Fifty Shades of Alice at the Hellfire Club (4 page)

He wanted to be that person.

Lewis opened his eyes and tried to sit up. Couldn’t. He was tied to a padded, leather table, his arms stretched out over his head. He strained against his bonds and found them to be strong and tight. Then he looked down and saw he was naked.

Where the hell were they?

Alice screamed again, ecstasy dripping from the sound. “Please! No more! I can’t take another! I beg you to stop!”

Lewis followed her pleas, realizing they came from behind a curtain on the far end of the room.

Then his wife began to moan again, low in her throat, then rising in pitch.

He tried to remember where they were, how they’d gotten here, but the last thing he recalled was falling asleep after some mediocre sex with Alice. So what happened? Had they been kidnapped?

The seriousness of the situation should have hit him hard, but instead his wife’s cries had a different effect. His cock grew long and stiff, stretching upward along his belly.

Alice was being ravaged, just beyond the curtain, and all Lewis could think about was how turned-on he was.

“You did this to her,” a female voice from behind him said.

Lewis craned his neck to see who was speaking. It was a woman dressed in thigh-high boots as black as her hair. She wore a leather corset that pushed her bare breasts out, nipples hard and pointing toward him. He skimmed his eyes lower, and realized she wore no additional undergarments, and her feminine parts were shaved and smooth. In her hand she held a black riding crop.

“Who are you? Where are we?”

“This is the Hellfire Club. I am Madame Bovary.” She skimmed her riding crop over her breasts and rested its leather tongue against one protruding nipple.

“I demand you release us immediately.”

Madame Bovary smiled in a way that was quite cruel. “You signed the contract. You paid for your stay here. You cannot leave until the contract is honored.”

Behind the curtain, Alice moaned, “Yes, I’m a dirty little slut! I’m a dirty little slut! Now please, stop!”

“What contract?” Lewis asked, but his attention was mostly focused on his wife’s moans and this stranger’s nipples.

Madame Bovary produced a piece of parchment covered in ornate script. At the bottom were his and Alice’s signatures. Lewis vaguely recalled signing it after dinner several days ago. Alice had brought it to him when he’d been tipsy with mead and half-asleep, saying something about how it would improve their marriage.

“What did I sign?” he asked, suddenly fearful. Had he unknowingly conscripted them to sexual slavery?

“You and Alice are to stay at the Hellfire Club until the terms of the contract have been fulfilled.”

“What terms?”

“Alice must have one hundred orgasms before being allowed to leave.”

Lewis blew out a sigh of relief. Though he’d been an inattentive and selfish lover these past few years, he knew full well his wife’s capacity and appetite for sex. Alice would enjoy herself; she was clearly enjoying herself right now. A hundred orgasms shouldn’t take more than a day or two.

“How many has she had already?”

“A dozen at least, I’d guess from her cries. Heathcliff is quite gifted at making women come. Even when they are completely exhausted. But while your Alice is being forced to orgasm, you shall be allowed none.” Madame Bovary raised an eyebrow. “Which seems fair, considering how many you’ve had during your marriage at the expense of your poor, long suffering wife.”

Ouch. That hurt. “She… told you that?”

“She did. It’s the main reason she came to us.”

“I know I haven’t been a very good lover. But when, when we’re…
together
…”

“You mean when you’re fucking?”

Madame Bovary ran the end of the crop up Lewis’s bare thigh, making his erect cock twitch.

“Yes, well, when we are, Alice enjoys it as much as I do.”

“Is that what you believe? That all she needs is a kiss on the cheek and thirty seconds of your pathetic thrusting? You think that satisfies her?”

Lewis felt his face redden.

“Did you ever ask her if she was happy with your sex life?”

“We… never talked about it.”

“She never tried to talk about it with you?”

Lewis swallowed. He recalled the many times Alice had broached the subject of lovemaking, and he’d always brushed her off. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Alice, or care about her needs. But work was stressful, and he was often tired at the end of the day. Every other part of their relationship was perfect. So, the sex was mediocre. If that was all that was wrong with their marriage, Lewis happily accepted it.

“I admit I avoided that particular subject,” he said. “But I fail to see how this remedies anything. I have to lay here and listen to my wife have orgasms, while I can’t have any. Is that supposed to even the score?”

“Alice is a loving, generous, gracious woman. She didn’t come here to even any scores, or punish you for being a poor lover.” Madame Bovary leaned over, slinging her breasts forward, her stiff nipples brushing against Lewis’s neck as she whispered, “Though I may do a bit of punishing of my own accord.”

The riding crop flicked against Lewis’s stiff rod with a
thwack
, and he cried out.

“Then why are we here?” Lewis said, somewhat hoarsely.

“Training. Alice will be trained to come faster, so even your poorest attempts at lovemaking will satisfy her. And you…” Madame Bovary reached down and gripped Lewis’s manhood. She began to pump it vigorously. “You will be trained to last longer.”

“Uhhhnn,” Lewis answered.

“Every time you come, Alice must start again from zero.”

“Say what?”

“If you ejaculate, Alice will be forced to endure another hundred orgasms.”

“But… you’re stroking me!”

“And your hips are bucking, rising to meet my hand. You’re a selfish lover, Lewis. Eager for your own satisfaction while caring not of poor Alice’s needs. But we shall teach you self- control.”

Lewis squeezed his eyes closed and forced himself to remain still, but Madame Bovary continued to pleasure him. She went from long, languorous strokes to hard, fast ones.

“Look at how quick you are,” she said. “A drop of your essence has already leaked from your tip.”

