Falling for Sir Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 Cat Kelly

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-306-4

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  FALLING FOR SIR

  NYC Confidential, 2

  Cat Kelly

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter One

  The Neglected Clitoris Predicament

  Funnily enough, for an inexperienced tomboy from the sticks, Marianne wasn't too nervous about the sex auction, until they put her into the polished claws of "Madame Sylvie". The auctioneer at this event reminded her of an old geography professor from high school, beyond her retirement but still working to pay the bills and punishing everyone else for it.

  "Your lipstick must always match the shade of your labia," the tyrant instructed sternly, dabbing at Marianne's mouth with a soft tissue. "Nipples, mouth and pussy should all be a matching shade of blush."

  Jeez. And she thought she was picky.

  While the other women were dressed in black lingerie for tonight's event, Marianne, the new girl, was to wear only white bra and panties, with her hair loose. It was, she guessed, to symbolize her status as a newcomer. A lamb to the slaughter.

  Now, Madame Sylvie, the expressionless woman charged with her preparation for the debut, crouched before her and twisted the crotch of her lace panties to one side. "Let me see if I have the shade of pink correctly adjusted."

  She stood very still, but for a slight wobble on her high heels, and tried not to feel all the other eyes upon her. May as well get used to being on parade, she mused. Must remember why she was here. What she came here to do.

  Plain and simple, Marianne Miller, at twenty-three, had never had an orgasm that wasn't administered by her own hand and she was bloody bitter about it. She was so annoyed by it, in fact, so frustrated by her predicament, that she was willing to try anything. As a result, here she was tonight, struggling with every fiber of her being to put up with the terse commands spat out at her by a gimlet-eyed, fat-lipped, bony-armed, heavily-embalmed creature in jackboots and rubber corset.

  After a tense moment, the woman stood again, took a small compact of lip color out of her purse and used a brush to paint Marianne's mouth a little rosier after all. Apparently her pussy lips were pinker than the frosty commandant expected.

  "Better." She clicked the compact shut. "And don't forget, tonight, and whenever you attend a Club event, your name is Claudia."

  "Uh huh."

  The woman stared at her. "Are you chewing gum?"

  She swallowed it. "No."

  "I hope not. We don't chew gum here. This is an exclusive club for adults, not a spring break beach barbecue." Those hard eyes stared out from a face pumped full of Botox and surgically stretched to prevent any expression beyond mildly stunned. It was as if the woman wore a mask of flesh. Sad, really, that she'd gone to such an extent to preserve a facsimile of youth and yet ended up looking like Hannibal Lecter wearing his victim's skin. "Is there some joke you wish to share, Claudia?"

  "Nope."

  "Are you sure? You don't seem to be taking this very seriously."

  "Oh, I am." But Marianne had a feeling she was about to laugh. About to mess up. Royally mess up. It was a little bit of nervous laughter, but mostly a grim sense of humor that wouldn't allow the surreal ridiculousness of the situation to pass her by. But whatever the reason behind it, a sudden chortle wouldn't be any more forgivable.

  The woman's eyes moved from left to right with no corresponding movement from her brows. She reached out and plucked Marianne's nipples out of the lacy bra cups.

  "Hey...Ouch."

  "Nipples must always show above the bra and they must remain hard. Do you need ice?"

  She swallowed again as Sylvie twisted her nipples and tugged on them, making them long, the dark areolas puckered, appearing like half-moons above her bra. "I think I'll be ok," she mumbled.

  "If they do not remain primed, find a way to rub them with ice from the bar. But do so discreetly." The woman walked around her, thin heels clicking on the parquet flooring. "To you the club members are all addressed as Sir. And keep your gaze downcast at all times." As she said this, Madame Sylvie was tying Marianne's hands behind her back with pink ribbon.

  It had already been explained that she was not to touch anyone, but they could touch her. No penetration was allowed by the clientele, however, until the auction was over and then the winning bidder would take her to the bedroom upstairs.

  Sylvie's eyeballs swiveled up and down. "I suppose you'll do."

  Finally came the masks. The actual masks, made of silk. All the women and men participating wore eye masks.

  Marianne, with her usual habit of dissecting people and their reasons—especially when they tried to keep them from her— had already concluded that sex with strangers kept these people sane, stopped them from gradually imploding from all the built up stress of their daily lives. They were there for the forbidden pleasure. For the freedom of exploring their fantasy and being someone else for a while.

  Having tried just about everything else in her hunt for the elusive orgasm, she was desperate enough to submit to this experiment. Would some people view this as allowing herself to be degraded, putting her brain on hold and turning herself into a sex toy? Maybe. But she had to find out if it worked for her. Until she discovered the key to her sexual happiness, Marianne wasn't ready to feel complete, to declare, with no equivocation, that she was an enlightened modern woman. When it came to sex, she still felt like the "before" demonstration in an infomercial, shot in black and white and with a big 'x' through the center of the screen. She'd reasoned with herself by looking at her lack of an orgasm as a bothersome mark on the bathroom tile. If various cleaning methods hadn't worked to get it off she wouldn't just leave it there, would she? She'd try anything.

