A Betty's Pledge: Volume One (6 page)

I was taken aback, trying to think of what I had put on that morning of the trial.
I remember wearing my black knee-high boots and a low-cut wrap dress, but I thought
that I had looked nice.

“Modestly?” I said the word slowly, trying to see where the pieces fit.

“Yeah . . . I’m sorry but that little outfit you had going on made me think you might’ve
been interviewing for a teaching position, not trialing to get into a sex club. Add
the fact that it took you a while to get going, and I’d almost written you off from
the get-go.”

“What did you expect me to wear? A see-through teddy with a garter belt?” I was indignant.
That was twice now someone had made a similar comment.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Something that would show me your amazing curves; maybe a dress
that would entice me to ravage you senseless, like that costume is doing right now . . .”

“The way I dress is classic elegance, Mr. Price,” I said with mock superiority, trying
not to let his words affect me. “It’s not modesty for prudery’s sake; it’s about the
sensuality of mystery. Having hidden secrets that are only revealed to whom I choose . . .
and when. To me, that is sexy.”

“You’re not comfortable in your costume, are you, Betty?” he asked as he began a small
circlet around my body, running his fingertips over my bare skin. His voice was deep
and husky, and it awakened all my nerve endings where he touched me.

“It wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“I’ll tell you what I find sexy about this outfit.” Carson paused, making the final
turn around my still frame.

“I like the fact that if I wanted to, I could flip that cup down that’s barely covering
your breasts in a flash and have your nipple between my fingertips just as quickly.”

I took in a stunted breath at his remark. A slow, delicious smile tugged his lips
at my automatic reaction, and he took a step closer to me so that he was whispering
in my ear.

“And that dress is so short that, if I wanted to, I could palm your bare ass, feel
the soft skin bend to my touch. I could even give you an orgasm, right in the middle
of the party, and I wouldn’t even have to take your clothes off.”

“That’s a little forward of you, don’t you think?” I said, breathless.

“No, baby,” he answered with a deep-throated chuckle. “It’s not. I’m looking forward
to showing you all the pleasures of suggestive clothing, my sweet Betty.” With that,
he took a step back, made a little bow at the waist, and left me standing there, aching.

I glanced surreptitiously around the party, hoping no one noticed I was riled up and
raring to go—left charged like a live wire from my conversation with Carson. Everyone
seemed busy with their own dealings, so I took a couple of thankful deep breaths to
calm my rapid pulse.

I made my way over to the bar and ordered a Grey Goose martini, hoping a little alcohol
would help me relax a little. The bartender asked me what color, and for a moment,
I didn’t understand what he meant. Then it dawned on me that he was asking what color
stone. Minutes later, I had a martini glass sitting in front of me with a red ruby
sitting on the bottom. I brought the glass to my lips and gulped, the liquid burning
my throat deliciously as it went down.

Perfect.

I leaned on the bar, sipping my drink and taking a moment to scan the area. There
were several women standing by a lounge, eyeing me surreptitiously. One of them had
thick red curls that flowed around her like fire. She was practically naked, only
the barest piece of black cloth covered her vaginal lips with a strategically placed
green leaf attached to it. It connected with thin black cords to two leaves that barely
covered her nipples. The same black cords weaved around her legs in a wide crisscrossing
pattern. Everything else was bare, and I do mean everything. I guess it was a good
thing she had a rockin’ body. Otherwise, I might’ve felt a little nauseous with the
unplanned peep show. She eyed me with a curious look then turned to speak to the others,
giving me a different view. The black cords snaked around her torso to form a thong
that left her backside completely exposed.

The women didn’t look familiar to me, so I assumed they were just scoping out the
new Betty at the bar. I hoped my hair was still looking hot and made a mental note
to find the ladies’ room for a mirror check.

I finished my drink a couple of moments later, and then started to walk around the
yard again. I caught sight of Sarah over by the cabanas and she waved to me with a
huge smile. I was glad she seemed to have gotten her mojo back.

On the way to the facilities, I was stopped by two more men. One of them was actually
really nice. His name was Trent and he had a great sense of humor. The fact that he
was gorgeous didn’t hurt things either.

He was dressed like a leprechaun. His torso was bare under the green vest that was
pulled tight across him with the small, white buttons straining against the bulk of
his chest. He wore black tuxedo pants and the top of the pants didn’t quite meet the
bottom of the vest, leaving a sliver of copper skin exposed around his waist that
led my eyes to the very enticing V-shaped muscles of his abdomen. His arms were not
as big as Nate’s but they were still well defined. And while his chest was not quite
as large as Carson’s, his features were similar. In fact, I asked him if they were
related, which made him laugh profusely. He told me that they were second cousins
on his mother’s side, but were nothing alike. I thought that was a shame because Carson
was able to push my buttons in just the right way, and I was hoping Trent could bring
on some competition. I guessed only time would tell.

The other one I met was named Brad, and he was something else. He was cute in a boy-next-door
sort of way, but incredibly forward. He stuttered and spluttered slang words through
an entire conversation where he told me I had, and I quote, ‘a banging bod’. He was
dressed as a firefighter, with a tight red and black unbuttoned jacket, and matching
pants with suspenders. He was particularly proud of the fact that his underwear matched
the outfit with a piece of cloth in the front that formed a hose. He made a point
to tell me it wasn’t nearly wide or long enough for his massive schlong. When he started
talking about “tappin’ that shit” I had to excuse myself.

I laughed all the way to the bathroom, images of Will Ferrell in
Step Brothers
flashing through my mind. Seriously, Brad was the epitome of a 1990s white wannabe
rapper. I felt bad for laughing at him, but he was truly ridiculous. And the costume . . .
where did he find something like that?

