Chapter Fifteen

Gentlemen’s Club

 

 

 

The water was almost too hot to bear, but it felt wonderful on her aching muscles. Miranda settled gratefully into her bath, setting her wine glass on the chair next to the tub. The heat seemed to melt the tiredness from her body. Sightseeing was hard work.

In the thirty-six hours since she and Mark had arrived in London, they had visited nearly every attraction Miranda had ever heard of, and quite a few that she had not. The Old Bailey and the Guildhall, the Tower and Tower Bridge, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Covent Garden, Piccadilly Circus, St. James Park, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, Madame Tussaud’s, the Victoria and Albert, the British Museum, of course—her mind reeled as she reviewed their progress since they rolled off the plane Friday morning. They had taken high tea at the Ritz and compared the merits of sex toys in Soho’s shops. Mark had led her through the lively stalls of the Portobello Road market and grinned at her awe as they stood under the lofty arches of Westminster Abbey. They had made a pilgrimage to the site of the Globe Theatre south of the river, and to Charles Dickens’ tomb.

Mark had promised to show her London. He certainly was making good on that promise.

Miranda could hardly believe how fast the month of June had flown. She had been busy writing her thesis, familiarizing herself with her advisor’s work which she would be presenting, and developing a position statement for the Victorian erotica panel. July, and the AML conference, had arrived much sooner than she had expected.

The conference would begin on Monday. She and Mark had arrived a few days early in order to enjoy a bit of vacation before diving into the intellectual ferment, intense discussions, social events, rivalries and gossip that characterized the AML.

She felt a bit nervous about the panel, but she pushed that out of her mind. This weekend, she and Mark would concentrate on enjoying themselves.

Not that they had exactly been acting like monks during the past weeks, Miranda thought. She smiled to herself, remembering nights of passionate experimentation. At this point, she felt more comfortable with Mark than she ever had in the company of any man. At the same time, his presence never failed to rouse her body and stimulate her imagination.

Last night, despite weariness and jet lag, he had escorted her to a Goth and fetish club on Berwick Street. She had worn her new leather skirt and a transparent black lace blouse. With her pale skin, long hair parted down the middle and livid purple lipstick, she fit right in, though her costume was tame compared to many of the club’s occupants. They had danced until three in the morning, rubbing bodies with the steel-studded, tattooed, jackbooted, chain-mailed, half-naked folks around them. Then they had returned to the hotel and made love until dawn. At ten-thirty a.m. they were breakfasting on scones and plotting the day’s itinerary.

No wonder Miranda was exhausted. She sipped her cabernet and lay back with her eyes closed.

Mark was engineering some surprise for this evening. He was off right now, ‘obtaining supplies’ as he put it. She wondered just what sort of scenario his devious mind would conjure this time, but she did not worry. At this point, she trusted him, without reservation. She was quite sure that whatever he had up his sleeve, she would enjoy it.

She must have dozed. A knock on her door woke her. “Just a moment,” she called. With the hand-held sprayer, she quickly rinsed off, toweled herself, and donned the luxurious terry robe embroidered with the Chesterfield Hotel crest. She checked the peephole—it was Mark, as she expected—then undid the bolt. Her lover stood there, grinning as usual, with several boxes under his arm.

As soon as the door was closed, he dropped his bundles and gathered her up in his arms. “Mmm, you smell good,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “Getting ready for the evening?”

Miranda nodded. “When are you going to tell me what we’re doing? I’m incredibly curious.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” he replied. “If I told you now, you might not come along.”

“Of course I would,” she said with a laugh. “I trust you completely.”

Mark pulled her mouth to his, teasing her with his tongue. His hand slipped under her robe and found its way to her breast. His touch was cool on her bath-warmed flesh. She writhed in response and pressed herself against him.

He ended the kiss gradually, releasing her then returning to brush her lips, tease her with his tongue-tip. “Trust me, then,” he said, “enough to come with me without knowing.”

“I will. I do. Now, show me what you’ve bought.”

He laid the two boxes, both labeled ‘Harrods’, upon the bed. Opening one, he pulled out a man’s suit of beautiful charcoal summer-weight wool. He handed it to Miranda. “I had to guess about the size,” he said, “but by now I know your body pretty well.”

“This is for me?” Miranda was puzzled.

He nodded. “Try it on. These come first.” He pulled out a pair of men’s cotton briefs and an ace bandage. Now Miranda was completely mystified. “The ace bandage goes around your bust,” he said softly, and suddenly she understood. He wanted her to impersonate a man! She laughed out loud.

“This will never work, Mark.”

“You underestimate my talents. Give it a try.”

