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This is definitely different, but there’s nothing wrong with changing things up. Kicking off my boots and removing my jeans, I contemplate this new experience. What harm is there in a little candle wax or rope? She might be a little dominating, but I find it extremely sensual. It’s decided. I will let her do whatever freaky shit she wants as long as …
“What the hell is that?” I shout as she walks toward me.
Draped across her arms is what looks like a tweed jacket and a bowtie. Oh shit, and a pipe. This just went from an erotic fantasy to an awkward role-playing game. I’ve read about fetishes and sex games that involve a reversal of power and the occasional props, but I just want a blow job — not dress like some creepy old dude and be bossed around. Reaching for my jeans, Lena approaches me with a frown.
“Chris, this isn’t what you think. But if you do something for me, a favor that would require one hour of your time, I promise to bring you back here and do whatever you want.” Lena places the jacket and tie on the chair with my Stetson, and then tosses me a black T-shirt.
As odd as all this seems, the promise of having her bent over the sofa in an hour decides my fate. I pull the T-shirt over my head, stopping midway to watch as Lena unzips her dress. The black fabric falls to the curve of her hips, revealing her ripe, plump breasts in a black lace bra.
“Put on the shirt,” she instructs.
Obliging, I pull the t-shirt over my chest. Lena arches her eyebrow as she observes the tightness of the shirt against my frame. Taking a step closer, she runs her hand across the small section of my stomach that the cotton fails to cover. Her fingers graze the waistband of my briefs — damn, that drives me crazy.
“Now your jeans,” she orders.
Taking a step back, Lena unfastens her bra. Fuck, it’s one of those bras with the hook in the front — like a package concealing a wonderful present. The tightness of my jeans against my erection is infuriating, knowing I have to wait an hour before I can play with her tits.
“Jacket,” Lena instructs.
As I reach for the tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Lena fondles her nipples. Her skin is so flawless and delectable — I want to nibble and suck every inch until she moans in pleasure.
Pulling on the jacket and exhaling in agony, I ask, “One hour?”
Lena smiles. “Yes, Professor.”
9:40 p.m.
We stop in front of a walkup somewhere in SoHo. I pay the driver and then help Lena out of the cab. She pauses on the sidewalk to reapply her red lipstick — slowly and methodically, just to torment me.
“Is this a costume party?” I ask, still unsure of what I’m about to encounter.
“I suppose.” Lena takes my hand and earnestly adds, “Don’t be afraid to let your inhibitions go. It’s more enjoyable for everyone involved when guests are comfortable and open to new things. Role-play can be liberating, especially when encountered with people that share the same objective.”
No way. No fucking way — I’m on the cusp of my first swinger party! I shake my shoulders and roll my neck. “I’m ready, Lena.”
The palm of her hand moves to my cheek. Her thumb glides over my scruffy stubble, grazing the edge of my mouth, as she whispers, “Don’t forget your pipe.” Lena’s other hand slides into my jacket pocket to remove the smoking pipe. I smile as she tries to position it between my lips. “Hurry along, Professor,” she instructs.
If she wants me to act like a professor, I’ll do it. I know a lot about military history, and I can fake my way through a few conversations before the orgies commence. I need a back story — I’m a professor at a college on Long Island. I teach four graduate classes, and I’m currently writing a book on the JFK assassination. This is good!
Mission Three: Accomplished.
I follow behind Lena, watching as her ass shimmies when she climbs the steps to the front door. She presses the buzzer and I quickly pinch her ass. Lena shoots me an a
A man decked out in a black tuxedo with tails and a tight frown opens the door. “Good evening. I’m Wadsworth, the butler.”
“Hello, I’m Ms. White,” Lena replies.
Wadsworth switches his attention to me as I chew on the pipe. “And you, sir?” he asks with a strained British accent.
Lena places her hand on my arm and answers. “I believe this is Professor Plum.”
“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” Wadsworth states.
“We only met today — we received similar invitations to a di
Oh, so that’s our story. Hot.
“Very good. Follow me and I will introduce you to the other guests.” Wadsworth sharply turns toward the entry hall, so we obediently follow him. “Everyone is in the dining room,” he adds over his shoulder.
That’s weird — I guess swinger parties start with a nice meal so everyone can get acquainted. Like a potluck di
Whispering into Lena’s ear, I ask, “Why are we eating di
“Shh, just play along,” she scorns.
Fine. I’ll play along. I’ve read that Manhattan sex clubs have crazy memberships and vetting processes, but so far, this all seems like a silly game. Nothing like that movie with Nicole Kidman and the mask-wearing sex cult.
“Ladies and gentleman, may I present Ms. White and Professor Plum,” Wadsworth a
Wadsworth — where have I heard that name before?
Wadsworth extends his arm in a presentation gesture, and then pulls out a chair for Lena. I take the last available chair on the opposite side of the table between two attractive women.
Placing my pipe on the table and checking out the hot chick to my right, I ask, “What’s for di
She leans into me and smirks. “Mrs. Peacock revealed a few minutes ago that we’re having one of her favorite recipes prepared by the cook.”
Huh.
“I’m Miss Scarlet, and I love a man in tweed.” She pinches the fabric of my sleeve between her fingers and winks.
I wink back at her and then study the guests slurping bowls of soup around the table, none of which are wearing an actual Halloween costume. Across from me is dark and sexy Lena, dressed in black and going by the pseudonym of Ms. White. Miss Scarlet is wearing a revealing burgundy dress and staring at me with lust. Mrs. Peacock is to my left, drinking wine and nodding goofily at the table conversation. A dude next to Lena is dousing his hands in hand sanitizer and squirming in his seat.
“Do you like Kipling, Miss Scarlet?” asks a man with a fake mustache.
In a seductive voice, Miss Scarlet replies, “I’ll eat anything, Colonel Mustard.
“Colonel Mustard, are you a real Colonel?” Lena asks between slurps of soup.
White. Mustard. Peacock. Scarlet.
“Yes, of course. Retired and presently working in Washington,” Colonel Mustard adds.
“And what about you, Mr. Green? What do you do in Washington?” Miss Scarlet asks.
Green. Oh shit — Professor Plum.
Nervously, Mr. Green stands from the table and throws down his napkin. “I work for the State Department and I’m a homosexual,” he recites.
What the …
“Everyone, please follow me to the study to meet our host, Mr. Boddy,” Wadsworth instructs.
I watch in confused horror as the cast of Clue obediently rises from the table and follows a fictional butler through the entry hall.
“I’d like to know why we’re here, Wadsworth,” Colonel Mustard shouts.
Yeah, me too.
“I invited you — please follow to me the study and I will explain …” Wadsworth’s voice trails off.
I try to get Lena’s attention but she patters off ahead of me. Miss Scarlet on the other hand, gives me all her attention — pressing me against the wall outside the dining room and ru