Marcus: A Black Lily Club Story

A Black Lily Club

Story

BY

CHELLE

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, including photocopying, recording, or transmitted by any means without written consent of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, establishments, names, companies, organizations and events were created by the author. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events, companies or organizations is coincidental.

Published by Hot Ink Press

Text Copyright 2013 by Chelle

Cover by SK Whiteside

Chapter 1

At last I received an invitation to The Black Lily. After two months of waiting to get into this private BDSM club, I’ll be there tonight at nine. For two weeks I’ve done nothing but prepare for this evening, down to every last detail. Even my bikini wax turned more into a full body wax, but the club made their expectations perfectly clear.

I’m taking no chances and following all of their guidelines to the letter. This morning the outfit I’m to wear arrived with a black lily and a note explaining I’m to wear what is in the box and nothing else. Twice they reminded not to forget the lily. Along with my attire, I’m required to fill out consent forms and medical release papers. Everything is official.

With the outfit they gave me leaving nothing to the imagination, I’ve chosen to wear my hair down in an effort to cover me somewhat. However, the black corset with the blood red laces in the front and back does make me look curvy and sexy all in one nicely tied package. The skirt, if you can call it that, is nothing but a small slip of satin that barely covers my ass. Though I can hardly walk in the ‘fuck-me’ five inch black patent leather strappy shoes, they accentuate my legs to perfection. I look damn good in this outfit and whoever picked it out has amazing taste.

With no idea who sent the invitation, I grab my coat and the lily and head out the door, having no idea who sent the invitation. I start the car and head down the street and my mind wanders as to what this night will hold.

How does a thirty-year-old woman get to this point?

I’m pretty successful in everything I do, well, everything except relationships. I run my own store making and selling body care products. I run an Internet site for the purchase of my products and teach classes on the uses of herbs and plants for homeopathic remedies.

While I don’t claim to be a model, I’m not bad looking by any means, but most men are looking for a damsel in distress, not one who can take care of herself. My last so-called relationship only lasted six months over three years ago. James was a little rough around the edges. Well more than a little. A typical man, he wanted me to sell my business because it took time away from him and his needs. Though he may have wanted a maid and chef, he couldn’t afford to pay the bills on his own. He didn’t want to take care of me, he just wanted me around for his own selfish needs. I told him that on his way out the door after a fight about my business, and haven’t heard from him since. Not that I mind.

I’m not sure what is wrong in my relationships anyway. When it comes to men, something is missing. In the past I’ve been called frigid or cold, and I just can’t seem to let go during sex. I get off alone so there isn’t something medically wrong with me, but I can’t get there with a guy, no matter what he does. Some tried more than others. Maybe, this bondage club is what I need
.
At this point, anything is worth a try. If I don’t figure something out, I’m going to end up with my battery-operated boyfriend.

The outside of the club is dark and uninviting, more like an empty warehouse, than somewhere to fulfill sexual desire. I don’t know much about this place except it is invitation only. Until now I never gave it a second thought how they determine who gets invited.

Now it’s a little late for worries, I’m here. The parking lot has minimal lighting, a misty fog rolls across the edges by the forest. I’ve never seen anything in the news about illegal activities and they have never been investigated. They wouldn’t still be open if it wasn’t mildly safe, right? I park my car by one of the overhead lights closest to the door and lock the doors.

With a deep breath I steady my nerves, grab my purse and lily off the roof of the car, and head to the entrance.

The tallest man I’ve ever seen holds the door open for me. He must be at least six foot eight inches tall and built like a brick wall. He’s wearing black leather pants that fit like a second skin and his black t-shirt ripples with his every movement.

“Invitation.” He holds his hand out.

“Yes.” Caught in a stare, his voice jolts me back to reality, and I hand him the invitation
.

“Do you have your consent form and medical release papers?”

With a shaking hand, I surrender the paperwork. There is no backing out now.

He ushers me in the door, files the papers and flashes me a predatory smile that does nothing to quell the butterflies dancing in my stomach.

“This way, Miss.” He motions for me to follow.

We go through another doorway, into a dimly lit hall. The bass from the music inside vibrates through my bones.

“Take the door at the end of the hall to the barroom. You may have one alcoholic drink at the bar tonight, whatever you wish. The man that sent your invitation will be with you shortly.” He nods and shuts the door to the office.

Alone in the hallway, I assess my surroundings. Wrought iron sconces line the corridor dimly lighting the worn stonewalls. I feel like a sacrifice walking to meet the dragon at the edge of the cliff. My breath hitches as my footsteps echo down the long hall.

The closer I get to the door at the end of this tunnel, the louder the music gets. The second I enter the bar I freeze. Nothing here is what I expected for a BDSM bar. Smoke covers the floor, making me feel as if I’m on a cloud. The strobe light makes people look like they’re blinking in and out of existence. The huge wooden bar almost covers the length of the wall, and tables are spread along the outer edges of the room with plush booth seats.

In the middle of the room people dressed like me are dancing and mingling together. Thus far this reminds me of an upper class nightclub.

As someone who doesn’t frequent bars or nightclubs, especially on my own, I make my way to the bar, sit, and order a glass of red wine.

Thus far I don’t understand why this place is touted as BDSM, it’s just like every place else I’ve been. I lean back on the bar stool, twirling the lily and study the people dancing. Upon closer look, I finally spot a difference, not so much with the club, but the people. Some are wearing collars with leashes attached and some have whips on their hips.

