Chapter 7 – Bianca
Against my better judgment, I’ve decided to go to whatever event is happening at the Exchange Club. But I’m nervous, tense, and more than a little apprehensive.
There’s only one thing that seems to help me when I get like this: masturbating. Buzzing one off until I’m too jelly-like to worry about where I’m going, what I’m going to be doing, and who else is going to be there and why.
I’ve got two hours to myself. More than enough time for a good one-on-one session with me and my Musashi Wand. It’s like Hitachi, but bigger, swoopier and with more options for speeds and patterns.
Already dressed in my favorite outfit for pleasuring myself, and the outfit I’m planning to wear to the Exchange Club (a crimson-red corset with black lace and matching panties and high heels), I retrieve my big pink bag of pleasure. From it, I snatch my favorite vibrator, give it a quick wipe down with a moist towelette, and proceed to check the battery charge.
Full, just like my lips and clit have been since Jordan left me earlier this afternoon to go to lunch with his friends.
Satisfied I have everything I need, I close the blinds on the floor to ceiling windows lining the room and get comfortable on my large queen-sized bed. I prop myself up in the ocean of pillows, being sure to put some under my feet and knees so I feel held by something when I start to buzz. I tap a button on the face of my sleek, silver vibrator, smiling as the first speed comes on.
I press another button, feeling the first vibration pattern ripple through my hand from the base of the toy. As I play with the buttons, adjust the speed to something around “medium” — not to slow or fast — I let Jordan walk into my mind. Saunter like a good boy gangster into a fantasy I’m building. One where he dares to show a bit more of that punk to me.
I hum hungrily, allowing the head of the vibrator to kiss the mouth of my mound. The tip of my already-interested clit. The moment I press the rounded silicone head into my thong-covered pussy, I gasp. Shiver. My nipples pucker. My clit contracts, tightening into the curves, craving more speed, but I hold off.
I want my fantasy of Jordan to build. To last for longer than a few minutes. I increase the speed slightly and rub the vibrator down the length of my vagina, massaging every inch of skin. Every bit of hair.
I imagine Jordan saying, “you called for me, Miss?” Though he’s trying to be polite, he’s irritable. He’s sulking. “I was at lunch with my friends. What do you need me for?” I imagine he pouts his lips and crosses his arms.
I smile, imagining my response to him. “Is that attitude you’re giving me?” Jordan doesn’t answer me. Just sulks some more. Looks down and away from me. Shuffles his feet, like the bad boy he knows he’s being right now. “And after you promised to be there to serve me wherever, however and whenever I needed? I'm disappointed.”
At this, Jordan looks guilty. Turning his eyes to me, having responded to my scolding tone. The moment his eyes meet mine, my clit flinches. Throbs, and I jam my thumb onto the button that controls the patterns. As I do, one of my favorites comes on. One where the buzz comes at intervals. Strong, sustained ones. “Please forgive me, Bianca,” I imagine him whispering as my pussy lips tighten, searching for the vibrator. For more direct stimulation. I let them have it, jamming the vibrator at the side of my thong.
I suck in a breath, growling something unintelligible. In my head, my words to Jordan are crystal clear. “That’s Mistress to you, Jordan.” His eyes widen at my words as if he anticipates what’s next. “If you want to call me ‘Bianca,’ you’ll have to behave better for me. And in order to behave better, you need to be punished first.”
My breath hitches, and I change the speed on my vibrator. The vibrating pattern is now something wild and unpredictable. I groan under this delightful changeup. Leaning back into the pillows, I spread my legs more. I push my heels into the mattress, enjoying how blocky my heels feel in these shoes.
In my head, Jordan swallows nervously but obeys to the letter when I tell him to undress completely, turn away from me, and get ready for his whipping.
In my head, I imagine I’ve taken up a flog, and am lazily flicking its leather tongues against my hand.
“I’ll be good, Mistress,” Jordan says gingerly as I approach him. He almost slips up and calls me “Bianca,” before he's earned back the privilege.
I tell him to be quiet, to face the wall, and present his ass to me. When he does, his body flushes with excitement and a little shame. Already, before I’ve even touched him once with the leather, he’s getting hard.
I then imagine I flick his ass softly, resolutely with the flog. I slap him with each of the individual “whips” of leather, but not enough to feel like anything more than getting snapped with a towel.