  Clearly she needed something kinky to get her blood hot and make her pulse race, and preparing to be displayed for a sex auction was, so far, giving her quite a thrill. More than anything ever had.

  One former date at home in Foxtail—a tiny blip on the map of Vermont—had suggested she might want to get "looked at" in case she had a problem "down there", just because she couldn't orgasm with him.

  "Yes," she'd replied, "my problem is you, imagining that tiny dick is going to do anything for me."

  Oddly enough, he never called her for another date.

  Most boys seemed to avoid her clit completely, with the same deliberate ignorance as they would treat an embarrassing drunken relative at a wedding reception. If she led them to the right area, they fumbled at it as if they had a quarter stuck in a pinball machine. They still didn't manage to make her bells ring and before she knew it, once they'd put their beer down long enough, they'd had their jollies and that was that.

  After she moved to the city recently, her new workmates insisted on taking her out one happy hour. While confiding and bonding over dirty martinis at The Olive Garden, Christie and David had vowed to help her do something about her situation. At the time, with the typical intensity of someone who'd drunk too much, she was extremely and tearfully grateful to her new best friends. Later, sobered up, she'd very much doubted that soccer mom Christie and proudly gay David would be able to help her situation
. She assumed they'd forget it—she certainly wanted to forget she ever told them— but the next day she found a card left on her chair, tucked under her desk. Four silver words screamed out at her from the small, ebony rectangle.

  The Club. Fantasy Unbound.

  There was a phone number on the back, but nothing else. No website, nothing to tell her what it was about, so she could only guess. One of her cocktail buddies must have left it there for her. Marianne's imagination went into overdrive.

  Sex with strangers in some seedy club? At first she was appalled. But the more she thought about it, the more the idea settled in, taking over a dark, back-alley in her mind. It grew there like a fat toad waiting to catch unsuspecting bugs that passed within striking distance of its tongue.

  Eventually, out of sheer curiosity and a fair amount of desperation, she plucked up courage to call the number on the card. They'd invited her in for a preliminary interview, done a very thorough background check, and apparently liked what they saw for she was called back for a second meeting.

  "You must never discuss what goes on here," she was told. "Our members rely on us for a fantasy service provided with the utmost discretion."

  As if she'd ever want anyone to know.

  "The men and women who join participate in parties and auctions. Club members acquire tokens with which they bid. If you decide to be a "lot" you become one of the items they bid upon. What's your preference? Men, women, or both?"

  "Men," she'd muttered. "I think."

  "Perfect. We happen to have a place open for you then. How about Thursday evening?"

  Wait a sec. Back up. "Club members acquire tokens? So it's sex for money. Isn't that prostitution?"

  "Tokens are earned and collected, not bought. Club members who attend auctions to procure a mate for the evening are expected to provide pleasure and are rewarded for it. After you've experienced a club member, you get to award them a certain number of tokens depending upon how much you enjoyed yourself. The more tokens a man or woman collects, the more bidding power they have when attending an auction."

  It was starting to sound like dirty fun.

  Why not take matters in hand and do something about her neglected clitoris predicament, instead of waiting for someone to fumble their way to it?

  The men she met at The Club would know nothing about her and she would never see them again. They would not be like those inexperienced, sweaty-palmed boys in Foxtail, who'd groped her in the back seat of a borrowed car, or at the cinema in the back row, spilling her popcorn. The boys who later blamed her because things hadn't turned out the way they wanted, and then told everyone at school that she must be frigid. It was all her fault, apparently, that they hadn't succeeded in making her scream like the women they watched in cheap porno movies.

  Her interviewer at The Club, a tall, statuesque model-type with a sleek, blonde ponytail and clear, shiny fingernails, had leaned forward across her desk and smiled. "It's sex the way you want it—pure and simple, no complications. Here you have a place to live out your submissive fantasy. And you don't have to find anything to talk about, pretend he's interesting, or laugh at his jokes." Then she added, "But you also have a guarantee that everyone here is free of STD. You don't get that at a regular New York party."

  True.

  But that word—submissive. She wasn't sure about that. Is it what she wanted? Well, how would she know unless she tried it?

  So she'd signed a paper agreeing never to speak about The Club. Then she went for her very first Brazilian wax, got her nails and toes manicured, her brows shaped and brought some ridiculously expensive hair conditioner from Marchetti's —with staff discount, of course.

  Tonight was the night to bust her orgasm cherry.

  If she didn't do something about it, as her workmates had pointed out over martinis, time would creep up on her and she'd be a thirty year-old, neat freak, workaholic who had lost patience with men and sex. Eventually she'd shrivel up, dry up and start going to bingo for her thrills once a week.

  This location of an elusive orgasm was merely a technical matter, she assured herself. No need to fuss or get tense.

  The pocket double doors were slid open and Marianne moved forward in a line with her companions.