I take a gulp of the wine in an attempt to calm my nerves and stop myself from running back to my car. This is not like me at all. I’ve never been on a blind date or tried any kind of bondage. While the idea has always appealed to me, I’ve never had the courage to try. I’m not sure I can completely give up control or let go during sex. I’m always concerned about where to put my hands, questioning if he enjoys what I’m doing, second-guessing every move I make. I lose the moment and never get any pleasure.

Though I can communicate well in my personal life, I can’t talk about sex. I don’t know how to tell a guy what I like or want. What if it turns him off? What if he doesn’t do it right and I still don’t get off? Then I just look uninterested at the least, at the most I look like someone who has no idea what they’re doing having sex in the first place.

I sit up. This was a bad idea, I should go. I don’t know that first thing about submission or what I need. From what I’ve read, the BDSM lifestyle has different levels of dominant and submissive. Communication is key. If I don’t know what I want how am I supposed to do this?

I take a breath. I can’t leave now. I have to try, and worse that happens is I don’t have to ever return. I can go live happily ever after with BOB.

My internal pep talk talk relaxes me, allowing me to enjoy the ambiance. The men working here are straight out of some supernatural romance novel, all over six feet tall, built solid and strong, just the kind of men to sweep a woman off her feet. I didn’t know men like this existed outside movies and books. Maybe tonight will be a lucky night after all.

***

She’s here. I felt her the moment she entered my domain. Her soul calls to mine, a lyrical melody meant only for me. I watch her as she walks to the bar, her body swaying with the sound of the music, her long auburn hair cascades down her back, and the heels I sent for her accentuate her long legs. The black lily she carries marks her as mine for all to see.

She sips the red wine so eloquently, displaying manners and grace. The thoughts flitting through her mind do not match the air of confidence she exudes, arguing with herself to stay or run. I can smell the sweet scent of her even through all the smoke and sweat of the club. My fangs ache for release, my body burns to claim what is mine.

My sweet Jasmine, a name to match her beauty.

For most of my two hundred years I have walked alone searching for the one who competes me. The one who calls to my soul, and, I opened this club in the hopes those of my kind have a safe haven to search for their soul mates.

As a species we enjoy the darker side of sex. While most of us prefer the dominant side of the relationship there are those who prefer subservient roles.

Our makers teach us the pleasures of the body, the thresholds of pain, dominance and submission. I believe it occurs naturally in us during the change, just as the need for blood occurs too, at least to the extent that we like to take things. Some of these tendencies are born in us as humans, just like those humans who chose dominate or submissive lifestyles. The change allows us to explore this natural progression. I knew none of this when I was turned long ago. These things were not spoken of, as it was not correct for socialites to discuss what happened in a bedroom. The night I turned I was taught what polite society refused to talk about. The deviant acts of pleasure that humans refused to acknowledge.

My maker was a wonderful teacher. She taught me about the body, the bliss it could behold was delightful, if not strange. I wasn’t her soul mate, but she loved me in her own way and taught me for many years. She told me there was something about my soul that called to her. I was the one that would change things for our kind. I didn’t believe her, I was only thirty when she turned me and new to sex, and never had a partner before her. I had no idea that pain and submission could bring about that much satisfaction. To understand exactly what someone needed to make them happy was a new experience for me. Never any fumbling around in the dark hoping to figure out what made a woman reach that pinnacle.

I was an educated man, but not a worldly one. I had no idea how to change the world for the supernatural beings, but my maker dreamed about the future, as it would come to pass, though she didn’t know when. Two hundred years later, her predictions were correct, I am changing things for our kind.

Our basic sexual needs are coming to light as humans come to terms with their own wants and needs.

Yes, there are many who condemn those who seek to find release in the darker side, but it’s becoming more mainstream. People are searching for pleasures untold, and this club is the playground.

It’s also a hunting ground for my kind. We meet people here without persecution, safe to indulge in our sexual wants and gratifications. No one needs to know what we are. People still don’t believe we exist, keeping us safe from our own hunters. We search in the city at night, but humans are only allowed in by invitation and then only on the top two floors. A select few humans are allowed in the private rooms, only when I’m aware in advance.

Most humans believe the bottom floor, the one under what is considered the basement, is storage, and that’s the way I keep it.

The floor below is for our kind, vampires and other nonhuman races, to let loose and enjoy thirsts that cannot be quenched with just bondage. It is an area for more extreme play, Vampires and shifters alike tend to share blood during sex, and keeping those activities out of sight is safer. The humans are only told of our existence if we consider turning them. Not all of the humans invited are given such a choice, and those who are, have the opportunity to refuse. If they decide not to take us up on our offer, we conveniently alter their memories ensuring the safety of our secrets. It’s the only way to maintain safety for ourselves and the human we seek.

I approach her, stalking across the bar and slide silently into the stool beside her and lean down to her ear. “Hello my sweet, Jasmine, I’m Marcus.”

Her breath catches and she turns to me, a pink blush creeps into her cheeks. Jasmine holds out a delicate hand while the other presses to her chest trying to still her racing heart.

“Hi, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She smiles, lowering her eyelids, a quiet giggle slipping past her ruby lips.

I kiss the hand she extends to me, her warmth radiating through my lips. “Should we move to a booth where we can talk a little more privately?” I keep her hand in mine and assist her off the bar stool as I stand. Her pulse calms, as her breathing returns to normal.

As we walk to the booth her scent wafts over me. Pure and clean like fresh morning dew, the sunshine in my darkness. My fangs pulse for release and my cock strains against my pants. I haven’t had this hard of a time controlling myself since I was a new vampire.

Jasmine calls to the animal in me to claim her, have her. The urge to throw her to the ground, taking her body and blood is almost more than I can bear. I’m not sure how long I can control myself when it comes to her.

She is perfection.