She wrapped the stretchy fabric fairly tightly around her chest and fastened it, then checked the mirror. The minor swelling that was her swaddled breasts could easily be interpreted as well-developed pectoral muscles. Despite the growing tightness of her nipples, not a trace showed through the multi-layered bandage. Next she slipped on the briefs. They fit her like a second skin, clinging to her buttocks, while in front, cool air found its way through the open fly and tickled her sex. Watching her flat-chested, slim-hipped reflection, she felt the cotton jersey between her legs begin to dampen.

“Now these,” said Mark, handing her two pairs of gray socks. She looked at him, once more confused. “One pair for your feet,” he said, “and one for—verisimilitude.” She got the idea. She rolled the socks into a tight cylinder and slipped it inside the open pouch at the front of the underwear. The tight briefs pressed the lump of sock against her pubis, indirectly stimulating her clit whenever she moved. The effect was surprisingly natural. She looked as aroused as she felt.

Next she donned a crisp shirt so white it seemed to fluoresce, and the fashionably pleated trousers. Everything item was a perfect fit. “Leave the shirt open at the neck,” her lover advised. “Now try the jacket.” The garment was beautifully cut, single-breasted with narrow lapels. He handed her a maroon silk scarf, which she tucked into the chest pocket. “You look great,” said Mark with a grin. “All you need are the right shoes.” She opened the shoe box to find a pair of gleaming black leather Oxfords. “I had to go to the boy’s department for these.”

Like everything else Mark had chosen, the shoes were just right. “You’re a wizard,” she said, “but what about my face? And my hair? I know they say ‘clothes make the man’, but in this case, I doubt that even this fine suit will do the trick.”

“Here’s where my training comes in,” he said with a laugh. “Sit down here in the light and watch me work some real magic.”

She hung up the jacket and was about to sit down in front of the dressing table. Mark swung the chair around so that her back was to the mirror.

“I don’t want you to see the results until I’m done.” He draped the robe over her new clothes, and retrieved a plastic bag from inside the Harrod’s box. Inside Miranda glimpsed eyeliner, eye shadow, foundation, blush, and other bottles and tubes. “Not exactly theatrical make-up,” said Mark, “but I’m sure it will do.

“First, though, we need to deal with your hair.” He stroked it back from her face, letting the silky locks slip through his fingers. “I considered getting you a hat. However, that could get awkward at the wrong moment.” He parted it on the left and slicked both sides back behind her ears. Then he captured her mane in a low ponytail at the base of her neck. “This will do, I think. You will look pleasingly artistic—the bohemian poet type.

“Close your eyes,” he said, and began to apply the makeup. His touch was light and sure as he rubbed foundation into her cheeks, brushed her with shadow and rouge, and applied pencil to her eyebrows. Miranda felt delightfully passive, perfectly willing to give her face into his hands. For ten minutes neither of them spoke. Mark concentrated on his work. Miranda enjoyed being the object of his concentration. Finally, he gave a satisfied grunt. “Stand up, keeping your eyes closed, and turn to the mirror.”

She obeyed, her heart suddenly pounding crazily against her ribs.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

Miranda gasped. A stranger looked back at her from the mirror. Or perhaps not a stranger—a distant male cousin. There was a family resemblance, but the face in the mirror was definitely masculine. The jaw was firmer and more square than her own. Heavy brows shadowed deep-set hazel eyes. The nose was as straight as hers, but broader and more prominent. The skin was pale and smooth, but somehow Mark had managed the faintest suggestion of a five o’clock shadow.

There was no denying it. She looked like a man, a slender, attractive man in his early twenties. Her briefs grew damper inside her trousers. Just what did Mark have in mind?

“I’m overwhelmed,” she said to him. “But this must have cost you a fortune. How’d you manage this on a post-doc’s meager salary?”

Mark grinned. “Didn’t I ever tell you that I’m heir to the biggest cheese fortune in Wisconsin?”

Miranda chuckled, not knowing whether to believe him or not.

“Don’t worry about it.

“Now, sit quietly and don’t smudge your face. I’m going to take a quick shower and get myself dressed.” He went off to the bathroom with the other box. Miranda turned back to the mirror, still astonished by the image she saw there.

It seemed only a few minutes before Mark emerged. He too was transformed, though perhaps not as radically as she. He wore skin-tight black stretch pants that flared around pointed-toe boots, and a matching high collared jacket. Underneath the jacket was a white ribbed pullover that accentuated his muscular torso. His hair was brushed back from his brow, the way it had been the night she’d met him as Marcus. A gold ring shone in his left earlobe. “What do you think?” he asked, twirling on his toes. Miranda admired the taut curves of his butt, thinking how much fun it would be to watch him strip out of this costume. “You look terrific,” she said, “but the teeniest bit sleazy. I’m not sure that you’re a fit companion for a classy young man such as myself. Since when have you had a pierced ear, anyway?”

