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Something wild and strange stirred inside Chelsea. That was her theory on erotic literature exactly. “I agree,” she said slowly. “But…how do you cater exactly?”
“By maintaining a network of beautiful Muses. Many successful people belong to the Society, Chelsea. We are able to provide things you can’t imagine.” The Professor stroked her hair. “We provide the perfect Muse that every erotica writer seeks.”
Despite her confusion and fear, Chelsea couldn’t help but think of her Jonathan Danvers fantasies. Wasn’t he her muse in a sense? She had never considered it that way before, but her writing definitely improved when there was an unattainable man to fuel her fantasies.
Her cynicism prevailed. “Are the Muses…prostitutes?”
Professor laughed. “No. How vulgar. They are merely beautiful friends with an interest in sex, like ourselves.” She leaned over and looked into Chelsea’s eyes. “It is not all sex with us,” she said, stroking a loose blonde strand behind Chelsea’s ear. “We are a literary network with publishing contacts you could only dream of.”
“I thought I saw…” Chelsea’s tongue tripped over the famous name of the science fiction writer she had seen.
“Yes, we have members of considerable renown. That is why we are very selective in our membership. Though we wore masks tonight, that was an exception. To join, you must first pass a series of initiation tests, and then take a vow of secrecy.”
Chelsea shook her head, trying to digest all this heady information. It almost sounded as if Professor Deveaux intended her to join. And yet why would she, an undergraduate writing student who’d never published anything, be invited to join such an exclusive and secretive club?
“Chelsea.” Professor placed a finger under her chin and looked into her eyes. “It is no accident that I directed you to the library tonight to find the Danvers manuscript. It was the first test. You told me of your obsession with his books. I wanted to see if you had the boldness and spirit to pursue your passion for his work…and the curiosity to discover us.”
A shudder of shock and delight rolled through her. “You mean you wanted me to find you?” Chelsea whispered.
“Mais, bien sur. You are a natural for our society, Chelsea. You have not only the literary talent, but the sexual adventurousness as well.”
Chelsea’s head swam. Her first impulse was to tell Professor Deveaux that she was insane. There was no way she could go to sophisticated parties with famous writers where some people went naked and other people discussed literature she had never even read. And yet, at the same time, what could be more exciting? She was bored by campus life, bored by frat parties and college boys and weekends in the dorms. Not only could this be the ultimate boost for her career, but it could be the social network of her dreams. She’d be associating with intelligent, successful artists—people she would never meet on her own.
Besides, this was Jonathan Danvers’ alma mater. If this campus boasted a secret society of erotica writers, he had to belong to it. He was the most famous erotica writer around for miles. If she joined the Society, she might actually have a shot at making her hottest fantasy come true.
She thought of the masked dark-eyed man below and swallowed. He had been the right height, with that same gorgeous dark hair… Could that possibly be him?
“What would I have to do?”
“There would be a series of tests, Chelsea, to prove your suitability and commitment before being initiated at our Valentine’s Ball. But trust me when I say that you will find them quite pleasurable.”
* * *
The next night at ten o’clock, Chelsea stepped out of her dorm to find a silver limousine waiting for her.
No driver stepped forth to open her door or usher her inside. After an awkward hesitation, she opened the door handle and climbed in. The warm and darkened interior was an inviting contrast to the cold January night. As she sank back into the cushioned leather seat, the limo pulled away and began the winding journey through the campus. No music played; the driver remained silent. Chelsea clutched her long, black leather trench coat around her and watched the lights of her dorm recede.
Her instructions for tonight had arrived via an anonymous email that morning. It ordered her to dress in a short skirt with no stockings, the top of her choice, and a long coat to cover it all. Her destination was a popular bar right near campus. Tomorrow she was to write about the night’s events and submit her story to the same email address.
Her mouth was dry, her bare thighs were shaking and her panties clung to her wet sex. She was almost sick with trepidation at the mysterious initiation test she faced tonight—yet she was more deeply aroused than she had ever been in her life.
The selection of the bar startled her. It was a dark and malty dive, packed to standing room only every night of the week with students. It was the least erotic or elegant locale she could think of. So why would the Society ask her to go there? It didn’t make sense. All the same, she was determined to fulfill their instructions. All last night she had tossed restlessly in her bed, thinking of the sexual and professional benefits membership in the Society could bring her. Not only would the literary contacts be amazing, but it would be a relief to associate with people who viewed sex as an adventure and an art—not a beer-fused hookup between two students who wouldn’t even acknowledge each other in the dining hall the next day.
And, of course, there was the possibility—the probability, even—that she would meet the man of her dreams, Jonathan Danvers.
The limo pulled up outside the bar. The neon lights glowed in the frosty night. Taking a deep breath, she climbed out and headed inside.
The bar was a sweltering den of darkness, noise and heat. As she squeezed through the crowd, she could barely hear the jukebox over the roar of conversation, laughter and clinking glasses. The surrounding faces were hard to make out in the dim glow emanating from red light bulbs over the wooden booths. She cast a wary glance around her, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do. Was it possible that Professor Deveaux had been playing a joke on her? This entire environment was appallingly crass.
A tall, beefy guy in a baseball cap headed her way. “Hey, I know you,” he yelled over the din. “You’re in my sociology class. Are you here alone?”
She shook her head and moved toward the back of the bar. Dressed in her long leather coat, cashmere sweater and short skirt, she was growing hot and flushed from the swarm of bodies around her. Feeling thirsty, she joined the crowd of people three-deep around the polished wooden bar trying to attract the bartender’s limited attention. Squeezed among much taller men, she felt unseen and unnoticed. At last, she found herself pushed up against the bar itself. A flutter of claustrophobia ran through her as the crowd closed in on all sides of her. Helplessly, she tried to push back and claim some breathing room, but to no avail. Nor did the bartender seem to notice her.
The person behind her pushed her coat to the side and caressed the soft curve of her ass.
Chelsea froze. How dare he? Who was this jerk who was so arrogant as to go around feeling up girls in public? She tried to turn around and confront him, but the damp bodies surrounding her were pushed too closely together. She was trapped.
The anonymous hand began to stroke her thighs, running two fingers up her firm muscles that quivered with both indignation and excitement. She waited breathlessly as the strange hand continued its ascent underneath her short skirt. Mortified by her own arousal, she jerked against him, signaling her displeasure in the only way she could. This was completely unacceptable behavior, no matter how nice it felt. Yet the stranger only ran his hands under the delectable cheeks of her bottom, and gently flicked his fingers between her legs, signaling her to open her legs. She understood. This was her test and he was her Muse.
