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 Talk to me: Night.Bane@hotmail.com
   Sarah, summoned for an important meeting with her husband's boss, is
coerced into making her first appearance at The Visum...
   THE GENTLEMAN'S CLUB PT.  1 ((M/F: Reluc: Oral Rp)
   PROLOGUE -- The Sermon
   Reverend Nathaniel Crutchfield, a short, portly man long-separated from
most of his hair, stood uncomfortably upright at the lectern of the Atkins,
Georgia Primitive Missionary Baptist Church.  This, his regular Sunday
sermon, typically ran an hour and a half; already two hours on, Rev. 
Crutchfield showed no sign of slowing and indeed seemed piqued for another
hour or more's worship.  A widower, his daughter sat alone in the front
row, Bible propped on her thighs, carefully following along.  The girl's
long red hair--flared as it was with flashes of brilliant gold and pale
orange with small, random splotches of blond here and there, her hair
seemed almost ablaze, so extravagant was the confluence of colors--fell
below her shoulders and never failed to draw a weary glance.
   These folk had heard the stories of witches from days past, women of
questionable judgment and sordid vice willing to use magic--too, their
bodies--to get what they coveted.  While none would say so publicly, for
fear of retribution by the crotchety reverend, they spoke of it among
themselves frequently enough: the little Witch Girl who always sat in the
front pew.  She was the first to find passage when referenced, the first to
stand for hymns, and certainly the first to raise her arms in adulation. 
None of these virtues could erase the uneasy feeling that permeated the
congregation.
   Rev.  Crutchfield, having caught his breath, continued: "Women shall
know their rightful place!  Was it not Eve herself who bit from the
forbidden fruit?" he said, gesticulating wildly.  "We have all heard of
women up North"--when he said North, it was almost a sneer--"and their
quest for suffrage.  Suffrage!  Scripture tells us a wife should stay about
the home and raise her children; should prepare a meal for her husband fit
for their finest guest each and every day.  A Southern wife honors her
husband and obeys him without question!  She speaks to no man, save her
husband, about matters of the home.  No man!  Her loyalty to God and
husband shall be tested, oh yes, but NEVER found wanting!"
   A hail of amen's followed this last.  This was something the men of the
congregation could warm to, a careful recital of their wife's duties and
obligations.
   He continued, speaking at length, while his ten year-old daughter looked
on, captivated by her father's words, absorbing every detail.
   Surely, she was his best student; surely, she would know her role;
surely, she would be a proper Southern wife.
   Surely.
   CHAPTER 1 -- The Office
   There were two people in the office--a lean, darkly tanned man in his
mid thirties seated behind a broad oak desk, and a woman who appeared to be
barely twenty in the seat opposite, she a pale redhead carrying a few extra
pounds.
   Of average height and build, the man wore a conservative yet elegant
russet suit, replete with a richly textured yellow tie.  His brown hair was
short and simply cut, and he framed dark brown eyes with a neatly trimmed
goatee.  He lounged comfortably in an expansive leather chair, one hand
perched on the edge of his desk while the other idly twirled a wooden
stylus back and forth.  He did it automatically, deftly looping the writing
instrument between his fingers so quickly it was difficult to believe it
wouldn't go flying across the room at any moment.
   She sat on the edge of a tall, stiff hardwood chair with her hands
folded primly around a small purse, wearing a cream-colored billowy
long-sleeve blouse and dark ankle-length dress.  She sat on the barest edge
of the chair, her back ramrod straight and head held regally high, very
much a Lady of old--albeit a very young one.  Indeed, she appeared somewhat
younger than her actual age; twenty-three years old and married to the most
junior clerk at the firm, she might have been eighteen instead, a very
inexperienced young woman sheltered by her religious upbringing and
overbearing marriage.  Her face, slightly fleshy, gave small sign of the
figure she intentionally shielded beneath layers of clothing.
   "I know you are having troubles," the man said abruptly, his voice
harshly cutting the silence between them.
   The young woman squirmed uncomfortably.
   "Come, let us not be coy about this.  You would not be here otherwise."
As he spoke, the man's voice took on deep, measured tones, the result of a
decade of accomplished law practice.  His baritone voice had no trouble
filling the largest of courtrooms; here, in this intimate setting, it
possessed the richness of tone and certainty of content that he saved for
his most compelling arguments.
   She knew that his statement was true.  She and her husband were
experiencing difficulties--and absent those difficulties, she would have
certainly ignored the imposition of this man's request.  Her husband was
away on business; his boss, the man sitting behind the desk, had sent a
courier with a tersely worded message barely an hour before, practically
demanding her immediate presence while hinting at trouble.  Surely, with
her husband away, she should have stayed home...  and yet she had to come,
had to be sure that nothing had happened.
   "Is...  is Robert alright?" she asked hesitantly, not wanting to talk
about her--their--problems.
   "Robert's fine, physically."
   Sarah Higgins sighed with relief.  She took a deep breath and held it
momentarily before exhaling.
   "However, let us speak about your troubles.  Robert is very likely the
most mediocre clerk at the firm.  Perhaps, one day, he'll earn his stripes
and become a full-on lawyer, enjoying all the prestige and honor of such a
station--but for now he's mired in the sundry tedious duties of the, ahem,
Junior Clerk.  He's good enough, I suppose," the man said, waving his hand
dismissively.  "Good enough to just keep his job.  Good enough to just
avoid being the worst.  I often think to myself, 'He's good enough.' But
you see, 'good enough' is far removed from Good Enough.  Do you understand,
Sarah?"
   Sarah startled.  "Mrs.  Higgins, please," she said quickly, distressed
that he would address her so familiarly.
   The man erupted in laughter.  "Mrs.  Higgins, indeed!"
   Sarah recoiled as if struck.  'Is he having a laugh at my expense?' she
wondered.
   "Sarah," he said, exaggerating the syllables, "I fear I am going to have
to let your husband go."
   All the blood drained from her face; her shoulders trembled once, then
held firm.
   "Understand, I do not wish it."
   Sarah looked up from her purse to the man sitting behind the desk.  He
gazed back at her stoically.  They sat, staring at each other for several
long minutes, neither saying a word.
   "Excuse me," she said, running her hand along a non-existent crease in
her dress, "but why am I here?  If my husband is...  is having so much
trouble, that is," she finished uncertainly.
   The man leaned forward, resting both hands on his desk.
   "First, you acknowledge there is a problem?"
   Sarah bit her lip, confused.  She was taught to speak with no one about
her home life, save her husband.  Her father, God rest his soul, had often
spoken to her of the duties and responsibilities of the virtuous wife.  A
Southern Baptist, Daddy had never failed to mention that loyalty and honor,
above all else, should prevail in the holy matrimony she would one day
share with her betrothed.
   'Cover thyself,' he said, almost always followed by 'Honor your husband,
and obey him.' Another maxim was, 'Trust your husband and your
preacher--and no other man.' He had said these (and many other) words so
frequently she knew them to be true; they were ingrained into her very
soul. She had been faithful to her father's teachings throughout her seven
years of marriage: she went to lengths to cover her body so that men would
not lust after her; trusted completely her husband's judgment in all
things; and listened carefully to even his most mundane pronouncements. 
She truly was her Husband's Wife.
   Robert had mentioned that things at the firm could be better.  He had
hinted darkly at a rift with his boss, but never elaborated.  Certainly, he
never intimated that his position was in peril!  She had assumed that, as
men do, they would eventually sort things out and everything would be fine.
Her husband stayed busy, going from county to county, closing deal after
deal for the railroad and speculation companies that his firm represented.
There had to be some value in that, didn't there?  She had given it very
little thought until this very moment, sure any trouble her husband was
having at the firm was a minor thing that would eventually pass.  She felt
her heart racing.  Would Robert be fired?  What for?  Why?
   The bigger question: would Robert--or her father--approve of her
discussing this matter with her husband's boss?
   "Sarah?"
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown," she answered automatically, the way she would her
husband or, if he were still alive, her father.  It seemed her decision had
been made.
   "I asked you a question."
   Sarah licked her lips nervously.  "Yes, Mr.  Brown.  Robert--my
husband-- has spoken of some, ah, issues," she said, voice lightly
soft-spoken.
   Douglas Brown, proprietor and Lead Counsel at the firm, peered across
the desk.  He had very rarely been this close to Sarah Higgins, having
crossed paths with her in the practice lobby exactly three times, each very
briefly.  He was struck now as then by her mane of thick, rich red hair,
pulled back into a tight roll at the top of her head.  He noted that her
skin was quite fair--and she had the lightest blue eyes he had ever seen.