“Since long before I met you,” Mark said with a laugh. “I guess you were just paying attention to other parts of my anatomy and never noticed. Let’s go,” he said. “First, dinner, then the evening’s entertainment.”

Mark took her to a traditional, slightly stuffy restaurant with furniture of dark wood upholstered in forest green brocade, white linen napkins stiff with starch, ponderous curlicued silverware, and waiters who appeared to have broomsticks up their backs. The maître d’ greeted them as ‘gentlemen’. Miranda was momentarily flustered as she waited in vain for him to pull out her chair. He gave her a strange look. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, deepening her voice without realizing it and seating herself. “My mind was somewhere else.”

Over lamb chops and roast potatoes, she and Mark chatted about the sights they had seen, the upcoming conference, his rumored cheese fortune, everything but what was to come. Miranda felt herself growing simultaneously nervous and excited. Mark seemed totally calm.

After coffee, they found themselves on the street, laughing in the glow of the frosted glass windows. “So, are you ready?” asked Mark. Miranda nodded, wondering to what she was agreeing. He hailed a cab and they climbed in. Miranda surreptitiously adjusted the bulge in her groin. “Greek Street,” Mark told the driver.

It was a twenty-minute ride. They emerged in a brightly lit street bustling with people. Mark took her arm and led her along the sidewalk, past trendy-looking restaurants crowded with well-dressed diners, up-market bars leaking jazz into the night, and mysterious closed doors adorned with gleaming brass hardware. They stopped in front of one of the latter, beautifully carved oak with a brass plaque and bell. ‘Harkness Club’, Miranda read, as Mark pressed the button.

The door was opened by a clean-shaven young man wearing a crimson bellboy’s uniform. He looked them up and down in an openly appraising manner. What he saw must have satisfied him, for he nodded and gave them a stiff little smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to the Harkness Club.” They followed him into a modest anteroom furnished with coat hooks, an umbrella rack, and hunting prints. At the far end of the room was an arch covered with red velvet drapes. With a flourish, their guide pulled back the drapes to let them pass. “The curtain rises,” murmured Mark under his breath. Electric anticipation shot through Miranda’s body.

She was not sure what to expect, but her initial reaction was disappointment. The room on the other side of the curtains was large but remarkably ordinary. A gleaming mahogany bar ran along one wall. Brass trim and ranks of glassware suspended from the ceiling reflected the golden light of ceiling fixtures with oiled paper shades. The rest of the room contained shadowy groupings of low tables and chairs. Semi-circular couches hugged the wall in the corners. The room was fairly full. People perched on bar stools, clustered around the tables, or simply stood around in tight knots with their drinks. Some violin piece played softly in the background. The swelling sound of conversation frequently overwhelmed it.

It took Miranda three breaths to notice that every one of the patrons was male.

The rich paneling, leather upholstery and old-fashioned lighting were so quintessentially traditional that Miranda expected more foxes and hounds, or perhaps flowers and fruit, to adorn the walls. When she looked closely at the many paintings, however, she saw that they were male nudes, artistic as opposed to raunchy, but undeniably erotic. She looked at Mark. “This is a gay bar,” she whispered, feeling a tiny hint of panic.

Mark grinned ever so slightly. “Well, you might call it that. I prefer to think of it as a gentlemen’s club.”

As they walked into the room, Miranda felt the eyes of the patrons, discreetly surveying the new arrivals. She was suddenly, intensely, aware of the sock distending her trousers. Mark steered them to a table near one corner. A waiter appeared immediately. Mark ordered whiskey for both of them.

“We can leave at any time,” he told her. “However, I thought that you might find this scene interesting. It is considerably more tasteful than many gay bars back in the States. There are no chaps showing bare butts, no tattoos, no strategically torn jeans. The only leather you’ll see is three-hundred quid custom-made suits. Even in this environment, the Brits are restrained. Personally, I find the additional social constraints heighten the erotic tension.”

“You think that everything heightens erotic tension!” commented Miranda, sipping her drink.

Before he could answer, she noticed a man approaching their table. He was medium height, trimly built, with salt and pepper hair and a small mustache. His clothing was well-tailored but conservative. He favored them with a slightly nervous smile as he reached them.

“Good evening,” he said. “Do you mind if I join you?” He had a cultured voice. His accent reminded Miranda suddenly of Geoffrey. The memory made her sex heavy and wet.

