Treat. 8 p.m. My place. Don’t be late, Meredith.
“Treat” is a code word for a very special gathering. The text message was from my friend Lilah. It was her turn to play host. We’re both handpicked members of an elite circle of seven kinky, beautiful, accomplished women who pursue decadent pleasures. Let’s call it the Circe Society—a pseudonymous appellation, of course, because secrecy is required.
Since I had a licentious evening planned, a wardrobe adjustment was in order. I’m a counselor and a doctoral candidate, so a professional appearance must be maintained. But due to my hectic schedule, I won’t have to time pop back to my Tudor townhome and then drive all the way to Lilah’s place in time.
I slipped on a playful red thong and a matching demi-cup bra, along with a pair of thigh-high stockings. The sexy lingerie would add a little spice to my day. Before I put on my vintage black business suit, I checked my appearance in the full-length mirror.
I have shoulder-length, poker-straight blond hair, which I pulled into an artful chignon. My eyes are wide-spaced and gray blue. I’m 5'8", taller than most women—6' in heels. Hours spent in barre class had given me a well-rounded ass, framed to perfection by my choice of panties. And now, I’m ready for anything this evening. Ablutions finished, I headed out the door.
The day flew by in a pleasant blur, and hours later, I pulled into Lilah’s driveway, a bit after eight. Her husband was out of town on business this week, and her spacious Dutch colonial is the ideal place for debauchery.
I found Lilah in the kitchen, sprawled atop the marble countertop. Lilah’s in her midthirties. She’s petite with dark brown hair and blue eyes.
Lilah took a sip of wine as a younger man stooped between her splayed thighs, licking her shaved pussy. I’d never seen him before, but I admired his technique. Although I’m better at it.
As host, it was Lilah’s obligation to secure the evening’s entertainment. There was never a shortage of eager volunteers—a willingness to obey orders, erotic prowess, and discretion are nonnegotiables. After all, there’s no such thing as the Circe Society—it’s the very first rule I learned.
“You’re late, Meredith.”
“Traffic was terrible.” I poured myself a glass of Bordeaux.
Did I mention my weakness for dry red wine? You could say it’s in my blood. I grew up in Ohio’s wine country.
“A likely story.” Her breath hitched as she spoke.
“Where’s my treat?” I prompted, eager to get started. Between fantasizing and the silky lingerie I wore, I’d been on edge for hours.
“Yes, upstairs in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. He’s ready for you.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” I raised my glass in salute and headed for the walnut staircase.
“Wait.”
I turned. “Yes?”
She pouted. “You didn’t give me a hello kiss.”
I smirked. Lilah and I play now and then—if you’d like a label, I’m bisexual. Perhaps omnisexual is more apt. Though, I have a distinct preference for submissive men.
After threading my hand through her curls, I tipped Lilah’s head back and tasted her mouth, impishly biting her upper lip as I finished.
“Have fun.” Her tone was sultry.
“I always do.” And then I stalked upstairs. As I ascended to the second floor, Lilah wailed as she came.
Low, guttural moans came from another room I passed. Evidently, my compatriots hadn’t wasted any time. For a moment, I was tempted to investigate, but tonight isn’t about voyeurism.
This particular evening’s about partaking. Taking.
After I walked in the bedroom door, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the semi-darkness. Lit candles filled the room, giving it a soft glow.
A man lay spread-eagled on the queen-sized bed. His wrists and ankles were tethered to the four posters by slip knots. He’s in his late twenties, perhaps. But I don’t know anything about him—he’s a blank slate. He has light brown hair with a muscular, medium frame. I can’t see his eyes, because he’s been blindfolded. His impressive cock is leaning to the left, already half-hard.
What a thoughtful present. I must remember to thank Lilah later.
After setting my glass on the nightstand, I kicked off my heels. There was wicker gift basket on a nearby chair, filled with an array of useful items—lube, a strap-on with a thick dildo, and a leather riding crop. How convenient.
The man tensed. “Who's there?”
“You may call me Mistress Meredith. What’s your name?”
“Brian.”
“Well, Brian, you agreed to be a plaything for the evening. Having second thoughts?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Excellent. I’m assuming Lilah explained the traffic-light system?”
“Green for go, yellow for caution, red for stop.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke.
My smile was wolfish. I could tell he was a bit nervous, which I found charming.
“Good. Use them if you need to. Have you served before?” I picked up the crop and slapped his thigh, just hard enough to get his attention.
Brian jumped. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Then you know your place.” Beneath me, of course.
I slipped off my skirt, jacket, and blouse—neatly folding each item and then placing them on the steamer trunk at the end of the bed. I love making a submissive wait—keeping him in a state of suspended anxiety.
Then I slowly trailed my fingertips up and down the length of his torso. Brian’s stomach muscles bunched in response. I brushed his erection and his hips flexed in reaction.
“So sensitive.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“I like that, but don’t you dare come without permission.” I squirted some lube into my palm, warming the cold liquid before I encircled his cock with my fist.
“I won’t, Mistress.” His voice was hoarse.
I stroked him until the head turned a dark reddish purple and he strained in my grip. So I released him to admire my own handiwork. The lube had given his shaft a dewy sheen.
Brian whimpered in protest.
“Behave, or I’ll punish you.” I smacked his hip with the crop.
“Please don’t, Mistress.”
Tease and denial is something of a sport with me. Watching a man writhe, leaving him aching for more is delicious. I placed one fingertip on the head of his cock—a light caress—more torment than pleasure.
And I relished Brian’s agonized grunt.
Then I leisurely pumped him, while his hips arched in objection, seeking more contact. It wasn’t nearly enough friction to be satisfying. This went on for several minutes, and the little sounds he made grew more and more desperate.
“Please, Mistress. Please let me come.”
Ah, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.
I let go, and he sighed.
“Not yet. I’m not going to let you come for a very long time.” I straddled him. “Know what I’m going to do first?”
He shook his head.
Tipping his head to the side, I nipped his earlobe. “I’m going to fuck you, Brian,” I whispered. “In more ways than one. There’s a strap-on on the nightstand just waiting for your tight ass.”
He gasped.
“Give me a light.”
“Green, Mistress.”
“Good boy, but first things first.” After pushing my soaking panties to the side, I rubbed my pussy against his cock, riding him—grinding my clit against the head. “If you come, I’ll walk right out the door and leave you like this. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Breath hissing between his teeth, Brian thrashed beneath me. I rode him hard until the orgasm rushed through my body like a tidal wave.
Afterward, I snagged my glass and tossed back the rest of the wine. Brian shuddered on the bed, bound and helpless, still hard and unable to come.
But I hadn’t finished teasing him. Yet.
“Please, I need—”
“I know exactly what you need, but I’m not ready to give it to you. Now, I’m going downstairs to get a refill. When I get back, we’ll try out that strap-on.”
His mouth opened, and then clamped shut. “Yes, Mistress.”
Yes, it was going to a fun night—what a delightful treat.