Her pale skin had almost no freckles save a tiny smattering beneath both
her eyes.  Obviously, she didn't get out much.  Her face, more than
striking, was slightly pudgy, and gave barely a hint at the figure hidden
beneath the loose top and dress.  She seemingly always covered herself in
this way.  Still, it was clear enough she had an ample chest, and her
thighs could only be so thick.  He was sure she would be very satisfactory.
   He took all of this in so quickly she failed to notice--for all she
knew, his eyes had stayed glued to her own, a direct view with which found
herself increasingly uncomfortable.
   No man, save her husband, should gaze at her so.
   *
   "Therefore, unless we can reach some sort of accommodation, Robert's
employment has come to an end."
   "But my husband travels and works many long hours!  Surely this... 
misunderstanding...  can be resolved?" she asked, unable to accept that her
husband could be as mediocre as Mr.  Brown claimed.
   "Ah, I only wish it were so.  If it were not for his, shall we say,
religious perspectives, more importantly his proclivity to share them
unbidden, we would not find ourselves in this predicament."
   So it was true.  Robert had intimated that he was being singled out
because of his outspoken Christian views.  He never apologized for it--nor
did she--and would never stop telling everyone the joy of the Father, no
matter the consequences.  Rather than mediocrity, her husband was suffering
from religious persecution!  It was beginning to make sense.
   "Have you nothing to say?" her husband's boss asked pointedly.
   "I...  don't know what to add...  certainly, we are Believers."
   "Certainly," Brown replied, nodding his head.  He had heard more than
enough about the obscure, fundamentalist sect Robert and Sarah Higgins were
part of.  "And, you are loyal to your husband."
   She nodded and smiled weakly.  It was difficult, this, speaking to a
strange man about the nature of her marriage.  She would have to pray at
length about it later.
   "And you would do anything for him." It was a statement, not a question.
Douglas H.  Brown, Esq.  might have been cross-examining a hostile witness
with a series of leading questions, rather than speaking to the junior
clerk's wife.
   "Without question," she said quickly.
   "To be perfectly clear, you would do anything for him." It was almost an
accusation.
   Sarah found herself staring anew at the man across the desk, a knot
forming in the pit of her stomach.
   "Of...  of course.  He is my husband."
   "Even...  this will sound indelicate, forgive me...  help him keep his
job?"
   "I'm not sure I understand how I can do that."
   "Certainly you can't be so naïve."
   Suddenly it dawned on her.  'He doesn't think...  I never...  how dare
he?'
   "No!" she barked, face and neck flushing the deepest crimson.
   Brown, for the first time, smiled.
   *
   "Now, now," he said quickly, gesturing with his hands expansively.  "I'm
sure you misunderstand."
   Sarah had already risen to her feet and taken three steps towards the
door.  She reached for the knob.
   "If you walk out of that door, Robert Higgins shall be terminated
forthwith."
   She froze, hand on the knob.
   "Now, you can choose to help your husband keep his job, or you can
choose to get him fired.  Either way, the choice is yours."
   Slowly she turned, pulling her hand away from the knob.  She stood, back
against the door, as far away from Mr.  Brown as she could be without
leaving the room.
   "I see you have at least a little sense about you.  Very well, then.  As
you may or may not know, I find myself thirty-seven years old and still
very much unattached.  I am not asking you to ply your wares on my behalf,"
he added quickly, "or to prostitute yourself for your husband's job like a
common street walker."
   Sarah blinked quickly, heart still pounding thunderously.  She felt hot
and faint, the flush still filling her upper chest, neck, and face.
   "Still, if you wish to secure your husband's position, you will submit
to a very simple request.  A client of some prestige is coming to town
tomorrow evening, and I find myself in need of a female companion.  This
particular client would frown upon a man of my stature going unescorted to
such a meeting.  Robert is not due back for a fortnight.  If you will
accompany me tomorrow evening, I shall see to it that Robert maintains his
position, irrespective of his ponderous religious blathering."
   Sarah clutched her purse.  Face tight, lips thin, she couldn't decide
which was the bigger outrage--her husband's boss imposing such an
inappropriate request on her person, or his making light of her husband's
'ponderous religious blathering.' She said nothing but merely stood,
breathing rapidly, evidently considering the offer.  She heard her father's
voice ringing through her head: 'Anything for your husband.'
   "Should you accept, a carriage will come for you at six o'clock sharp
tomorrow evening.  Should you decline...  well, suffice to say, Robert's
career, such as it is, will be over."
   She took another deep breath and held it momentarily before slowly
exhaling.
   'I suppose I can do this one thing,' she reasoned, 'to ensure my
husband's continued employment.'
   "If you give me your word as a gentleman, that this will be the only
time, and that Robert shall keep his job, I will honor your request."
   Brown could barely contain his enthusiasm.
   "My word," he said quickly, nodding his head.
   Sarah Higgins curtsied once, turned, and left.
   CHAPTER 2 -- The Carriage
   Sarah was nervous all night and the following day.  Upon arriving at
home she immediately composed a letter, telling her husband Robert how very
much she cared for and missed him.  Of course, she avoided altogether any
description or account of her meeting with Mr.  Brown.
   And she prayed for a full hour before bed.
   After waking the next day, she was going about her daily duties ('A
clean and orderly home is your husband's rightful expectation') when there
was a knock on the door.
   A package.
   Curious, she opened it and withdrew a frilly white laced dress,
accompanied by a long red embroidered shawl and a three-word note:
   "Wear this tonight.  -- DB"
   Sarah held up the thin garment in the light, shook her head softly, and
walked to her bedroom whereupon she threw herself on her bed and lay very
still, searching desperately for the strength for that to which she was
already committed.
   'I must not damage Robert's prospects,' she reasoned, understanding
perfectly well their future depended upon her course of action.  They
boarded, childless, in a most modest single-room dwelling at the back of a
barbershop on the edge of town.  They were broke; Robert's family had left
him nothing, while her father, most pious, had left everything he owned to
his church.  All Robert and Sarah Higgins had was their faith and each
other, pinching every penny to make ends meet.
   She didn't know much about their finances, but she knew this: Robert
needed the security of his position.  She resigned herself to helping him
keep it.
   She whispered a prayer, a short request for strength and guidance, as
she gathered herself and began the task of arranging her clothing for the
evening.
   Next she drew and boiled a pot water, preparing a pail of it for
bathing. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, after all, and she saw no
reason to be anything less than perfectly clean, irrespective of who she
would be spending the evening with.
   'I'm not spending the evening with Mr.  Brown,' she chastised herself,
as she stripped her clothing and undergarments.  The only time in this
world she would ever be naked was while bathing--and then only when the
house was perfectly empty and all the locks securely fastened.
   Sarah took a seat by the steaming pail and, washrag in hand, began
soaping and wiping her body clean.  'It's merely a social gathering,
nothing more,' she told herself, having attended get-togethers after hours
at least a dozen times at church.  She fully expected to be returned to her
home at a decent hour.
   Surely, they would not be out past eight o'clock.
   *
   She paid no mind to the swell of her breasts, round and full, nor their
darkly colored tips, as she bathed her flesh with a wet soapy washcloth,
dipping it into the pail and wringing it out every so often.  As she
squeezed and scrubbed, over, around, and under her heavy breasts, water
trickled down across her plump belly in rivulets, splashing her thighs. 
She was healthy, to be sure, a woman of substance, though clearly removed
from being overly stout or slovenly.  True enough she carried a few extra
pounds, evidenced by twin hip hand holds--but she gave it no thought
whatsoever, as it failed to interfere with her wifely duties.
   Ah, wifely duties.  'Twice a month,' she thought, absently rinsing her
calves.  Every other Tuesday, her husband would claim marital
rights--always in the dark, never more than two minutes in duration.  'Such
a dear man, he doesn't seek to impose, even upon his wife,' she reasoned.
Her role, during the bi-monthly trysts, was very simple: crawl between the
sheets and pull her nightgown up about her hips, and then wait for his
arrival.  He would enter the room a discreet amount of time later and climb
into bed dressed in his nightclothes.
   It was somewhat fuzzy what happened next; Sarah willed herself out of
the room, instead closing her eyes and thinking of the wash, of what food
she would prepare in the coming days, anything but what her husband was
doing on top of her in the dark.
   After he was done, she would quickly pull her nightgown down, covering
herself, get out of his bed and go to her own, smaller, twin-sized bed in
the corner where she would immediately fall asleep for the night.
   She and her husband never prayed before bed on these Tuesdays each
month, instead preferring silence and solitude.
   It was always so.
   *
   Very clean, undergarments (thick and cumbersome, as any woman's should
be) in place, Sarah draped the silky white-laced dress over her body and
grabbed the tiny two-inch by two-inch mirror (the only mirror she owned)
from the back of the bottom drawer.
