Invitation to Pleasure: Open Invitation, Book 2 (7 page)

 
    
He’d indicated she should take a bath
first. Then there was another note to read.

 
    
She lifted one foot to the bed frame,
spreading her legs a little wider than necessary, then removed her shoe and
unclipped the stocking. Sliding her hand between her legs, barely brushing her
clitoris, she rolled down the stocking. After a long, slow caress the length of
her leg, she tossed the stocking across the room, missing the chair. She
repeated the procedure, this time rubbing her clitoris a little before removing
the stocking. Then the garter went the way of the silk and velvet. Finally, she
turned back to the mirror, pinched each nipple, then undid the bra, tossed it
aside, and stood naked a moment.

 
    
Her bath awaited her, and if she preened
for the mirror much longer, the water would cool. She hated a lukewarm bath.

 
    
She’d worn her hair down for tonight, but
she wound it on top of her head and secured it with clips she found in a little
dish. She smiled to herself. Whoever had prepared the room thought of
everything. Once she was beneath the water, soothing bath salts tenderized her
skin, and they’d even provided a bath pillow to cradle her head. A sip of
champagne sizzled on her tongue, and the chocolate strawberries dazzled her
taste buds. The cheese was light and tangy like Swiss but with more subtlety.

 
    
The thought of Brett on the other side of
that window heated her in a way the tub of steaming water and bath bubbles
couldn’t.

 
    
Brett alone in an empty room watching her.
For tonight, she didn’t need other men. It was enough that he’d brought her
here. It was enough that he would enjoy her performance. This was pure sex, her
husband’s invitation to pleasure.

 
    
Sinking down until the bubbles covered her
to her throat, she let her knees fall apart and stroked a hand between her
legs.

 
    
Show time.

 
    
With a cock the size of the Washington
Monument and just as hard, Brett salivated over his wife in the steaming water.
The mirror next to the tub was angled to give a tantalizing view.

 
    
And Virginia tantalized him in every way.
The bubbles obscured her actions, but her expression gave away exactly what her
hands did below the surface. She’d closed her eyes, and the ripples of her
pleasure lapped against the sides of the tub.

 
    
He wanted to taste the champagne and treats
on her tongue. He wanted to savor the confection between her legs. He wanted to
suck the cherried buds of her nipples through the slinky bra.

 
    
She was like the lady of the manor
performing her evening ablutions. A hot bath, sparkling champagne, and a little
play to help her sleep. She fluttered under the water, preparing herself but not
coming. He felt like a kid in a candy store waiting for the patron in front of
him who just could not make up his mind.

 
    
The wait made her actions all the more
sexy. She arched, moaned softly—the room was wired for sound—then relaxed
again, lifting an arm to snag another piece of cheese and a champagne chaser.
Is that how women masturbated when no one was watching, stretching it out,
rising to a heated level, then backing off to relax and sip champagne, only to
start all over again?

 
    
He’d never asked, never even wondered about
it. It hadn’t mattered. Playing his share of sex games, he’d also done his
share of watching a woman make herself come, but what did they do when they
didn’t have an audience? Yes, Virginia knew the mirror was two-way, but still, this
was different from her pre-wedding sojourn. Perhaps she was already so hot and
wet that night after wandering the halls of the club that she’d gone at herself
in a frenzy, even if she had been able to hold off her orgasm for an
extraordinary amount of time.

 
    
He gripped the window frame as her hips
arched and rose from the water, bubbles popping, her fingers working. The
mirror revealed the bliss on her face, her lashes fanned below her eyes, her
teeth worrying her lower lip.

 
    
She moaned again, but she didn’t scream,
and he knew she hadn’t come. No matter how languid she appeared, she was well
aware of him behind the window, well aware of his reaction.

 
    
Just as before, he didn’t take his cock out
of his pants. For now, it was all about her pleasure. He watched and waited,
his balls tightening all the while.

 
    
He’d thought of parading her through the
party throng. He’d even changed into a tuxedo for the occasion. The club had a
locker room, perhaps for those who wanted to wash off the night’s revelry or
change their debauched clothing. But doing what everyone else was doing didn’t
appeal. In the end, he’d gone with his original plan. A private room, a private
show.

 
    
Then she rose from amid the dying bubbles.
Water streamed down her body as she poured soap into her hand. He’d made sure
the attendants left her favorite scent. She washed, her hand delving into her
mound. In the mirror behind her, he watched her fingers peek from between her
legs, then she soaped her ass, spreading her cheeks, teasing. Pinching soaped
nipples, she caressed beneath her breasts, her throat, arching her neck.

 
    
She was dazzling. He’d always appreciated
her beauty, her elegance. Now he craved the passion he’d seen beneath the
surface the night he’d followed her here.

 
    
Drying off, she stepped from the tub, then
finally, finally, she opened his second instruction. And smiled.

 
    
She dropped the towel and began a slow,
sultry application of lotion. Her flirty movements drove him mad. Then she left
her champagne behind and mounted the bed, tugging her hair loose at the same
time. The pins she’d used to secure it flew in all directions.

 
    
If she’d been alone, she probably would
have climbed under the covers, snuggling into the warmth. Instead, she crawled
across the mattress on her hands and knees, her eyes on herself in what to her
was a mirror. Then she swung her legs around, pulled a pillow beneath her head,
and lay back.