Deliciously, Jordan whimpers. Groans at this but says nothing. I whimper and moan directly after him, feeling my clit spitting fluid on the vibrator head. Warmth dribbles in and around my lips but isn’t “wet.” Just intense. I savor it, my body's reactions to this boy and his imagined actions.
I whip Jordan a second time, in the same way, and get the same response. Though this hit lands on his other ass cheek, not the same one.
I follow that up with another across both cheeks. A little harder than the other two bits of punishment combined. As I imagine this, I pull my vibrator away slightly. If I keep it pressed against me like it is, I’m going to climax way too quickly. And I’m not at the point in my fantasy where I want to release. Not yet.
So, I lower the speed, take off the wild vibration, and place the vibrator head on the outside of my panties again. It won’t block out all the sensations, but it will dampen them and slow the buildup.
Denying myself my orgasm, I jump back into my fantasy. Into the whipping I’m giving Jordan steadily now. Across his ass, but also across his back. His muscular, bad-boy shoulders. I imagine he groans and cries at some of the punishment. And as he does, I imagine he’s growing harder and harder. Stiffer and bigger.
My pussy jitters under this vision, imagining the vibrator is actually Jordan’s cock. His flared head.
I give a low, reeling scream. Suddenly, even the lowest setting on my vibrator is almost too much. Too intense. But I don’t back down. I keep the vibrator there, imagining I’m saying to Jordan, “You were a bad boy, Jordan, for giving me such an attitude after promising to serve me.” I give his back another swat. “But you’ve been taking your punishment like a good boy, so I’ll let you serve me if you think you’ve had enough.” I give his ass yet another smack, enjoying the shapely newness of it. How sculpted and defined his muscles are. I also enjoy another imagined look at his cock, which is now blooming forth in all its glory.
“Only my mistress can decide if I’ve had enough,” Jordan answers. His voice is strained but also husky with arousal. “Whatever will make me into your good boy, I will do.”
I bring the whip away with a flourish, examining my patch worked efforts on his shoulders, back, and buttocks. They’re all nice and red, like the sunset or pink champagne. I touch gently. Admiringly, enjoying the tremble I imagine he has.
My trembling in real life only accentuates my interest in Jordan’s imagined tremble. His imagined gasp. I’m almost about to orgasm, so again I pull the stimulation away. As I do, I hear how ragged my breathing is. Feel how tight and iron-hard my body and muscles have become. I breathe into it though I’m finding that difficult as well. Even breathing makes my thong caress me in dangerous ways.
“You’ve had enough punishment, Jordan,” I imagine saying to him. “Turn around.”
He does obediently. I can see he wants to shield his cock from me but doesn’t because I haven’t ordered it.
“Good boy,” I purr, watching his erection bounce happily, gently at the praise. I meet Jordan’s eyes. “On your knees.”
Again, Jordan obeys immediately. He drops to his knees like a mortal before a goddess. Just the way I like it.
“Closer,” I say, spreading my legs for him. The flog is still in one hand loose at my sides. “Now you’re going to enjoy the lunch I cooked for you. And you’re going to tell me how much better it is than what you’ve been eating with your friends.”
“Oh, yes, Mistress,” Jordan says, breathlessly, as I crank up the speed on my vibrator, and change to a pattern that’s modeled after the movement of a tongue. Made to mimic oral sex.
He quickly walks himself over to me on his knees, and the minute he’s within reach, I grab him by the hair and pull him in for a big drink of my pussy. A mouthful of my essence.
In time with my vibrator, I imagine Jordan’s tongue coming down on me from behind my pubic hair. My lips.
His tongue seeks me out like a missile, lands on me like a hungry animal. He licks firmly, but with heart. Soul. Like he’s being set free by doing this for me, not enslaved. His moaning and sipping sounds back this up.
He licks and sucks deeply, penetrating the deeper parts of my folds and clit with his tongue. Lips. Breath. And I’m quickly overwhelmed. As I imagine Jordan saying, “This is a delicious meal, Mistress. The best I’ve ever had. Better than what I’ve been eating with my friends,” my pussy pulses. Rages out against the underwear and the vibrator head, making me scream-squeal.
I imagine that he continues to pleasure me, even as I push his face in deeper. Spread my legs further apart, so I’m almost sitting on his face, even with him kneeling.
