Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
After all, I’ve heard the rumors. Heck, lots of people have heard the rumors by now. There’s allegedly some European prince who frequents the club, but it’s not his noble birth that has everyone intrigued. It’s the fact that he allegedly ties up young girls, and then orders his servants to train her sweet holes while watching from the shadows.
At first, I was stunned upon hearing the rumors. What kind of man was this? Why in the world would he need to “train” young women anyways? And why have his servants do it?
I suppose it must be because he’s rich. A lot of wealthy people are super-strange, if you ask me, and this prince probably no different. He prizes discretion, his privacy, yada yada yada, and can only trust a few loyal retainers to do for him what any man with a big cock could do. That’s my take, at least.
But still, why go to all the trouble? The chaining is no big deal – go to any sex club in the world, and you’ll likely find people in chains, if not hanging upside down while someone lashes them with a whip. But what’s the point of training a woman’s cunt and ass? And why does she need to be “trained” to begin with? This isn’t a lifestyle adaptation, as far as I know. This isn’t a Dom who’s looking to train a sub in a traditional sense. It sounds like this guy has one-offs with a variety of young women, and then ditches them before disappearing into the horizon.
That’s where Mira and I come in. After all, women are disposable to this so-called prince, which means he’s running through them at light-speed. While the best clubs can procure young women at the snap of a finger, still, even Club Z has been hard-pressed to keep up with the prince’s demands. To be honest, it sounds like they’re constantly trying to round-up virgins for a sacrifice before some pagan god, except they keep running out of girls.
I think that’s why Mira and I were granted guest passes tonight. We could never afford memberships at Club Z, of course. This place looks like nothing on the outside (it’s just a plain brick building on a random side street downtown), but now that we’ve stepped into the foyer, I look around the space and try not to gasp. It’s a small space with wood-paneled walls, a huge chandelier, and statuary in niches. Clearly, the membership dues must be in the five, if not six, figures.
“This way, girls,” a woman in a black cocktail dress gestures. Mira and I follow her down a long hall which looks straight out of an Italian palazzo with paintings on the walls and a gleaming hardwood floor. Then, we come upon double doors which the woman presses open.
“This is the main room,” she explains in a dulcet voice. “A lot of action goes on here, but as you’ll see, there are also private rooms for our members, as well as a basement down below with a red room and additional private play spaces. It’s all up to you. Have fun exploring and enjoy,” she says with a gracious bow. Then, the woman departs and Mira and I are left to our own devices.
We step into the main room, which to my surprise, isn’t a ballroom. Instead, it looks like a luxe lounge with a huge bar along one wall, as well as rich, jewel-toned couches scattered about. Low lights create an intimate ambience, which is mysterious and enticing. Mira turns to me with wide eyes.
“Do you think the prince is here?” she whispers.
I shrug.
“I don’t know. I hope so because I’m not sure if we’re going to get more guest passes after tonight.”
My friend nods, her blonde curls waving about her face.
“That’s true,” she says in a hushed voice while looking around some more. “But do you think people can tell that we don’t belong?”
After all, we’re two young women clad in tiny cocktail dresses with sky high heels. I thought all the ladies would be dressed like this, but actually, quite a few of them are wearing long gowns with elegantly coiffed updos. Of course, there are a few in nothing but lingerie and fishnets, but at the moment, no one’s doing anything sordid. Instead, it looks like any upscale cocktail party with handsome men in suits, beautiful women, and everyone drinking wine and chatting.
“Goodness, how do we find the prince?” Mira whispers, her blue eyes still darting around the space. I squeeze her hand and then straighten my back.
“We’ll figure it out,” I reassure her in a whisper. “Just follow me, okay? Smile and look like you you’re enjoying yourself.”
With that, we teeter into the room before stopping at the bar.
“Um, two aperol spritzes please?” I request. I hope this is what sophisticated, mature people drink. Meanwhile, the bartender pauses for a moment. He’s an older guy, in his forties or so, with prematurely gray hair and a black vest over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Very old-timey if you ask me, but very glamorous too. We could easily be in a speakeasy from the Roaring 20’s.