 
    
Her gorgeous bush faced him, showing him a
hint of warm, wet pink. He wanted, needed to bury his face in her. A door,
disguised to look like another wall panel, was set to one side of the window.
He could enter her room any time.

 
    
She spread her legs and wiggled her ass on
the bed. In the note, he’d told her to indulge herself on the bed in any way
she liked. She wanted to tease. He passed a hand over his erection, squeezing
through the cloth. It wasn’t enough to relieve the ache. But he didn’t pull out
his cock. He didn’t open the door.

 
    
She slid her middle finger into her pussy,
over her clit. Her heels planted in the coverlet, she suddenly plunged deep,
arching her hips off the bed. She fucked herself with two fingers as he died
with desire.

 
    
Then she settled once more, stroking her
clit with a slow hand. He couldn’t say how long she touched herself, how many
times she plunged, squirmed, circled. It went on forever until he thought he’d
go insane. Until he wanted to grab the only chair and throw it through the
glass so that he could get at her.

 
    
Her gasps filled his small compartment. Her
moans echoed all around. His heart raced, the sound pounding in his ears, and
his breath timed itself to her rhythm. And when she finally let loose and
orgasmed all over her fingers, he almost came with her as she screamed out her
delight.

 
    
Primitive instinct urged him to rip the
door off its hinges and have her. To bring her more pleasure than she’d known
just moments before. He almost gave in to the force.

 
    
His intent to wait until they got home was
dying a fiery demise. He was sure he didn’t retain enough control over his impulses
to make it far past the front doors of The Sex Club.

* * * * *

 
    
If that didn’t make Brett come in his
pants, nothing would. She’d climaxed imagining him jerking off in his hand,
unable to stop himself, overcome by the sight of her. Wanting her desperately.

 
    
Virginia lay on the bed recovering her
breath. Her spread legs faced the mirror. Her hot, wet pussy lay open and
exposed. A shiver traveled her arms and legs. Goose bumps rose. She hadn’t
married Brett because he wanted her desperately. She didn’t want him
desperately either.

 
    
What they’d done tonight was about kinky
pleasures, not messy emotions. And that’s the way she wanted to keep it.
Fantasy. Sexy games. Nothing more.

 
    
She rolled to her stomach and languidly
rose to her knees, this time exposing her ass. Since they were playing sex
games, she would enjoy every minute of it.

 
    
Virginia followed her last set of
instructions, dressing as slowly as she’d undressed, petting and stroking for
the mirror. As he required, she stood for a time clothed only in garter,
stockings, and the tantalizing brassiere with its tight nipple holes. The light
flush of her climax still suffused her skin, and her clitoris throbbed
delicately as she contemplated whatever else Brett had planned for the night.

 
    
Finally, dressed, she exited the room. The
lacy underthings caressed her as she took the stairs to the second level.

 
    
She’d never seen so many couples engaged in
sex. It was beyond even her first foray to the club. On the floor in the middle
of the hallway, for God’s sake, a man mounted his partner, taking her with deep
strokes. Against the banister, the wall, on the stairs, more couples. She
negotiated the carpeting as if it were a minefield, careful not to step on
anyone’s dress.

 
    
It was almost amusing, yet the scent of
perspiration, perfume, and sex laced the air with an aura of decadence and
abandon. The hot and heavy atmosphere stole her breath and increased the throb
between her legs.

 
    
Her so-called friend, Lady Number
Sixty-three, was laid out on the lobby table illuminated by the overhead
chandelier. Her white dress creased as she wrapped her legs around the hips of
a midfifties gentleman. Though gentle was hardly the word to describe the rough
pounding of his body into hers. The lady suddenly threw back her head, her
listing hairdo hanging off the other side of the table, and wailed through her
orgasm. Watching from the bottom step of the wide staircase, Virginia knew the
man came, almost on the heels of the woman’s climax, by his series of grunts and
the jerk of his hips.

 
    
Virginia’s nipples peaked through the holes
in her bra, hard and aching. She was as wet as she’d been in her private room.

 
    
Watching was beyond titillating. It was a
force in itself, beating at her, ratcheting up her need. Her hand dropped to
the front of her dress. She caressed herself through the fabric. The desire to
lie down on the stairs and spread herself for a man, any man, was almost
irresistible.

 
    
No, not any man. Not tonight. She turned,
searching, wanting, needing unbearably, but Brett was nowhere in sight.

 
    
Sixty-three’s gentleman pulled out of her,
the withdrawal of his penis audible, amplified by the tall ceiling. He removed
a condom, tossed it in a conveniently available receptacle, then tucked his
cock back in his tuxedo pants. After which, he helped his partner off the
table, straightening her ball gown politely.

 
    
Then they exchanged cards.

 
    
It was the most bizarre thing Virginia had
ever seen.

 
    
Lady Sixty-three turned, her face glowing
with satisfaction, her eyelids heavy, sultry. Then she saw Virginia.

 
    
“Oh my dear, how many have you had?” Her
gray-haired yet extremely distinguished gentleman kissed her ear. She waggled
her fingers at him, and he headed for the stairs in hot pursuit of another
card, eyeing Virginia as he went. She turned away.