“Please do,” said Mark, standing up to allow the other man access to the empty chair on the other side of the table. And to show off his physique, Miranda suddenly realized. There was just a hint of swish in Mark’s manner, a roll of the hips and a tilt of the chin that were not typical of his usual movement. As soon as their guest was seated, Mark held out a friendly hand. “I’m Marcus,” he said, “and this is my friend Randy.”

“Peter,” responded their guest. “I’m pleased to meet you both.”

“Likewise, Peter.”

“You’re American, aren’t you?” Mark nodded. “In London on business?”

“A bit of business, a bit of pleasure, you might say.”

There was general laughter. Miranda thus far had not dared say a word. She was fascinated, watching Mark flirt with their companion. Peter was attractive for a mature man. He had a ready smile and graceful, well-groomed hands. He and Mark chatted about London sights, shopping, entertainment. To Miranda, it seemed like every comment Mark made was a double entendre. Peter leaned forward, his lips slightly parted, his pale blue eyes gleaming, attention totally focused on her lover. Miranda felt slightly invisible. She didn’t mind.

They finished their drinks. Mark was about to order another round, but Peter held up his hand. “Excuse me, but I’ve got to visit the loo.” He strode across the room and disappeared through a doorway on the far side.

“Come on,” said Mark, grabbing Miranda’s hand and pulling her in the same direction.

“What…?”

“It’s a signal,” whispered Mark. “Come on.”

She followed him, a bit reluctantly, into the brightly-lit lavatory. It was immaculately clean. A vase of purple carnations sat on the sink.

Peter stood at a urinal along one side. She could hear the sound of his piss pouring into the porcelain fixture. Without hesitation, Mark took up position beside the older man, unzipped his fly, and extricated his penis. It was half-erect. His own cock still hanging out, Peter watched, fascinated, as Mark handled himself. Miranda hung back, her hands in her pockets. From where she stood, she could see both of their organs. After a few minutes of stroking, Mark began to pee. A queasy excitement settled in Miranda’s stomach as she watched the yellow stream arching through the air. She took a few steps closer, her eyes glued to the two men.

“So, Marcus, I’d like to give you a taste of how we entertain ourselves here in jolly old England,” said Peter softly. “Would you like that?”

Mark was stroking his cock again, making it swell to full tumescence. “I would, Peter,” he said with one of his angelic smiles. Peter reached out a hand, but instead of touching Mark’s cock as Miranda expected, he laid his palm on the black fabric stretched across Mark’s buttocks. “I’d like to give it to you here,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Sounds good to me,” said Mark. He led the way toward one of the stalls. Suddenly Peter turned his eyes on Miranda. She saw, reflected in his blue eyes, the lust her boyish form inspired.

“And what about you, Randy? What would you like?” He licked his lips.

Miranda was speechless. Fortunately Mark stepped into the breach. “Randy’s a bit shy,” he said with a smile. “He just came out of the closet. I’m showing him the ropes, so to speak.” Peter half-smiled, half-leered at Miranda. Mark lowered his voice. “So far, he’s a virgin. But I suspect that he would not be averse to giving you a blow job. Would you, Randy?”

Miranda swallowed hard. She tried to deepen her voice. “No, I’d like to do that,” she said. Then she realized that she meant it.

The toilet enclosure was enormous, two or three times larger than the typical handicapped-access stall in America. There was plenty of room for the three of them. Mark slid the bolt shut. Then he unfastened the waist of his trousers and wriggled them down to his knees. His erection stood up proudly. He moved closer to Peter, so that the older man could fondle him. Peter looked at Miranda. “On your knees now, boy. Suck me.”

She ran her tongue over the spongy knob, tracing the rim where it joined the staff. Almost immediately, he began to stiffen.

Miranda was pleased by his reaction. She opened and took the whole length of him into her mouth. He started to thrust. She sucked hard, imagining that she would drain him dry. Soon he was pounding against the back of her throat, making guttural noises each time his hips jerked forward. She heard Mark, too, groaning in the background. Reaching into Peter’s pants, she cupped his balls in her palm and stroked them gently with her thumb.

As he got more and more excited, so did she. She felt the sock mound pressing into her. Leaving one hand caressing Peter’s scrotum, she transferred the other to her own crotch, rubbing through her trousers and rocking her pelvis against her fake penis. Her moans were stifled by the hard flesh filling her mouth. Peter’s rod tensed and contracted. He was almost ready to blow. Instinctively, Miranda sucked harder, rubbed harder at her clit, willing him to come in her mouth.