His lack of social grace actually made me question how the Consorts got into the club,
something I hadn’t thought of until then. I thought to ask Trent about it, but then
stopped myself. I remembered Diane’s warning to direct all questions to her. I figured
I’d bring it up in our meeting tomorrow.

I used the facilities quickly, making sure I applied some more lip gloss and poufed
my hair just right. I ran into Marissa on the way back out, and she seemed to be having
a great time. She told me that her Dame’s name was Kaitlin and she seemed nice. Her
boyfriend was Leif and she thought he was super cute. He was dressed as a Spartan
from the movie
300
, and she said his body was rock solid. I asked her if she’d met Brad yet, and she
started laughing.

“Oh, yeah.” She giggled. “He’s hilarious, right?”

“I almost thought he was joking around.” I laughed, causing Marissa to snort. I figured
she’d had a little to drink. “I mean, no one could be that oblivious, right?”

“I don’t know, Mady.” She chuckled. “Maybe he was kidding to throw us off. I hope
so, anyway. He was kind of cute. And if he was right about a certain appendage, I
wouldn’t mind taking a look.”

We talked for a couple more minutes while the bathroom was in use, then parted ways
so she could tinkle, as she’d put it.

I was feeling good after my martini, so I decided to order another. The bartender
placed my drink on the counter with my red ruby and I smiled at what that symbol meant.

I was a Betty, one of the lucky few who’d been accepted into an illustrious sex club
that would change my life for the better. And as the alcohol flowed through my body,
I felt every one of my cells come alive. I was more than ready to start this program,
and I hoped that the night wouldn’t remain so chaste.

The Sweet Sailor

~ Isaac Wilson ~

I’d been watching her all evening as she made her rounds across the party. At the
beginning of the night, I had been anxious to see her. I wasn’t sure why, but her
image had stuck with me since her trial, and I hoped I’d get the chance to talk to
her in person.

She seemed to be an enigma even at the party, for she emanated elegance and grace
even though she was dressed in clothes that were clearly out of her comfort zone.
I didn’t think she noticed, but every now and then she would tug on the hem of her
skirt or pull up the neckline of her dress, trying to get the clothing to magically
cover more of her body. It was a pity, actually. Her figure was amazing and I wished
she felt comfortable showing it off a little more. Perhaps that was something I could
help her with in the long run.

Madeline was standing at the bar, sipping on a martini—the second of the night. And
how did I know that? Well, I happened to be very observant; a person’s quirks and
habits spoke a lot about them, and it was what showed me their innermost thoughts
and dreams—a talent I used to my advantage with women.

Something about her drew my attention, and I couldn’t seem to figure out what that
was. She seemed different than the others, like I couldn’t really get a lock on who
she truly was. She was contradiction in the flesh. Beauty with self-consciousness,
reticence that was somehow alluring, and modesty with a spark of sensuality that had
me purring inside. I wanted to know what made her tick, and that fascinated frustration
she fueled in me only made me want her now. I didn’t want to wait until the proper
protocols and procedures were completed.

Fuck all that, I wanted silken sheets with sweaty bodies . . . preferably with her
moaning my name at all hours of the night.

And I couldn’t understand how I’d become so . . .
obsessed
with her. I was surrounded by beauty and sexuality; several women had propositioned
me to join them over in the cabanas and all of them were gorgeous—stuff that wet dreams
were made of.

Even some alumni had come on to me, though they knew that was strictly against the
rules. After all, they were out in the community having sex with whomever they desired.
And I had a clean bill of health and a written contract stating that everyone else
was off limits, leaving me free to tame the Betties.

If I was being honest, I’d admit that I had been neglecting my duties as a Consort.
There were five Betties in total, and I was supposed to be introducing myself to them
as was customary for the beginning of the program. It was the part of the evening
where we were supposed to show our softer side without the pressures and awkwardness
that came with trialing. The Betties were under the assumption that the Consorts were
starting fresh at the Grants just as they were. Of course, they’d learn in time that
wasn’t the case, but we were supposed to remain elusive about that fact.

I’d seen some of the Consorts throughout the night, even talked to a few of them briefly,
but I had by no means indulged in a full conversation with any of them, which was
my assignment for the evening. I’d been too distracted. Despite my diversion, I was
able to fully appreciate the variety in the women offered to me.

Seeing the diversity of women in the Betty pool made me smile warmly, and I thought
that the pickings this year were ripe and delicious, ready for the taking. That may
have been crass of me to look at them that way, but honestly, how else was I supposed
to feel?

Sex had become mundane to me. And I say that as a man who has had a plethora of experience
on how to spice things up in the bedroom. I considered myself somewhat of an expert,
as was the point of the program to begin with—for the Consorts, anyway. It was the
Grant philosophy that it should be second nature for a man to be able to derive pleasure
from a woman’s body. I excelled at it, but I had yet to find someone to do the same
for me, adding to the extensive dread I felt at the prospect of starting with a new
round of Pledges.

Sex had become nothing but an action—a motion of bodies without meaning. Yeah, it
felt good to get off with a gorgeous woman in my lap, but when it was over, I wasn’t
left panting and crooning for more—having that desperate need to get my next fix like
the women I’d pleasured. I guessed that was what accompanied sex without emotion.

Yes, there was a thrill to see a newbie find exquisite pleasure at what I did, but
really, that satisfaction for me was fleeting. I hadn’t found anyone who could do
the same for me and I was starting to believe that this whole Grant thing was bullshit.
The only time I’d ever found myself optimistic was when I saw Madeline in that room.

Maybe that was why I seemed to be so enthralled by her. She’d brought me an ounce
of hope, something I hadn’t felt since I walked through those doors almost two years
before.

And really, what had she done in that room that countless women don’t do across the
nation in their own bedrooms? Even at that moment, there were probably hundreds of
women masturbating to images of their deepest desires.