   Satisfied that she was perfectly proper in every way--not even the
slightest bit of her body could be seen under Mr.  Brown's specially
delivered dress--she sat by the window and waited nervously, randomly
touching the knot of hair pulled high atop her head.
   Right on time, she saw and heard the carriage pull up.
   "You're sure it's back here?" a gruff voice said.
   "Aye, that's what Brown told me, said she'd be most ready," another
equally gruff, heavily accented voice replied.
   "This place is a right dump."
   Both men laughed at this, which caused Sarah to blush mildly.
   Footsteps on the porch, followed by a loud "Rap-Rap-Rap!" told her it
was time.
   She opened the door.
   "Greetin's, miss," a short, dark-haired, very ugly man said, bending
slightly at the waist.  It was almost-but-not-quite a bow.
   "How do you do?" she replied.
   "Mr.  Brown sen' us."
   "Very well," she said, stepping out and pulling her door to.  She walked
clumsily to the carriage, pulling the shawl snug, aware that the frilly
dress threatened to catch on every nook, corner, and cranny she traipsed
by.
   The ugly man--ugly was too kind, his face looked very much like a hog
beaten about viciously with a heavy wooden club--opened the carriage door
and gestured Sarah in.  She noted that the driver, sitting high astride the
carriage with reins in hand, twisted around so he could watch the
proceedings.
   "Thank you," she whispered as she stepped up into the coach.
   "Don' mention it," the man said as he none-so-subtly reached out with
his hand and pushed on her derriere, squeezing her buttocks tightly in the
process.
   She jumped, startled, into the coach and fell onto the floor.
   As the carriage door slammed shut, she heard both men laughing heartily
at her expense.  Her face and neck colored again--a common problem, surely
attributable to her pale complexion.  It seemed that any time a man spoke
to her out of turn, or she heard the tiniest hint of impropriety in a
conversation, she turned the deepest shades of red and felt a visceral heat
build in her chest, neck and cheeks.
   Humiliating, certainly; no man should think he had such an effect on
her! And yet, she couldn't help it and, even now, with the two questionable
characters sitting atop the coach, laughing energetically, she felt the hot
shame fill her body and knew not how to release it.
   Eventually, it would disappear on its own.
   Eventually.
   *
   It was a spacious coach; there were two leather-covered padded bench
seats on either side, each capable of comfortably seating four.  A small,
unlit lamp was perched on the panel opposite the door.  Sarah chose a side
and slid over as far into the corner as she could.  It still being light
out, she pulled down the window shades, preferring instead the lowered
lighting.
   Besides, no one could see her if the shades were down.
   With a lurch, the coach began its journey.
   A quarter hour later, the coach stopped again.  This time, the voices
outside were much more subdued, respect and deferment obvious in both tenor
and volume.
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown, as you requested."
   "Certainly, Mr.  Brown."
   "This way then, Mr.  Brown."
   The coach door opened and Douglas Brown stepped up.
   "Sarah," he said, nodding towards her as he pulled the door shut.  He
sat on the opposite side.
   "Mr.  Brown," she responded, voice a bit high and somewhat strained.
   "I see you received my package."
   She said nothing.
   Brown opened the shades, allowing a broad swath of waning light to fill
the coach.  Not yet half past six the sun, though it would not set for
another hour, tracked low in the sky, swarming the coach with effusive
yellow light.  Sarah sat stone still, observing small dust particles
suspended in the shimmering light.
   The carriage began moving again.
   "What, pray tell, are you wearing under that garment?"
   His comment arrested her attention, drawing her eyes back to him.
   "Pardon?"
   Brown reached out a foot and lifted the hem of her dress, revealing a
heavy opaque slip.
   "You look like a white triangle, with a bit of gauzy lace thrown over."
   Sarah felt her cheeks color again--'Why does that always happen?'--and
immediately dropped her gaze.
   "I'm afraid that just won't do.  You're supposed to be my, ah, escort,
tonight.  Not my mother."
   "Mr.  Brown, I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
   Brown, sitting beneath the coach driver, seized his cane and thrust up,
slamming the capped end into the ceiling.
   "Pop-pop-pop!"
   A small window opened above Brown's head, revealing a screened outside
view.
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown?"
   "Turn around.  We need to return my special lady friend to her
residence."
   "As you say, sir."
   Sarah felt the carriage swing out slightly before beginning a long
u-turn.
   "Mr.  Brown, I--"
   "There's nothing to discuss, Sarah.  You will honor my request or not,
with all the ramifications that follow.  If we just hurry, I can still meet
my dinner obligations, although this may well leave me short of time."
   The carriage jostled and banged across the rutted road as it spun
around. Finally, wheels appropriately placed astraddle the deeply grooved
road, they began rolling again in the direction from whence they had come.
   Sarah looked across the coach, noted the way Mr.  Brown avoided her
eyes, instead gazing emptily out the window.  He seemed almost bored, as if
he had expected as much, had known in advance she would disappoint.  The
corners of his mouth frowned slightly.
   "Mr.  Brown."
   He continued looking out the window.
   She cleared her throat and tried again.
   "Ahem, ah, Mr.  Brown."
   He said nothing, sitting comfortably, but did turn his eyes in her
direction before slightly raising one eyebrow.
   "Could you...  that is, I...  please, Mr.  Brown." Her voice, smaller
than usual, was virtually inaudible, drowned out by the sounds of the
wheels clogging along the rutted road, the jingling harness, and the random
whinny and snort of horses.
   Brown again lifted his cane and rapped the ceiling viciously.
   "POPOPOP!!" The sound was deafening.
   "Mr.  Brown, is everything alright?" a voice asked quickly.  It was the
ugly man, obviously concerned.
   "Could you go any slower?  I have a very important meeting and this will
tragically delay my arrival!"
   "Certainly sir.  HAGH!" The sound of a whip cracking, followed by horse
bray, filled the air.  "HAGH!  GO!"
   The carriage sped up noticeably.
   Sarah, troubled, breathed deeply and bit her lip in frustration.  Stark,
unbridled panic was building within and threatened to overtake her
completely.  With each passing second, she felt the impending loss of
composure, the sense that she would quite literally beg for mercy.  There
was nothing she could do--well, not quite nothing, there was one thing. 
She could comply with his request...
   Strangely, at that moment, she heard her father's voice in her ear:
'Cover thyself,' he whispered urgently.  'Cover thyself!'
   Certainty.  She felt it, the knowledge that Mr.  Brown would deliver on
his threat and terminate her husband's employment.
   She reached over and closed the shades.
   She knew what she must do.
   Sarah ponderously raised first one foot to remove a shoe, and then the
other.
   *
   Brown watched it all with a forced sense of detachment.  He nodded
approval as she removed her shoes, before leaning forward in her seat.  He
soaked in her comely features, so clearly defined, the staggering blue eyes
as she turned to face him.
   "Mr.  Brown, I--" she said, stopping herself.  She quickly recovered. 
"Could you turn away, please?"
   "Certainly," he answered immediately.  "I am pleased that you comprehend
your position tonight.  However, we must fully understand each other before
I have the coachmen turn around for a second time."
   Sarah's arms stopped, frozen in place.
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown?"
   "If this happens again, there shall be no second chance."
   He didn't have to explain what 'this' was--he was speaking of her
unquestioned obedience.
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown," she answered in a strangled voice.
   "Very well, then.  I shall do you the courtesy of leaving the coach, to
afford some level of privacy." He paused a moment.  "I am not an indecent
man."
   "No, sir, of course not," she answered, validating his statement.
   "Good."
   He again banged on the ceiling.  The screened window opened.
   "Stop the carriage.  I'm coming up top."
   *
   After sliding out of the dress, Sarah proceeded to remove the heavy
slip, careful to position the long red shawl so as to keep her body
covered, as the slip was the only undergarment she wore, aside from
knee-length stockings, beneath the frilly silky dress.  She had had no
reason to believe she would need more underclothings, a heavy opaque slip
being all that should be required.
   Now naked, save the shawl and stockings, she couldn't stop her rapid
shallow breathing.  Very quickly she slipped her feet back into the dress
and slithered it up her body, past her rounded hips and up her torso.  She
reached back, struggling to fasten the buttons needed to keep the dress in
place.  The process was made more difficult by her shaking hands--she was
petrified at the prospects of wearing such a garment in public.
   *
   Dressed, shawl wrapped tightly around her torso (and held firmly in
place with both hands!), Sarah again reclined in her seat, leaning back and
wedging herself comfortably into the corner.  She had shoved her slip
underneath the bench seats wooden plank, not wanting Mr.  Brown--or anyone
else, for that matter--to see such a personal article of clothing lying
about.