  Inside the grand reception room of that innocent looking, pre-war brownstone, a hush descended and the club members cast their eyes over the auction lots. Marianne felt her pussy tense as if the walking corpse, Sylvie, had once again run her finger over the cleft between her pink labia.

  They were looking at her in her bra and panties. They must see her nipples. Would they also see the fear streaking through her? The wicked excitement traveling fast on its awkward high heels?

  Behind her, she heard the soft shuffle and whoosh of pocket doors closing. Closing on her old life, on her inexperience and relative innocence, on the tomboy from the sticks.

  Whatever happened next, she sensed she would remember this moment for the rest of her life. Whether it would be good or bad, she had no idea.

  The heat of the room gathered quickly around her and so did the men.

  Chapter Two

  Back in the Saddle

  The ice cubes in his scotch suddenly tinkled as they jarred against the cut crystal glass in his hand and that little sound finally woke him from the trance into which he'd fallen.

  Because there, in transparent white lace bra and panties, was a body he'd seen and felt in his dreams. Those long legs he'd licked from toe to hip. Those full breasts he'd cupped and stroked and suckled. Petal pink lips framed a mouth he ravished in those same dreams. Where she came from he had no idea, but she'd invaded his slumbering brain and wrecked havoc in it for the past three nights. Perhaps even longer.

  Giacomo Fabrizio Marchetti the Third—known to his friends as "Jack"— wasn't much of a dreamer or, for that matter, a sleeper, but something had crept under his skin lately and made him look forward to his bed with an anticipation he hadn't experienced in years.

  It was her. He knew it the moment he saw the line of women and his gaze stumbled over her body. Goddamn it. He even knew how she would taste.

  Who was she? How had she raided his mind? Where had he seen her before? He must have, of course. Jack didn't have time for the supernatural or fate, or any of that crap. So he realized he must have encountered her in life somewhere. That was how his mind had the picture and why he thought of her every night.

  She looked moderately uncomfortable with her wrists tied behind her back, but not perhaps as timid and meek as she ought to be in her role as a sub. Through the holes in her pink silk mask, he caught the sultry gleam of amusement just before she hastily lowered her lashes. She wasn't very good at pretending, obviously.

  Although the white bra and panties symbolized that this was her first time at the club, something about her stance in those high heels was distinctly less than subordinate— a challenge, he mused, licking the taste of single malt Scotch off his lips.

  While he watched, one of the men moved her tied hands aside and looked down the waistband of her panties, front and back. Another member cupped her right breast and closed two fingers around her perky nipple. Another opened her mouth to inspect her teeth and tongue. Using his fingers, he checked how wide she could open her mouth. Then he closed it again and patted her cheek, while she looked as if she had a hard time swallowing a protest.

  Jack took another swig from his glass. Two women in black lace lingerie approached him, smiling, trying to catch his eye, but he dismissed them easily with a quick shake of his head and they moved on.

  One man, meanwhile, had knelt on the carpet at the new girl's feet and peeked under the lacy crotch of her panties. "Pretty pink piece o' pussy," he commented through the cigar between his teeth and held the thin material aside so his companions could admire her waxed mound likewise. They all nodded in solemn agreement.

  From across the room, Jack stared at that teasing glimpse of rose bud, heat rising under his collar. Odd. He hadn't been this interested, this
quickly aroused in years. He'd attended functions at The Club several times before, since his younger brother, Charlie, told him about the place and gifted him with a pile of tokens for it on his birthday.

  "For the love of God, go and get laid," Charlie had said placidly. "I don't need a pious monk for a brother, so I'm donating my hard-earned tokens to you. And if you think Laura would want you to sacrifice your sex life in her memory, you're wrong."

  But Jack, more reserved than his brother, hadn't seen anyone on whom he wanted to bid. He usually ended up in the restaurant next door, eating steak and Tiramisu. The food there was very good and he worried he might put on thirty pounds if he didn't soon start working it off in the bedroom.

  Tonight, for the first time, he saw something he wanted to purchase.

  He reached into the pocket of his pants. His cock was growing too damn fast and had to be adjusted. A drawback of having such a large one. Not that he was the boastful sort. Hey, he couldn't help being so well endowed. He almost laughed at himself, but banked it, taking another quick mouthful of Scotch and rolling his tongue as the liquor warmed his throat. Laura, his wife, used to say she fell in love with his big cock first, his wallet second. Although she was being a smart ass, of course, deliberately trying to shock him, he'd often wondered if there was more than a little truth to that remark. His wife had heartily appreciated sex and enjoyed spending his money almost as much.

  But now was probably not the best time to think about his dead wife. He was there to get laid in as uncomplicated a way as possible and break a lengthy, self-imposed fast. The Club, so he'd heard, was the best place to do that. Like everyone else here, he'd signed an agreement, knew what was expected, knew what he was doing. The woman in the white bra and panties would know it too. There would be none of the usual clinging commitment, none of the trouble afterward. Just the pleasant effects of an orgasm, for the first time in over four years, in the company of another human being instead of his hand.