And still, I hear him moaning. Tasting. Enjoying.
And that’s when I come, crying out his name. At the same time, I cry tears of joy and overwhelm.
“Jordan,” I scream, “eat all of me. Eat until you're full! Oh, God, Jordan.”
In my head, he’s breathing deeply of me, of my musk, and drinking whatever liquid I produce.
“You’re so sweet,” I moan, feeling my entire body convulse under another giant wave of pleasure. “Jordan, I want you to be my good boy. You are my good, good boy.”
With that, I release completely. Let go of every bit of tension and fluid, and I imagine Jordan being happily bathed in it. Baptized.
For a moment, I’m floating. I’m disembodied, caught in the space of my fantasy versus my reality. But I savor it, knowing Jordan exists here.
After what seems like an eternity, I come back to myself. Come back to awareness.
And the first thing I realize?
I was unbelievably loud. I’m not sure, but I think I can hear people in the rooms next to mine commenting on that fact. Crap.
Embarrassed, I squeeze my eyes closed. I didn’t mean to be that loud. Oh, well, it's not like I'll see these people again.
Opening my eyes, I get off the bed and straighten the comforter. I feel better. Relaxed. Somewhat sated if still a little embarrassed by my erotic vocalization. I unplug the vibrator and pack it back in my pink bag, which I’ve decided to take with me to the auction, or whatever event is happening promptly at eight.
I zip up the bag and take a moment to smooth my hands over my dress. From there, I make a quick stop by the bathroom to freshen up.
By the time I put the finishing touches to my eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, it’s nearly seven-forty five. Thanks to my little masturbation session, I’m not as stressed or nervous as I was.
I chuckle at myself, grabbing my pink bag and heading out the door. “And my mother never believed me when I said it was a magic wand.”
Chapter 8 – Jordan
The rest of the day after the altercation and my chance meeting with Bianca in the hallway, is depressingly anticlimactic. Why? Because, I’ve done nothing but thirst for another glimpse of her. Another chance to soak her in. Talk to her.
But there’s been no sign of her.
Everywhere I go, there’s only a blank space. A void. A place where I want her to be. Need her to be but she isn’t.
Other girls are always there, trying to fill the space like cheap imitations. Like a living lie every other person has fallen for but me.
At first, I was despondent. Sad. Lonely with not seeing her.
But now, as evening draws on, and I’m standing in front of the mirror getting ready to go to the Exchange Club, I’m grumpy. Pissed.
Frowning at my reflection, I try to slick my hair back for the millionth time with some hair glue into something remotely “dignified” despite my longer, more laid-back hairstyle, I wonder why I’m bothering.
I stare at myself thinking, Why even bother going there again? No way in hell Bianca’s going to be there. Mariah and Jane were at the club because Alex gave them an invitation. He went out of his way to invite them. Nothing like that happened to me.
I yank on the water feeling frustrated. Lied to. They keep saying “oh, yeah we’ll help you find your girl, Jordan,” but it means nothing. The woman I want won’t be there. Isn’t going to be miraculously walking herself onto the stage waiting for the highest bidder.
I scrape the hair glue off my fingers, not caring that the water is hot enough to cook a lobster. I turn off the water in the next second and snap a hand towel off the looped holder. I’d have better luck staying here, but I have two bone-addicted dogs for friends. They won’t break their habit, ‘til I get thrown one.
Roughly, I dry my hands. As I do, I catch a glimpse of my ensemble in the mirror. I’m in a pair of slacks, fancy sneakers, and a salmon-colored polo. Over it, I’m wearing a diamond-white blazer. Not my usual style, but if I didn’t put something over it, Paul would accuse me of wearing “pink” to this thing.
And at this point, I don’t want to deal with his “good-natured” fun at my expense. I’ve had enough.
On my way to open the bathroom door, I grab a different bottle of cologne. Something besides the Marco de Polo, I usually wear. Instead of the sporty, lemon zest, this cologne sweetens me, like a cinnamon-and-clove-infused bottle of bourbon. I spray under my shirt, then move to the back and sides of my neck, and finally my wrists.
The minute I step outside the bathroom, Paul says, “Wow, done already? I thought for sure you’d need at least another hour.”
I frown at him, glancing meaningfully at Alex. The man who keeps insisting he and his brother make the “world’s best wingmen” and say, “we don’t have an hour. We have twenty minutes.”