   It was then that the carriage slowed.  They had been moving at terrific
speed for what she supposed was half an hour.  She peaked under the window
shade and noted the rapidly fading light.
   'Late,' she thought, 'past seven o'clock, certainly.'
   Just then, the carriage stopped.  Moments later Douglas Brown,
accompanied by a man and woman, entered the carriage.  Mr.  Brown took a
seat by Sarah, close to her person but not inappropriately so.  The other
couple sat on the bench opposite.
   "Charles Winthrop, this is Sarah."
   Charles nodded vaguely, glanced at Sarah briefly and then put his
attention back squarely on Mr.  Brown.
   "Yes, Douglas, but you realize, we simply MUST get this deal done!"
   "Profit, Charles, always you speak of profit!"
   Mr.  Winthrop turned to his female companion.  "He speaks of profit as
though it were a personal failing!" he exclaimed dubiously.  His companion
patted his arm in understanding.
   "See, Douglas?  SHE understands, don't you dear?"
   "Of course," she said demurely, staring into his eyes with pure
adoration.
   "See, Douglas?" he said, never looking away.  "My Jennifer has a full
grasp on things!" Mr.  Winthrop laughed heartily before none-so-subtly
placing his hand on Jennifer's thigh and giving a hearty squeeze.  "Very
good, dear," he cooed, leaning in for a kiss.  "Yes, very, very good."
   Sarah sat back, shocked.  This was outrageous behavior, OUTRAGEOUS!  To
handle a woman so, in public no less!  'Not exactly in public,' she chided
herself, 'but certainly in the company of strangers.'
   "Well then, Douglas, what DO you have in store for us tonight?" Mr. 
Winthrop said, sitting back and pulling his companion close.
   "Charles, you always ask, and I always answer the same.  We shall have a
fine dinner at The Visum, in our usual corner.  Afterwards, Collins will
join us for a bit of heavy negotiation--"
   "Collins?  Impossible!"
   "--after which we will do what gentlemen do."
   "Do we need him, Douglas?  That clerk of yours, what's-his-name, is
really making himself useful, I hardly think we need the services of that
uncouth Collins fellow at this late date!"
   "We have not yet secured the last of the land deals to cement the
railroad, Charles.  There are a handful of properties yet to close in the
southern counties.  To be sure, we are close.  Notwithstanding the efforts
of my clerk, there is still a task only Mr.  Collins can fulfill." As he
finished this statement, Brown's voice became deep and somber, as if he
regretted having to involve Collins at all.
   Sarah, for her part, was hopelessly lost, having no idea of what they
spoke.  Instead, she couldn't help noticing Mr.  Winthrop's hand, wrapped
as it was around the thigh of the woman sitting next to him.  Winthrop
would squeeze, sometimes tightly, as he spoke, as if exaggerating his words
with his handling.  Jennifer sat quietly, back straight and chest up
thrust, calmly accepting his course treatment.
   "My word," Sarah breathed, for the first time noting the state of
Jennifer's dress.  It was exceedingly low cut, exposing nearly
three-quarter moons above lace-edged cups.  With each breath, the poor
girl's heaving flesh expanded, threatening to spill over.  Sarah looked up
and caught Jennifer staring right back.  She was smiling; not a kind smile
that girls in similar circumstances might share, nor a beckoning smile that
invited conversation; no, it was a calculating smile that failed to reach
the eyes, a smile that suggested while she, Jennifer, certainly knew--and
accepted--her place, this other girl, Sarah was it?, was hopelessly miscast
and tragically ill-informed.
   The two men continued speaking for a short time before stopping, upon
which Mr.  Winthrop, without ceremony or preamble, turned and lowered his
face to Jennifer's and opened his mouth.
   "Darling," Jennifer whispered, kissing him open-mouthed.
   Sarah, unable to hide her disgust, turned her face sideways.  At the
same time, Brown sidled over to her.
   "Sarah," he whispered, his mouth inches from her ear.  She felt his
breath play across her ear lobe, accompanied by a vicious pounding beneath
her breast.
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown?"
   "I think we've arrived," he said, glancing out the window.
   So they had.
   CHAPTER 3 -- The Gentlemen's Club
   The sign outside the Gentlemen's Club had three words written in ornate
script:
   Dus Aliter Visum
   From the Latin, "The gods decreed otherwise." The Visum, as they called
it, was an establishment with very limited membership.  It wasn't
bloodline, occupation, or university that garnered membership to such an
august institution; heavens no!  Rather, the two requirements were very
simple: Wealth, and Approval.
Wealth because one had to be in possession of such a worth personally
and make a donation to the club coffers sufficient to convey unparalleled
superiority to any non-member, and Approval because any potential member
was obligated to secure a staggering 75% vote of the standing members to
join.
   *
   Winthrop was the first to exit the coach; he immediately stepped around
the carriage and up to the Club door, ignoring completely the doorman. 
Jennifer, his companion, struggled to keep up, careful to keep her gaze
fixed down on a mark ten feet apace.  Brown was next; he afforded no
assistance to Sarah as she exited the coach, but lingered just long enough
so that she saw and followed him.
   Having stepping through the Club doorway, Brown paused for Sarah.
   "Sarah," he whispered.
   "Yes?"
   He cleared his throat impatiently.
   "Sarah?" he repeated, a bit more forcefully.
   She understood.
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown?" she replied, blinking rapidly.
   "You will not eat unless I place food before you.  You will not speak
unless spoken to.  You will look at a spot ten feet ahead, eyes cast down,
the entire time you are about The Visum.  Do you understand?"
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown," she answered quickly.
   Without another word, Brown turned and strode away.  Sarah followed in
his wake, struggling to keep up.
   Out of the corner of her eyes she saw many tables, perhaps a dozen, half
of which were occupied.  The opulence and ostentation, even from her
abbreviated view, could not be understated.  At each table there was
seating for six, although typically there were only four--and without
exception, for every man there was a woman.  At some tables, the women
seemed to be actively engaged in conversation; at others, they were little
more than decorations, sitting idly by as the men spoke of important
things.
   Without a specific sense of their eventual destination, Sarah focused on
Mr.  Brown's worked alligator-skin shoes, the way his slacks rose and fell
against his calf, the pivot of his foot as he turned and changed direction.
She followed him around one corner, down a long straightaway, past and
around another table and then back down an adjacent straightaway.  When
they walked past Mr.  Winthrop and Jennifer, sitting at a favored table
deep in the far corner, Sarah faltered ever so briefly--wouldn't they be
dining with them?  Instead, Mr.  Brown blew right past, walking in a
purposeful way.
   Sarah dutifully followed.
   *
   The scene was not lost on any of the Dus Aliter Visum crowd.  After the
second go around the dining room, most of the conversations had ceased and
the attention of the room was candidly on Mr.  Douglas Brown, parading
around his evening's escort.  One table chuckled softly before returning to
their own conversations; at another, a larger man paid particular attention
to the young female, quite taken by her fair complexion and fiery red hair.
He saw glimpses of flesh through the vapory material of her white dress,
the hint of her hind quarters as she rounded a corner, a sway of her chest,
that told him everything he needed to know about what was beneath: a
full-figured filly, a bit thick in the bottom, but primed for a hard ride.
This particular gentleman grinned widely as he raised his glass bottoms-up.
   *
   By now, Sarah was beginning to catch on.  They had passed Mr. 
Winthrop's table twice, and continued walking about, not terribly fast but
certainly not leisurely, merely at a pace convenient for getting where one
wanted in a reasonable period of time.
   On their third pass, Brown did, indeed, slow and stop at the table. 
Amid no small amount of fanfare, Brown selected and pulled back a chair for
Sarah; however, he failed utterly to even gaze in her direction, instead
sliding the chair up underneath her as if he were seating an invisible
guest.
   "There now, Douglas, that was quite interesting," Winthrop said,
obviously amused.
   "Was it, Charles?  I was merely...  searching for the table.  I was
unable to locate you initially, but I had a sense that you were seated in
this area.  Perhaps I missed you the first time around?"
   "Perhaps.  Let's speak of more important things, shall we?  This Collins
business, for instance."
   Brown gestured with his index finger; immediately, a platter appeared,
replete with various delicacies and appetizers.
   "I've already told you, Charles, Mr.  Collins has yet a role to play."
   "What of this clerk?" Winthrop said, waving his hand.  "He's been
nothing short of extraordinary!  We've been able to, ah, use a bit of
finesse, shall we say, in the areas he has personally visited!"
   "I agree.  I much prefer to pay the extra five percent, rather than have
Collins and his goons shake things around over-much.  Still, there are some
who are simply unwilling to accommodate our requirements."
   "Send the clerk again, then!  Let him try!  The fool has no sense of his
value, he's still collecting a clerk's pay!"