At the very last moment, she felt a hand on her hair, and heard Mark’s voice in her ear. “Stop now, Randy. We don’t want Peter to come just yet. He has other plans for that erection.” With some difficulty, she obeyed. She looked up at Peter. He was smiling. His dick was rampant. It curved slightly, and was girdled with purple veins.

Mark handed her a condom. Glancing up at him, she noted that he had completely removed his trousers, jacket and boots. He looked vulnerable and sexy wearing only the tight jersey and his socks. His earring glittered in the brightness.

She unrolled the condom over Peter’s hardness. When she stood up, Mark had his back to them. He was bent over the toilet, resting his elbows on the tank. His legs were spread. Miranda suppressed her sudden urge to spank his tender, exposed cheeks.

“Randy,” said Peter. “Take this, and grease him up for me.” He extracted a tube of lubricant from his pocket and handed it to Miranda.

She held the tube just above the spot where Mark’s cheeks met his spine, and squeezed. A snake of clear jelly slithered from the tube onto Mark’s buttocks and into the crack between them. With one finger, she worked the lube into the crack. She took her time.

First she simply ran her finger back and forth over the knot of muscle. He reacted with a moan. His ass twitched. “Shh, Marcus,” she said. “Relax.” She slid her slippery middle finger into the entrance of his sphincter. He clenched involuntarily around her, and her sex spasmed in sympathy. “Relax,” she murmured again, and pushed herself all the way in. He felt loose and ready. She slathered him inside and out with the lubricant, then turned expectantly to Peter.

“Hold him open for me,” he said. Miranda grabbed Mark’s cheeks and spread them wide. His asshole gleamed, wet and welcoming. Peter positioned his cock at Mark’s anal entrance and gave a fierce thrust. Miranda watched in fascination as the older man’s penis buried itself to the hilt in her lover’s ass.

Of course, Miranda herself had buggered Mark with the strap-on, but she had been nervous and tentative. Peter had no such compunctions. He plowed Mark furiously. He would pull away so that Miranda could see the head of his cock emerging, then plunging himself back into Mark’s bowels with a force that astonished her. She was briefly surprised that the mild-mannered, polite gentleman with the graying hair should turn into such an animal, but then she remembered her own transformations. Meanwhile, Mark seemed to be enjoying his violation. His hips thrashed in time with Peter’s strokes. His moans grew hoarse and urgent as the other man quickened his tempo.

Miranda was dying for release herself, but she was terribly afraid of revealing her true gender. Surreptitiously, she unzipped her trousers and stuck her hand inside tight briefs, using her fingers to spread her labia. Then she grasped the sock-cylinder and forced it deeper into her cleft, rubbing it back and forth in time with Peter’s thrusts. She was reminded of her childhood masturbation, no direct contact, just the pillow between her legs. She moaned and rubbed harder.

Before long, Peter howled, arching his back and letting loose in Mark’s butt hole. There was ecstasy on his face, and on Mark’s too, as his erection exploded, scattering cum all over the toilet seat. Miranda suddenly fully appreciated what was happening here. Her lover was being sodomized by another man. In all her explorations with him, she had never dreamed that Mark’s desires could be so extreme or so twisted. There are lots of things you don’t know about me, he had said. Marveling at his brave lust, she tumbled over the edge into her own orgasm, screaming in a voice that was undeniably feminine.

When she stopped quivering and opened her eyes, Peter was looking at her strangely. He had stripped off the condom and dumped it into the trash. Mark still stood straddling the toilet, breathing heavily. “Clean him off, boy,” said Peter gruffly. Miranda knelt by the side of the fixture and tenderly licked the last drops of semen from Mark’s shrinking cock.

When she rose, Peter had his trousers zipped and was running a comb through his hair. “Well, gentlemen,” he said with a half-smile, “I hope that you enjoy the rest of your visit to London.” Then he let himself out of the stall, leaving them alone.

Miranda helped Mark to dress. He could hardly walk, and he seemed lost in a kind of dreamy exhaustion. It fell to Miranda to hail a cab. “Where to, sir?” asked the cabby. Miranda smiled to herself and made sure that she deepened her voice.

By the time they reached the hotel, Mark appeared to have recovered. In the elevator, he stood behind her, fondling her buttocks. Miranda was amazed to note that he had another erection, which he pressed rudely against her. She herself felt satisfied, but enormously drained.

They entered the room and Miranda began to undress.

“No, wait,” said Mark, leading her to the bedroom. “I’ve been waiting eagerly all night to take you like the boy that you are.” Tenderly, he unfastened her trousers and arranged her face down on the bed. Miranda’s energy surged back as she felt his hardness brush against her exposed flesh.

She arched her back toward him, presenting her rump. “Yes, Sir. Oh, yes!”