I walk to the door and automatically pat my pockets checking for my phone and my ticket into the event. They’re both there, but I don’t feel any better. Any more like I’m ready to go and do this all over again.
Opening the door, I murmur, “Though it’ll probably feel like an hour once I get there and have to sit at the table again.”
Paul follows me. “Cheer up, Jordan. It’s about to be your big night, man.”
“A big failure, you mean,” I grumble as I walk toward the hotel's exit. The sooner I can get this failure-of-a-night started, the sooner I can wrap it up and come back here. Maybe catch a glimpse of Bianca. Maybe ask around and figure out what room she’s in.
Paul catches up with me. For once he's being the responsible one and will drive us to the club. He deserves to do as much, considering I closed out the room and packed up for all three of us at Christmas after they went running like mad men after their women.
I’d probably do the same if I had my own woman. If it were Bianca I was trying to get back, but I’m not in that space right now. I’m just dreading the night ahead. Dreading the bland and boring women I know will come across that stage.
As we reach and walk past the reception desk, I say to Paul, “I forgot to mention there’s a creepy guy staying here. Had to chase him off on my way to lunch this afternoon. You might want to text Mariah and tell her to keep her and Jane localized to the room tonight.”
“Sure,” Paul says, sending a text.
I glance over at his phone and see he’s copied in Alex. Better to be safe than sorry.
Keeping the girls together and safe in the room will be easy. They’re already in Alex’s room hanging out for the evening painting each other’s toes or some other girly crap like that.
Outside, it’s dry for once. No fresh snow. No fog or ice. Just a cold, empty night sky. I should’ve ditched lunch, I think, wondering where Bianca is at this moment. Where in this whole resort she’s hiding. Or I should’ve at least offered for her to come with me, fuck what anyone else would’ve thought. Maybe then I wouldn’t be doing this bullshit.
I make it to Paul’s car. From somewhere behind me, he clicks the door open. I hop inside. Shotgun this time. Moments later, he reaches the car and steps into the driver’s seat.
Alex follows shortly after and jumps in back, much more excited about all of this than I am. Their eagerness is enough to make me want to punch them both.
There’s no point spending money tonight. It’ll do as much good as opening up the window on the freeway and throwing thousands of dollars into the icy wind.
But none of that matters to them. Without a care in the world, without any hint of disappointment, or any concept that I’m not one-hundred percent with their program, they take off toward our not-so-secret destination.
As we take the now-familiar roads, I let myself grouse. Bitch out loud. “I’m telling you. This is going to be a fucking phenomenal waste of time. And of my money.”
“Way to be positive, man,” Alex says. “Just let the Club work its magic. There’ll be something good there for you. If there wasn’t, we wouldn’t have the beautiful girls we have in our lives now. Right, Paul?”
“Exactly right,” he says, flicking his turn signal on. “And it helps that you’re not in sneakers and a baseball cap or wearing that ridiculous coat.”
I can’t take it anymore. I actually punch Paul’s bicep. Not playfully either.
He laughs me off saying, “Easy, boy. Save your frustrations for your girl.”
“I don’t want a girl. I want a grown-ass woman. Which I know is not going to be walking around that club.”
Alex flicks the back of my neck. I flinch under it, but don’t do any more in response. “Stop being so moody, Jordan. Just give it a chance, okay?”
No matter what I wanted to say to that, no matter what witty or snarky comment I wanted to sling back at him, it'll have to wait because we’re here. We’ve pulled into the shadowed parking lot of the even more mysterious mansion. A holdover from a bygone era only historians care about.
Paul cuts the engine, and Alex cuts the crap. Before I can put up any protest, he’s at my door, hauling me out of my seat. “You’re going down there, if I have to drag your sorry ass all the way to the door, you hear me?”
“And if you’ve heard me,” I say through gritted teeth, “you’d know there’s no fucking point to any of this,”
For all his pulling, Alex hasn’t succeeded in doing much more than get me out of my seat belt.
But Paul, like always, has to give his baby brother a helping hand. A hand that unceremoniously shoves me out of the car completely.
“Get in there, and we’ll get you some chocolate. That should help with your PMS,” he says, shutting my door and locking it.
With that, I’m left to be dragged by Alex toward the basement and the Exchange Club waiting below.