   Both men erupted in laughter, toasting their underlings and blissful
ignorance.
   Sarah, meanwhile, sat upright, shawl wrapped firmly about her chest and
draped over her waist.  The sight of her arms, clearly visible beneath the
thin material, sent shivers down her spine.  She was thankful for the
shawl, the only thing permitting her any small amount of dignity, and
clutched it tightly.
   She hoped the low level of light from the various oil lamps wouldn't
afford too close an observation of her body; at any rate, she sat, eyes
glued to the table, allowing the conversation to pass unnoticed.
   If she were quiet enough, perhaps she would be ignored...
   *
   After half an hour in which she neither ate nor spoke, Sarah suddenly
felt hands about her shoulders.  Someone was grabbing her shawl, trying to
wrest it free!
   She looked up--it was Jennifer, of all people, pulling swiftly and
smoothly such that the ornate shawl simply slipped between Sarah's own
fingers.  It happened very quickly.
   "Goodness, Douglas," Winthrop said.  Forgotten for the moment was his
own escort, Jennifer; rather, his attention was wholly fixated on the thin
material clinging to Sarah Higgins' chest, six inches beneath her exposed
collarbone.  Brown himself couldn't look away, either; there, sitting on
the end of what appeared to be twin white honeydew melons, were two large
strawberries.  Brown licked his lips, for the first time this evening
having seen something he did not expect.
   For her part, Jennifer stood back, Sarah's heretofore shielding shawl
now hung incongruently around her own neck and shoulders.  She seemed very
pleased with herself.
   "Sarah," Brown said, turning his body in her direction.
   She turned dark with shame, a deep crimson color even the low light
couldn't obscure.  She knew too well what these lecherous men were
observing; hadn't she, for years, seen the obscene, strawberry-sized and
cherry-colored tips about her own breasts?  Hadn't she gone to great
lengths to keep them covered, even from her own husband?
   "Sarah," a voice said, penetrating her fog.
   "Yes...  yes, Mr.  Brown."
   "What do you think of our fine club?"
   "I..." She had no idea how to respond.
   "Do you find it so offensive?"
   "No, of course not."
   "Very good.  I would hate to think we had somehow infringed on your own
sensibilities."
   "No, sir."
   "So respectful," Winthrop said, taking a drink of searing Kentucky
whiskey.
   "Charles, I do believe it's time to eat."
   Charles, eyes transfixed unabashedly about Sarah's substantial breasts,
said nothing, merely nodded affirmative.
   Brown gestured; trays of food instantly appeared, placed around their
table in a dazzling presentation.  Sarah, hunched slightly, stared at the
empty plate sitting before her.
   "Back straight," Brown said, cutting into a slice of prime beef. 
"Straight!"
   Startled, Sarah bolted upright, accompanied by much swaying.  Her
overlarge nipples brushed against the thin dress and hardened.  She felt
it, an itchy tightening, and hoped they couldn't be seen.  She felt a
sudden compelling urge to drop to her knees and begin to pray.
   She was only just able to resist.
   *
   As they ate their meal, the other gentlemen at the club--alone, in
pairs, and even with their own escorts in tow--came by the preferred table
to pay their respects to Misters Brown and Winthrop.  Mr.  Winthrop, in
particular, was a man of high prestige, the one they most tried to impress
with stories of recent acquisitions; Mr.  Brown, on the other hand, seemed
to be more of the leader, a man they deferred to in most conversations,
whose words carried much weight.  In all instances, each of the men
hungrily drank in the sight of the new girl's remarkable assets.  Full,
impressive mammary glands of such a size, tipped with scarlet olives that
strained at their thin covering, never failed to captivate.
   "Lively one, there," was the only comment that came to Sarah's ears that
she felt certain was specifically directed her way.  She darted her eyes up
quickly--it was the fat man, who stared at her chest the same way Mr. 
Winthrop had, sparing no glance at her eyes or face.  He appeared to be
sizing them up, wondering almost aloud how much nourishment he might
withdraw from the succulent milk-producing glands, were the poor girl
lactating.  Just then, however, he did look up--eyes locked, he opened his
mouth and smiled, exposing bad teeth to go along with his fat gut.
   'This man must be wealthy, indeed,' she thought, immediately followed by
more shame that to him she should be so exposed
   Finally, all had eaten.  Except for Sarah.
   "Sarah?"
   "Yes, Mr.  Brown?"
   "Would you like a bite to eat?"
   She looked at Mr.  Brown, paused, and shook her head.
   "No, thank you," she whispered.
   As the table was cleared, two men came in the front door.  One was
older, perhaps fifty, while the other appeared to be half his age.  The
older man was broad of shoulder with thick, railroad-tie arms and
tree-trunk thighs.  He was very impressive.  The younger man seemed almost
a carbon copy; perhaps a bit smaller about both the arms and legs, but with
the same hefty shoulders, it would have been clear to even the most casual
observer that the two men were related.  As they approached the
Winthrop-Brown party, it became even more clear, as they both shared thick
heads of unruly blond hair, bulky noses and bushy eyebrows, and had a way
of walking with their arms rocking sideways away from their bodies as if
they expected a scuffle to break out at any time.
   These two were father and son if ever there were such a thing.
   "Brown," the older man said, not quite disrespectful, not quite
contemptuous, but certainly far from deferential.  It was a courtesy bound
by financial considerations, and nothing more, which prompted his public
behavior towards Brown and Winthrop.  Winthrop, in particular, held a
special place in the older man's studied condescension.  It was an open
secret that each tremendously disliked the other.
   "Mr.  Collins.  How are you this evening?" Brown replied.
   "I am well."
   There would be no 'sirs,' little polite discourse, and no civic
gestures.
   "Excellent.  We have a job for you."
   "I'm sure," he said, still looking at Brown.  He failed utterly to
notice Winthrop or his escort, who he had seen before, and spared no glance
for the other woman at the table.
   "There is a property in Valdosta that we simply must move on with
maximum possible haste.  I trust you will have it taken care of in short
order."
   "Certainly."
   "Our terms, such as they are, remain the same."
   "Agreed."
   "Very well."
   Now, as they shook hands--nothing was ever put in writing, Brown and
Collins understood their hand-struck deal was more binding than any
contract--Collins finally cast a glance at the young woman sitting next to
Brown.
   His eyes opened rather more than usual, accompanied by a strange set of
his jaw.  He smiled--rare indeed--a small smile that appeared most out of
place on his non-symmetrical face.  He appeared to be in the deepest
concentration, eyes burrowing holes throw Sarah Higgins.  He forced himself
to look away.
   "Mr.  Brown," he said, having never released the man's hand, "might I
have a word?"
   *
   After stepping away for a brief conversation--during which the elder
Collins and his son both exchanged words with Brown, and at one point which
all three men turned in unison and looked back at Sarah--Brown returned to
his seat, while Collins and his son walked towards the door and left.
   "Dessert," Brown said, snapping his fingers.  Winthrop, upon this
announcement, seemed a bit livelier, as if he had been waiting for this
moment.
   Sarah noticed that no food came to the table.  Arms askance, she was
painfully aware of her exposed breasts, felt the weight of them heavily in
her own mind, dragging her down into depths of shame.
   Brown stood and moved towards Sarah, grabbing her chair.  "Up we go," he
said, sliding it back.
   Sarah, mortified, stood.
   Brown began walking; his escort followed, eyes down, religiously tracing
each of his steps.
   *
   "Look, he's doing it again," the fat man said hungrily.
   "Yes, so he is," Winthrop replied with vigor.
   The other four men laughed heartily.
   "Put her through her paces, Douglas," one voice said.
   "Yes, indeed, put her to a good lather."
   More laughter followed.
   This was proving to be quite the show.
   *
   Brown, as before, started at a pace Sarah could only just keep up with;
this time, however, he slowly increased his speed, weaving a path back and
forth.  As he walked he adjusted his tie, stopped briefly and scratched his
temple, or searched his pockets, seemingly searching for something he had
lost.  Sarah, ever diligent, followed, beads of sweat forming on her
forehead, on the swells of her breasts, the curve of her lower back, and
all about her arms.
   Brown stopped and turned around, mock searching.  "There you are," he
said.
   "S--sir?"
   "Chh, chh," he said, snapping his fingers at his side.  He started
walking.
   With barely a perceptible pause, Sarah followed, trying to resist the
sense that she was a prize dame being led to show.
   "That's it, Douglas, walk the bitch," the fat man said.  His face was
beet red, eyes abulge as he stared at the silky dress now clinging
scandalously to Sarah's sweat-drenched body.  Her chest was bared in nearly
full detail, large and round with nipples clearly discernible in both size
and shape; her rear end, soft and curvy, was equally clung to and exposed
in the back.  With each step her breasts trembled just so and rocked
enticingly from side to side.
