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But the rest was torn off. All that was left was a barely-readable phone number. And the card must have been old, because it was missing the area code now required of all phone calls.
Club Silk? What the hell was that?
Chapter 3
Varden
I parked my Audi RS 7 in the Union Square parking garage and darted through the morning rush hour traffic to meet my tailor, Ivan. I was in a shit mood, bent about how things had gone down the night before at the club.
After having left the alphabet ladies X, Y, and Z, I’d headed up to the club’s third floor, to a nondescript door bearing the sign, Twist Room. With a quiet knock, a little window slid aside, followed by the door opening and closing as I ducked inside.
Ahhh, heaven.
“Yo, G,” said a huge bald guy, one of the club’s bouncers. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into that half shake, half hug thing guys do. He was of an impressive size, making even me look short. His head was shiny and smooth, he wore thick hoop earrings, and he had tattoos on his neck that disappeared into his shirt collar.
“How’ve you been, my friend?” I asked.
“I’m all right. Looking forward to getting a little pussy later on tonight.”
I nodded. “You and me both.”
I slapped him on the back and made my way into a room covered in yards of rich velvet, smelling vaguely of sex and expensive perfume, thumping with the deep bass of house music. Silk tufted mattresses lined the room’s borders. It was
early yet, so there wasn’t much to watch except for a few eager couples, so I settled into a plushy couch where I’d have the perfect viewpoint when things did heat up. In time, the room would be packed to the point where the bouncer would be forced to turn people away. Although he would never turn me away.
Without asking, a server floated by and placed a Maker’s Mark in my hand. This was what privilege bought. Such were the benefits of access to the most exclusive room in the most exclusive club; they knew my name—well, club name—and they knew my drink. Only members were permitted into the Twist Room. Unless of course a beautiful woman wanted in. The door opened for them without hesitation.
As it should.
I pushed my mask up just enough to take a couple sips of bourbon and a near-instant warmth washed over me. My days as a hedge fund manager were getting more and more stressful with the ups and downs of the financial markets, not to mention nervous clients, and Club Silk was just what the doctor ordered. If doctors ordered sex clubs.
I’d positioned myself in view of of a tufted bed where, right in front of me, a woman with her dress pulled up to her waist straddled the face of the man beneath her. It was clear from the motion of her grinding hips that the guy’s tongue was buried in her pussy, his hands reaching up to knead her hanging breasts. After a few minutes of obliterating the guy’s face—I didn’t know how he was managing to breath—her head began to buck.
Damn, watching a woman come was hot. I unzipped my pants to reach through a tangle of shirttails and boxers. When my cramped cock was finally free, I stroked it in rhythm to the woman’s movements. Her moaning increased, and the man took hold of her nipples, twisting them without mercy.
This last effort sent her over the edge. She moaned and screamed like a banshee until the guy eating her lifted her from his face, flipped her over, and drove his cock deep inside her. The others in the room stopped to watch as the man pounded her pussy so hard she nearly flew off the mattress. More than one male observer had his cock in his hand.
The Twist Room’s door blew open for a second, and I looked up as my dancer, Z, entered, holding a just-refilled champagne flute. She paused to scan the room, and those in attendance looked back in admiration at her high-heeled nakedness. Somehow, between the minutes when I last saw her and now, her thong panty had disappeared. Her smooth, tan hips and juicy tits made my dick even harder, and I had to focus to keep from exploding. When she finally saw me, she headed over, jiggling ever so slightly thanks to the champagne and high heels.
“Hey there,” she said, looking down at me, dick in hand.
Her flawless skin glistened, most likely thanks to expensive oils and lotions. Her pussy was clean of hair save for a small patch just above her slit. That seemed to be the style of the day, and was called a landing strip or something crazy like that. Hell, I didn’t care what they called it as long as the little patch led right to the goods.
She posed right in front of me, so close I could inhale the scent of her sweet, girl-next-door pussy. Just the way I liked it.
“Hey.” I leaned back in my chair, jiggling the ice cubes in my bourbon. “You wanna come closer?”
She obliged, wedging herself between my knees until her navel was inches from my nose. Damn, her skin was smooth.
“I want to see more. Show me your pussy,” I growled, hand still on my cock.
She lifted one high-heeled foot onto the arm of the sofa, opening herself wide enough to show me the plump lips and hard clit leading to her glistening opening.
“May I?” I leaned toward her.
I ditched my drink when she nodded with a sly smile. My fingers wandered to the very top of her slit and explored the groove leading to her cute little clit. I ran my finger up and down her lips, spreading her juices. She ground into my hand. Slipping one finger inside her, I made a “come here” motion to get at her G spot. When she thrust again, I slipped in another.
Hers was one tight pussy, which I wouldn’t have minded tasting if not for my mask.
