over the skin of my neck, making my whole-body tingle. It is a very sexy voice, as deep and cultured as a lush red wine, and authoritative. The voice of a man who gives orders all day and expects them to be obeyed.

It sends tiny shocks of ecstasy rushing straight down to the hot slickness at my centre and makes my clit greedily throb for more.

I nod my understanding, then hiss a soft gasp, more from surprise than pain, as he slaps my ass.

Don’t move, he repeats, louder this time, emphasising every word so our audience can hear. The stinging handprint he leaves on my poor butt seems to burn deliciously in answer. A part of me wants to nod again, to push him and see how far he will go, but I don’t. I remain still and obedient, compliant. Submissive.

His hands come up slowly, enveloping me from behind, the tips of his fingers sliding up my belly and over my ribs to cup my breasts. I whimper at the contact. Robbed of sight, my other senses seem heightened, making my already sensitive tits deliciously tender as he rolls and tweaks my stiff nipples.

I heard him chuckle as my back curls, offering up more of my not inconsiderable cleavage. Secretly, that mischievous part of me hopes he might punish me again. Perhaps bend me over and spank me in front of all these men.

He is subtler than that. Instead, he takes his time, plumping and kneading with just the right amount of attention and neglect to work my body into a heated frenzy that has me all but chewing my lower lip.

Such a horny girl.

His tone is hot and hungry, much like the way his cock is pushing against my butt and smearing slickness along my thighs, and I know he is enjoying this as much as I am. He enjoys teasing, being in control while pushing his paramour to the brink and watching her writhe in delirious ecstasy.

So I writhe. Mewing soft kittenish sounds, I push back with a roll of my hips, grinding my butt along his length, the thick mushroom head sliding closer and closer to my burning cun-

Kora... Kora! Are you listening?

Startled out of my thoughts, I looked up to see my supervisor standing over me, hands on her hips and watching me pointedly from behind her pearl mask.

Oh crap...

My belly did a triple somersault under that look. Though by no means unkind, in the few weeks I’d been working under her, Demeter had quickly set about ensuring I knew she was a woman not to be pissed about. Who would enjoy punishing any girl that forgot it.

And had, frequently.

Heat blossomed across my cheeks. I quickly nodded before looking down at my feet. Yes, Ma’am.

I always had difficulty meeting her eyes. She was just one of those women who could totally disarm you with a look and carried herself with the confidence of a woman who owned her sexuality. I was totally overwhelmed by her and couldn’t help feeling totally inadequate whenever she was close. Against her cascade of lush chestnut-red curls, sharp angular features, intense blue-grey eyes and gorgeous 4'11 build that seemed made for her leather corset styled bustier, I was a plain Jane.

"Sure."

I could feel her gaze scorching my skin as she eyed me, clearly not believing my less-than convincing lie, and I could just imagine her long and immaculate eyebrow arching beneath the mother of pearl likeness of her namesake. God only knows how long she might have been watching me just standing here, lost in my own little world.

My stomach flipped again, winding itself into a tight little knot. This wasn’t the first time she’d caught me daydreaming. I’d been warned before, but I couldn’t help myself. It was this place. It practically oozed sex appeal- as did the clientele.

God, please don’t let me get the sack...

I needed this job. Student loans, along with my parents’ debts, had left me broke. I couldn’t afford to get my ass thrown back onto the job market after only a couple of weeks.

To my surprise, she just sighed and shrugged, like I was a naughty child that just wouldn’t learn a simple lesson. Go attend to the gentleman at table 12.

I couldn’t believe my ears. "Ta-table... 12?" Just saying that had the heat licking out from my centre, making my knees shake and my already slick pussy purr.

Oh God, no! Not 12, I’m not ready for that.

12, she reiterated, in a tone that could cow the God of thunder. He’s waiting.

It was the epic clash of ice and fire. The cool edge to her tone crashed over the warmth in my centre.

Nodding again, I darted around her, so desperate to be out of my alcove and her sight, before she changed her mind, that I only just caught myself as I stepped out into the main smoking room. The close call earned me a hissed tisk from Demeter. Graceful, I hastily remind myself.

A maiden of the Olympus club is always graceful, and ready to serve.

Set amongst the heights of Midtown’s numerous high-rise buildings, the Olympus Club was New York City’s best kept secret. The exclusive Gentleman’s club of the city’s elite. The den of vice and skulduggery. A house that catered to any and every pleasure. There was just one rule. Discretion.

The patrons valued their privacy and the secrecy the Olympus Club assured. Any member or maiden, regardless of wealth or position, status or connections, discovered discussing Olympus, would immediately be branded ‘excommunicado’.

The smoking room rang to the song of chinking of crystal and soft girlish giggles.

It was a masculine place. The furnishings were all deep, rich, hardwood and leather. Leather so supple and deeply padded that the management liked to joke they should arrange a contest to test it against a baby’s bottom and a Labrador pup’s fur, just to see which was softer. Original Picasso’s and Monet’s, Van Gogh’s, and one that looked suspiciously like a ‘liberated’ Da Vinci, adorned the timber panelling. However, the greatest hidden treasure was the ‘trillion dollar’ view overlooking the cityscape, commanding views across Times Square and all the way downtown.

It took every last ounce of my self restraint not to succumb to the lure of the floor to ceiling window that made up the smoking room’s outer wall as I slid around the frolicking patrons. One little look and it was as if all of New York knelt at my feet. I dare say that was the idea. Nothing stroked the egos of the mighty more than being made to feel like gods.

If nothing else, it was a long way up from my parent’s place in Washington Heights.

Dionysus, the barman, looked up at me as I approached the bar and presented me with a serving tray decorated with sterling silver filigree.

N-number 12, I said, my voice still a little shaky at the prospect.

God, get a grip girl, he’s just a man.

By the way he moved so expertly towards a specific bottle, I had no doubt he knew exactly what to serve each patron. Though a most impressive number of decanters and bottles stood at the ready, they were just a fraction of what the Olympus’s cellar had to offer, and he filled a tumbler with scotch, adding just a single cube of ice.

If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn there was just a hint of a smirk to his lips as he placed the glass on my tray. Then he returned to his station, so I put it out of my mind.

There was no point dwelling on such things. Dionysus was practically an institution at the Club. He knew all the stories, all the skeletons hidden away, and not just those figurative ones. He wouldn’t say a thing, even if I called him out and asked what was so funny.

As if I didn’t already know.

All around the smoking room, patrons of all ages and shapes sat in the high-backed armchairs like they had been poured into them. Outside these walls, these were the cream of the crop, the living embodiment of Mrs Caroline Astor’s four hundred. Businessmen and actors, politicians and bankers, lawyers, financiers, landowners... old money and new. Within the Olympus Club, however, and away from the prying eagled-eyed paparazzi, they could be true to themselves and embrace their more dark and primitive impulses.

Some drank Diamond Jubilee whiskey and smoked Gurka Cigars. Some gambled, either with cards, or the lives of their employees, moving them as they would pawns on a chessboard. And some enjoyed the benefits of their personal attendants.

I only half saw them as I pass by, the clash of white on black amongst the crowd, a tangle of limbs, bodies writhing upon a bulging chair. Hair ruffled and cheeks flushed. The tailored garments they’d ensured were immaculate in front of the cameras, like peacocks presenting their tail-feathers, and that no doubt cost