   Having stopped one final time, as if to retrieve an imaginary object
from one of the now-cleared tables, Brown gathered himself upright,
straightened his tie ostentatiously and headed towards an unobtrusive brown
door in the corner farthest from the main entrance.
   Sarah, naturally, followed, flashes of hot shame rushing through her
body each time the slightest breeze played across any of her womanly parts.
   As he approached the door, Brown ignored the engraving on the upper
doorframe and instead walked right in.  Sarah followed, eyes down.
   The other girls--escorts, to be more precise--immediately left their
menfolk and themselves entered the room, Jennifer pulling up the rear.  She
looked up as she walked through the doorway and noted with no small
satisfaction the engraving:
   The Dessert Chamber.
   Eyes alight with anticipation, Jennifer pulled the door shut behind.
   *
   As she entered the room, Sarah dared to take a quick peek around.  It
was a medium-sized chamber, twenty-feet by twenty-feet, with just the one
door to come or go.  There were no windows; rather, the walls were lined,
every five-feet, with wrought iron candleholders holding long lit candles.
The flickering candlelight shimmered, almost alive, casting minor dancing
shadows in all directions.  In the very center of the room was what
appeared to be a chair.
   As she got closer--for the single furnishing was their destination--she
realized it wasn't a chair at all.  Instead, it was a large padded leather
footstool, of sorts, the largest she had ever seen; more accurate to call
it a platform, perhaps.  Six-feet to a side, the platform was elevated
three feet off the floor and...  she gulped, gasped: there were iron
shackles at each of the four corners.
   She hadn't heard the other girls come in behind, or the door close for
that matter, so when Jennifer spoke in her ear she almost jumped out of her
skin.
   "Don' usually be needin' those," Jennifer said, shoving Sarah in the
lower back.  Sarah looked around for Mr.  Brown, having lost him.  He stood
over to the side, his back to the door, watching with an unreadable
expression.  "Mos' girls be knowin' their place, by the time they get back
'ere!" Jennifer added, cackling at her little joke.
   Sarah pulled up short of the platform, hands clenched into tight little
fists.  Forgotten for the moment were her swollen breasts, so painfully
uncovered by the thin clingy material of her white-laced dress plastered to
her body; also forgotten was the cool breeze that played across her thighs.
   "Go 'head, climb up.  Mos' of 'em be wantin' ya on your han's an' knees
like," Jennifer said, oblivious to any fist-making or posturing on Sarah's
part.
   Unable to withstand another word, Sarah turned abruptly on her
tormentor, eyes afire to match her hair.  A small growl escaped her throat;
as she opened her mouth to speak, Mr.  Brown took a step forward and strode
over towards the platform, a jaunty bounce in his step.
   "Go on, then," he said, hands on hips.  "Take your place, Sarah."
   Sarah stared at him for a fraction of a second before closing her mouth.
After another pause, this one more noticeable, she turned back to the
platform, shoulders heavily slumped.  'No more chances,' he had said, back
in the carriage.  Sarah Higgins placed Douglas Brown as a man of his word.
   Hiking up her dress, Sarah put first one knee and then the other on the
platform.  When her weight was settled on her knees, she fell forward,
dropping her hands to the platform and distributing her weight evenly
between both hands and both knees.  For a brief second, she felt her heavy
breasts wobbling rudely back and forth.
   "Tha's right," Jennifer said, taking over again.  "Very good!  They'll
be righ' pleased wi' you.  Now, ease forwards a bit, center y'self on the
platform." She shoved Sarah from behind.  "Forward, tha's it.  Better!"
   Sarah shuffled into position.
   "Sarah?" Jennifer asked.
   Sarah didn't answer.
   "Woul' you like ta pray firs'?" Jennifer asked sarcastically.  The other
girls snickered.  "I'm sure you migh' be in a more receivin' mood, given
the circumstances!" Raucous laughter filled the room as the other girls
piled on.
   Just then the door opened, followed by a shuffle of feet as (Sarah
assumed) members of The Visum entered the room.  A heavy latch clicking
ominously into place indicated the door was bolted shut.
   A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Sarah's face, around to her nose
and perched there momentarily before dripping down to the platform.  She
felt stale, the coolness of perspiration ever-present all about her body.
She had a sneaking suspicion she might yet be doing a fair amount of
sweating before this night was done.
   Rather abruptly, Sarah felt hands unfastening her buttons before
grasping the hem of her dress, gathered at her knees, where they began
pulling, easing the soaked material up past her thighs.  She immediately
flushed, felt overwhelmed by the now-familiar hummingbird pitter-patter of
her heart thumping impossibly fast within her chest.  Surely she would
faint soon; was there no end to this humiliation?
   She thought of her husband, Robert, and kept telling herself she was
doing this for him.  Mr.  Brown had forced her hand--and loyalty obliged
her to play it, even one so dreadful as this.
   The dress, now hauled up so that it exposed her supple rounded haunches,
was being dragged somewhat more vigorously over her torso.  Cool air played
over her naked skin, causing an eruption of goose bumps that spread like
waves in a duck pond over the exposed flesh.
   That was when the handling began.
   One hand rested on her bottom, cupping the softly padded curve and
pressing its fingers into her pliable flesh; another traced the back of her
leg, running along the flexed tendons; still another ran up her back,
forcing the dress around her neck.
   "Now, now," a voice said: Mr.  Brown.  "No need to hurry, give the girls
a moment to clear things out."
   The hands withdrew, though not before the one on her backside slipped a
finger along the length of her crevice, darting in quickly at the bottom.
   Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at the intrusion; her thighs
bristled, flinching like a skittish mare.  Her breathing was horse-like as
well, panting loudly as she sucked in great lungful after lungful of air.
Combined with the profuse lather--a result of nerves as much as physical
exertion--she resembled nothing so much as a filly fresh from a long
afternoon sojourn, still blowing hard, ready for a rub down and bit of
rest.
   The dress, such as it was, slipped free of her head and rested on the
platform, where it was held in place by her arms, which were still within
the sleeves of the crumpled gossamer material.
   "Arm," a voice commanded severely.  She lifted, first one arm and then
the other, and watched the dress quickly disappear.
   *
   She was now buck naked, save a pair of white knee length stockings, on
her hands and knees, displayed as a favored ornament or prized
possession--or worse--in a room full of strange men and women.  Every
instinct in her brain told her to get up, now, and run as fast as her legs
could carry.
   But where would she go?  She had no idea of her location, no sense
whatsoever that she could even manage to escape should she try in the first
place.
   And then there was Mr.  Brown; head hanging low, she could see nothing
but the indistinct shape of legs, moving randomly in and out of focus. 
There was no way she could assign identity, except for one: the fat man,
who wore plain black slacks, because of the way he waddled up in front,
directly facing her.  She was fairly certain she knew who he was, at any
rate.
   Just as she was certain she would do nothing but remain, hand and foot,
on the platform, come what may.
   *
   "There, she's fully on display."
   "So she is."
   "Most satisfactory!"
   A small outburst of lewd commentary began, on everything from padded
fanny to heavy-hanging breasts to still pent-up hair.
   "Release the hair, Jennifer," a voice encouraged.  Jennifer was only too
pleased to oblige.
   Sarah felt fingers at the back of her head, roughly pulling at the bow
she had used to efficiently tie up her long, thick hair.
   Quickly it fell, obscuring her view on all sides.  She only vaguely saw
the man in front, fat thighs at the fore, alternately opening and clutching
his fingers in anticipation.  The fat man seemed anxious.
   "So, a prime example, the best breeding," the voice resumed.  It wasn't
Mr.  Brown or Mr.  Winthrop, Sarah noticed.  She clung to every word,
absorbing the entirety of what was said.  "Look at those flanks!"
   Several voices murmured approval.
   "Perhaps a bit heavy, but certainly not overly so.  In the racing
parlance, she's a bit above racing weight, but would be able to easily work
it off."
   She couldn't believe they were speaking of her so candidly, as if she
weren't even there.  And then the theoretical wall of separation came
crumbling down: "Isn't that right, Sarah, wife of the junior clerk?"
   Derisive laughter spewed forcefully at her expense.
   "The clerk's wife?  Really?"
   "Goodness, our clerk really shouldn't leave this at home alone too
long!"
   "Thoroughbred material.  I'd love to straddle this filly, ride her hard
and put her away wet!"
   "Here!"
   "Here!  Here!"
   "Yeah!"
   Sarah knelt, bereft of any self-respect.  Was it possible she, a good
Christian woman, was so exposed and so disrespected?  She fully expected to
wake, at any time, from this terrible dream.
   She noted in a detached way that only the men spoke of her this way;
Jennifer seemed to have fallen to the wayside.  This was quite clearly the
Sarah-wife-of-the-junior-clerk show.
   Just then they heard a pounding about the door.
   "Douglas?" It was Winthrop, plainly annoyed.
   "Now Charles, this will save us a pretty penny indeed."
   But it was far from clear that the rest shared Brown's sentiment;
evidently with full knowledge of who stood on the other side of the door,
there was much rumbling about not permitting the newcomer to lay claim.
   "Bah!  He's undeserving!"
   "What about my chance!"
   "And me!"
   "For half," Brown said, louder than usual.  The other voices immediately
shushed.
   Profit, above all, they understood.
   A fifty-percent discount from Thaddeus Collins for future services was
no small amount of currency.
   *
   There was another knock before Brown opened the door.
   "Mr.  Collins," he said, beckoning with his arm.
   "Brown," the elder Collins said, immediately followed by his son.
   There was no talking, not even a murmur, as the two new men came ambling
into the room.  After some dragging of feet, all the men in the room--nine,
to be exact--surrounded the platform.  There were three to each side, two
to the rear, and one in front.  The women, still in the room, were standing
well back against the walls, completely silent.
   Sarah, still unable to see anything due to her long draping mane,
trembled softly under their critical gaze.  She could see the man in front
enough to determine that it was no longer the fat man; this one seemed
taller and thinner.
   "There, I think we all stand ready to sample the dessert," a voice said,
the same one that had spoken prior to the new arrivals.  "Have at it,
gentlemen."
   This was the command they had been waiting for.  Eager hands immediately
pounced on her body, stroking, rubbing, and pinching in all places.  A hand
reached under her breast, taking its weight in the palm and measuring the
heft of it.  Another, on the other side, immediately went for the nipple,
squeezing it none-too-softly.
   "Uunngh," Sarah groaned.  It was uncomfortable the way they pulled and
teased the tender tips of her breasts.  The other hand pulled back and
twisted, pressing fingers savagely together around the sensitive flesh.
   Other hands roamed her rump, fingernails dragged along her thighs; still
others grabbed her arms, pushing and pulling, testing her strength, while
yet another closed around the back of her neck and pressed together,
holding it firmly in position.
   They were everywhere at once, seemingly roaming and groping every inch
of her body simultaneously.
   "Feel these," a voice whispered thickly, "damn thing's as big as
strawberries!"
   "Really?" a voice answered, followed by fingers determinedly wrapping
themselves around the bottom of her soft ripe melons, exploring fully the
length, width, and depth of the red-capped ends.
   "Fine udders here," another voice added.  There was a chorus of approval
to this widely held sentiment.
   Through it all, Sarah endured, her eyes only slightly watering at the
rough treatment.
   *
   After a while, two hands working in unison captured Sarah's attention.
She had almost been able to disassociate herself from what was happening;
she had almost been able, as on the nights her husband claimed marital
rights, to distance her mind from the ravages of her body and the assault
of their callous running commentary on her ears.
   The two hands in question, however, demanded her immediate attention:
they closed over her ears, rubbed the back of her neck and ran down through
her luxuriant hair.  After sampling the length of it, they came back up to
her face--long, thick fingers traced her jaw line, ran across her chin and
brushed against moist, puckered lips.  She pulled her head back slightly;
immediately one hand went to the back of her neck and held her head firmly
in place, while the other resumed its exploration of her lips, a fingertip
running back and forth.  Next was the nose, the finger tracing its soft
curve and flared nostrils.  Evidently this man--the one standing in
front--had leaned in, because she heard him breathing, inches from her ear.
   "Sarah Athena Crutchfield, daughter of Reverend Nathaniel Crutchfield,"
the voice whispered knowingly, "we meet again."
   Sarah gasped loudly.  All the freely roaming hands slowly withdrew, save
the two now grasped about her face.  She felt that her heart might stop
beating at any moment.
   "Tonight, the privilege of first dessert shall be given to young Master
Collins, who only today has come into his eighteenth birthday."
   This produced light, begrudging applause; it wasn't the older Collins
after all, instead he was staking a claim for his son.
   This was only slightly more tolerable.
   *
   Sarah's mind raced back to that Sunday morning in July, eight years
before, at the Atkins, Georgia Primitive Missionary Baptist Church.  She
was fifteen then, full of figure and possessing the well-known fiery red
hair.  At services she volunteered, as her father was the Reverend, to
teach Sunday school to the younger children.  Usually, boys taught the boys
and girls taught the girls, but this particular day they were short-handed
and it fell upon Sarah Crutchfield to teach the ten year-old boys class.
   For the most part, they were polite and well behaved.  Naturally, they
took advantage, paying little attention to anything Sarah had to say,
although they mostly spoke secretively to each other, sharing small jokes
and laughing.  Sarah, after a few feeble attempts to teach, gave up the
effort and instead concentrated on her own studies, fully aware her father
would later bring up some arcane point of reference she needed to be fully
conversant in.
   It was while she was scanning a page, searching for a particular
passage, that she became aware of a queer silence.  She closed her Bible
and looked up: the boys, three of them, sat staring vacantly at her. 
Catching her gaze, they quickly looked away, busying themselves with some
fishing story or other.
   Sarah returned to her studies, again leafing through the pages.
   She had no idea, but the boys at church had a name for her: Harlot Hair.
The older boys started it, owing to her striking features, very curvy
figure (such as it was, even beneath Sunday dresses), and the notorious
enflamed hair.  Many of them watched from afar, ready to pounce in a
moment's notice at even the slightest sign that she was willing.  Some of
the girls were willing, of course; some, like Sarah, were very pious indeed
and the boys only wished they might someday get the opportunity.
   On this particularly hot and humid morning, something had gone wrong
with Sarah's dress: the way she sat, legs loosely crossed, revealed a
narrow sliver of underclothes in the depths of her thighs.  The sight of
pale cavernous inner flesh was irresistible.  Perhaps more importantly, her
dress was pulled down slightly, showing what appeared to be a cherry tucked
underneath, vaguely outlined by her damp Sunday dress.
   The three boys, abuzz about it, looked on greedily.  One of the boys,
bigger than the others--a boy who only came to service because of his
mother--paid particular attention.  This boy, though ten, looked more like
he was sixteen or seventeen, already five and a half feet tall and of
impressive build.
   Sarah, again aware of the silence, didn't close her Bible this time but
instead rolled her eyes up, to see what the boys were doing.  The bigger,
blond-haired boy--Collins, was it?--was staring at something; she realized
that her legs were somewhat opened, and closed them immediately.  Looking
down, she saw the part of her anatomy that was most annoying, the unruly
tips of her bosom that despite all efforts to the contrary continually
threatened to make themselves lewdly known.  She didn't want to be too
obvious in adjusting herself, but she wouldn't permit the boys to continue
staring, either.
   Sarah brought the Bible up and covered her chest, hugging it close.
   "Boys, why don't you clean up?" she asked softly.  Two of them
sheepishly complied with her request.  The third--Collins--did not, and
instead sat, just as he was, staring at her frankly.  She looked into his
fierce gray eyes and saw, for the first time in her life, unbridled lust.
   When they were finished straightening up, the three boys filed out of
the room, Collins bringing up the rear.  He paused a moment at the doorway
before turning around.  Leaning against the frame, he pointedly ran his
eyes up and down Sarah's figure before speaking: "Sarah Athena Crutchfield,
daughter of Reverend Nathan Crutchfield, we shall meet again." With that he
turned and strode purposely away.
   Sarah didn't stop shaking until she got home later that evening.
   *
   It was inconceivable that this same boy, now a man, should stand before
her in this manner.  And yet she knew it was true.  Many boys and men had
gazed upon her wickedly over the years.  A few had even spoken to her of
it. But this one in particular had seared himself into her mind back on
that day when she had tended the boy's Sunday school.
   It was he, she was sure.
   He had even told her so.
   All the men, hands already withdrawn, continued to stand against the
platform.
   "Young Master Collins, who has today come of age, what right do you
claim?"
   There was a murmuring of suggestions, each more coarse and ill tempered
than the last.  Abound, flat on her back, shackled, even bent over touching
her toes while standing, were but a few of the proposals.
   "She will kneel and pray for me," Collins said.  A volley of snorts and
snickers followed.
   One voice offered congratulation.  "Very good," the fat man said
enviously, "very, very good indeed."
   A long silence followed, during which Sarah was acutely aware exactly
who and what was the center of attention.  Of course, she was at that
center, displayed as she was on an elevated platform about her hands and
knees, unconsciously rocking almost imperceptibly back and forth.  Nine men
crowded around, so close she could almost feel their hot breath against her
skin.  Almost as many unsavory women lingered as well, standing back in the
shadows watching silently.  Not only was she the center of attention--her
impending desecration, which she was sure would amount to something more
than praying forgiveness for what she had already done (to say nothing of
what was to come) was equally on stage, an event that seemed to have
completely enthralled all in attendance.  Without an idea of what to do
next, she merely continued kneeling where she was, forearms beginning to
tire.
   Surely, Master Collins would think of something.
   As if on cue, he spoke: "Stand," he said, strong and sure, in a voice
accustomed to immediate obeyance.
   Sarah summoned her strength and stood, careful to maintain balance on
the platform.
   "Stand on the floor," Collins added quickly.
   Sarah looked down and immediately recognized him, a face she would never
forget.  And those eyes-
   Still, as gray and hard as ever.  He gazed not at her breasts, hanging
pendulous in his face, nor the triangular patch of matching red hair in the
V of her thighs; no, he stared, eyes ablaze with soon-to-be-realized lust,
directly back into her own.
   Finally on the floor she stood directly before him, hands crossed over
her nether regions.
   "Now," he said, scorn entering his voice, "it is time to pray.  First,
one must drop to their knees." As he said this he put his hands on her
shoulders and applied downward pressure.
   Sarah, looking at his feet, felt her knees buckle and dropped to the
floor.  The cold, hard wood dug into her knees.
   Collins next unfastened his belt, pulling it loose, before allowing his
trousers to drop to his feet.  Now wearing only woolen jersey long
johns--pitched in the front as if a long club was lodged within--Collins
stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
   The other men made a production of gathering around, forming a
semi-circle on three sides.
   "In order to worship properly, you have to put your hands together."
   Still looking down, Sarah had no choice but to bring her arms up and
hands together, covering her breasts with her forearms in the process.
   "No, no," he said quickly.  Collins reached down and pulled her arms
apart.  He pushed them back down, to either side of her now heaving chest,
and brought them back together before pulling up whilst holding them firmly
to her sides.  This had the effect of creating massive swells of creamy
white flesh, dramatically showcasing the gnarled protuberances at the ends.
He pressed her open hands together between his own and held them, just
under her breasts.  "That will do," he said, releasing her.
   With one hand, Collins looped a finger inside his johnnies and slid them
down past his waist until they lodged on his massive thighs.  As they
cleared, what appeared to be a hunk of summer sausage dangled free, the tip
bloated as if knobbed.
   The phallus flexed, jerking up and slapping against Collins' torso,
before returning to a position most directly facing the bridge of Sarah's
nose, one step away.
   As the men looked on, the sausage seemed to swell, growing thicker and
more upright by the second.  No one spoke a word.
   Collins stepped forward, placing the end of his throbbing member on
Sarah's forehead.
   Hands together, she rolled her eyes slowly up, staring at Collins with
one eye on each side of his now almost completely engorged organ.
   "One must first open their mouth," he said flatly, eyes never leaving
hers, "before they can pray."
   Very slowly, Sarah's jaw dropped and her mouth formed a small 'O' shape.
   "That's right," Collins said, reaching one hand down and grasping his
raging erection.  He placed the sensitive head between her soft, moistened
lips.
   *
   Sarah was awash in shame.  Here she knelt, hands together, her position
a mockery of everything she stood for.  She wanted to look away but
couldn't; the boy's ('man,' she told herself) eyes unrelentingly fixated
upon her own.  He stared down boldly as he placed his disgusting manhood
against her lips, sliding the glistening tip between.  The silence in the
room was nearly thunderous; she heard the creaking of boards settling, of
breathing, and of oiled leather shoes squeaking as their owners pivoted
about their position, angling for a better view.
   As the bulbous head of his erect penis--she knew what it was, even
though she had never seen even her husband's--plopped between her lips, a
small gush of thick fluid issued into her mouth.  It was slightly bitter,
not entirely unpleasant.  Sarah swallowed it down as she would excess
saliva when gazing upon a most scrumptious meal.  The head remained between
her lips, randomly pulsing, for a full minute before Collins spoke to her
again.
   In that whole time, neither he nor she looked away from each other.
   *
   "It is time to pay tribute," he said steadily, still fully in control.
"Do you understand?"
   Sarah allowed her eyes to close as a shudder passed through her body.
   "Do you understand?"
   "Yes...  yes, sir.  I understand."
   If it was possible, the room became even quieter.  It was if everyone
were holding their breath at the same time, completely absorbed by the
prospect of Sarah wife-of-the-junior-clerk taking into her mouth the
prodigious length of young Master Collins--Master Collins who, after
tonight, would most assuredly and in all ways be a Man.
   "You say you understand, Sarah.  Still, I think a lesson is in order."
   One beefy hand reached out and closed over the top of Sarah's head,
gripping it firmly between his gargantuan fingers.
   "Open your mouth--surely you can remember that?"
   She complied, wrenching her jaw as wide as she could muster and again
forming her lips into an 'O' shape, this one a bit larger.
   Without a word, Collins centered her mouth over his jutting sausage and
applied downward pressure.
   First the tip, then the knobby end, and then part of the shaft passed
between her lips.  Collins stopped, allowing her a moment to breathe and
become accustomed to what was, for her, this unnatural act.
   As he released the pressure she raised her face back up, away from his
adamant presence, the shaft sliding between her lips.  As she approached
the top and felt the enlarged head pass over her tongue, there was again
downward pressure and she obliged, understanding his very simple request.
   She moved her face down, a bit farther this time, before moving back up.
Again at the top, she paused at the head and again resumed the downward
motion.
   It wasn't until the third time down that she realized his hand was no
longer on top of her head.
   That was when the first tear fell.
   *
   "That's it," Collins encouraged.  "I dare say you pray very well indeed,
Sarah Crutchfield."
   So deep was her shame, Sarah was certain she would pass out.  Her hands
steepled together, bowing over and over before the Collins boy, his length
alternately filling her mouth and throat, she could stand no further
debasement.  As before, she rolled her eyes up, gaping at him while gamely
continuing her efforts.
   He continued staring down--had he ever stopped?--and began
counterthrusting, moving his hips forward as she went down and withdrawing
as she pulled up.
   "Well, well," Collins said, an edge to his voice.  "I believe your
penance is almost done."
   Sarah felt it, a hot surge discharging from his rampant member as it
bottomed out at the back of her throat.  She coughed, paused, and then
continued, breathing forcefully through her nose as she moved up and then
back down again.  On the next down stroke there was more, a much larger
issuance as her mouth was flooded with salty semen.
   "Don't move," he said thickly, his fully sheathed phallus pulsating in
her mouth.
   Unable to watch anymore, Sarah closed her eyes-
   --and kept her lips fully encapsulated over his slowly deflating
invader.
   *
   Finished, Collins quickly stepped back, pulling up his woolen jersey
long johns, followed by his trousers.
   Having properly arranged his garments, the younger Collins received many
congratulatory backslaps and handshakes.
   "Well done!"
   "Jolly good!"
   "Great show, my boy, great show!"
   One man did not participate.  The elder Collins stood aside, neither
watching his son nor the congratulators.  Instead, as the celebration
continued, he stepped forward, where his son had been, and stood gazing
down at the temptress on her knees before him.
   Sarah, aware of the penetrating glare, looked up at the elder Collins
staring down upon her.  As she reached her hand up to clear a stream of
milky-white ooze from the corner of her lip, Collins began humming softly
to himself.  She didn't know the words to this particular song:
   "My day will come.
   Oh yes!
   My day will come..."
   *
   Minutes later, obviously done, it was time to call an end to the
evening's festivities.
   "Every man in this room has taken a solemn vow," Mr.  Brown's voice
began, booming inside the room, "to maintain the sanctity of that which
occurs here.  There are many indeed who wish to meddle in our affairs, who
would like nothing more than to end what we have come to enjoy so very
much. They say we are decadent, disillusioned, out of touch.  They say our
time is over--"
   "DIS ALITER VISUM!" rang out in chorus, shaking the walls with its
intensity.
   "Very well.  Good night, gentlemen."
   In twos and threes, escorts in tow, the exodus began.
   Finally, there remained only two, Douglas Brown and Sarah Higgins. 
Sarah was still kneeling, though her hands were no longer pressed together.
Brown, crouched so that he was at eye level, extended her dress in his
hand.
   "I promise you no one will ever speak of this night."
   Silently Sarah took the garment and began hurriedly sliding into it.
   "Your husband shall keep his job."
   Sarah certainly hoped so.
   She had tried very hard to be a proper Southern wife.
REMEMBER: It's just fantasy!
   Talk to me: Night.Bane@hotmail.com
  
1 The Gentleman's Club, Pt 1