Lewis felt a tongue slowly swirl across his glans, and he shuddered with pleasure.

“This isn’t fair!”

“Were all of your marital quickies fair?” Madame Bovary said as she returned to pumping him, the moisture from her mouth lubricating her fist. She had switched her grip so her thumb rubbed under the ridge of his head every time she moved her hand up.

“No,” Lewis admitted, though it came out more like a moan.

“Would you like to see what Heathcliff is doing to Alice right now?”

Lewis did want to see. Alice was now alternating between pants and whimpers, and it turned him on tremendously to see her in the throes of pleasure. But if he were any more turned on, he’d be past the point of no return and spurt all over Madame Bovary’s knuckles.

“I’d like to see,” Lewis said, “but only if you stop what you’re doing with your hand.”

“Fair enough.”

Madame Bovary released Lewis and walked over to the velvet curtain. With a lascivious grin she tugged the partition back, revealing the debauchery in the adjacent room.

Alice—sweet, dear Alice—was totally naked and hanging from the ceiling on some sort of swing, several feet off the floor. Her legs were in stirrups, spread wide, and like Lewis her hands were bound above her head.

Kneeling between her legs was a dark-haired man Lewis presumed was Heathcliff. His head was buried there, shaking back and forth aggressively, as Alice cried out in her throat. Heathcliff was shirtless, broad-shouldered and muscular, his hands cupping Alice’s bottom as his thumbs parted her womanhood wider.

Lewis felt himself very close to coming, and his prick jerked and twitched at the sight of his wife being so vigorously licked.

“How many orgasms have you had so far, Alice?” Madame Bovary asked.

“Fifteen,” Alice moaned. “Please let me rest. I can’t take any more.”

“Describe to your husband what Heathcliff is doing to you.”

Alice’s eyes widened when she saw Lewis. “Lewis! You must be… appalled… seeing me like this.”

Lewis tried to swallow. “You’re so beautiful, Alice. I wish it were me with you right now.”

“Describe it,” Madame Bovary demanded, her voice deep and stern.

“He’s torturing me with orgasms. Licking me. Nipping me. Swirling his tongue all over me. My clit feels as if it is aflame, and he… ooohhhhh!” Alice shuddered. “Sixteen! He keeps punishing me with his terrible tongue. He won’t let me rest, even for a moment. I can’t take any more. I’ll go insane.”

“Has he penetrated you yet?”

“No. I wish he would. Anything to stop his licking.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Alice,” Madame Bovary said. “Heathcliff can do things far more intense to you than the tongue lashing you’re currently receiving. He hasn’t even taken out his toys yet. Sixteen orgasms is only the beginning.”

Lewis was amazed. Sixteen orgasms, all through oral stimulation? The most he’d ever given Alice was two. He watched as Alice thrashed on the swing and then mumbled, “Seventeen.”

Then his attention was drawn by Madame Bovary, who had substituted her riding crop with a long, black, raven’s feather. She began to stroke it along his shaft. It was a wonderfully sublime sensation, and Lewis’s cock seemed to grow even stiffer.

“See how she handles one finger, Heathcliff.”

Heathcliff turned and smiled, his handsome face slick with Alice’s juices. Then Lewis watched as he slowly inserted his index finger into Alice.

“Oh, my!” Alice gasped. “Eight… eighteen…”

Heathcliff began to work his finger in and out, and with the same rhythm Madame Bovary teased Lewis’s cock with the feather.

“Describe what he’s doing to you, Alice.”

“He has… his finger… unnnhhhh… inside me…”

“What’s he doing with his finger?”

Heathcliff began to move so quickly, his hand was a blur. Alice screamed.

“Fucking me! He’s finger fucking me!” Alice grimaced and threw her head back, her bare breasts bobbing with the rhythm of Heathcliff’s penetration. “Oh… nineteen!”

Madame Bovary tickled the head of Lewis’s cock with the raven feather, and Lewis was so turned on he was moments away from spurting all over.

“Please stop…” Lewis said. “I’m going to come.”

“Don’t come, Lewis!” Alice screamed. “I can’t bear to start over!”

Lewis closed his eyes, trying to blot out the sight of Alice naked and in ecstasy, trying to tune out her moans, trying not to feel the gentle stroking of his manhood with that awful feather.

“Keep your eyes open or I’ll oil up my hand and finish you off,” Madame Bovary said. “And after you come, I’ll continue to stroke you.”

“That’s cruel. It’s too sensitive after I come.”

“That’s what your poor wife is enduring right now.”

Lewis opened his eyes. He watched as Heathcliff slipped a second finger inside Alice.

“Describe what he’s doing, Alice.”

“His… oh God… his fingers are rubbing my G-spot. I’m going to… I’m going to… twenty!”

“Please,” Lewis said, his whole body shuddering. “I can’t bear to watch.”

“But watch you must. Look closely as Heathcliff uses his fingers and tongue at the same time.”

Heathcliff did as Madame Bovary said, going down on Alice as he thrust his digits inside her, and Lewis’s wife made a sound he’d never heard before. It was like the growl of a bear, and she thrashed back and forth with an intensity Lewis didn’t even think was possible.

It was too arousing, too erotic, for him to handle. And as his wife shook with orgasm, Lewis’s prick jerked and he spurted all over his belly. With so little stimulation, his orgasm was a poor one.

“Oh, Lewis!” Alice cried. “No!”

“I warned you,” Madame Bovary said. She went to the chest and removed a bottle of oil, pouring it on Lewis’s still-twitching manhood. Then she began to stroke him.

Lewis cried out. His cock was too sensitive, and her touch was painful. But she continued to pull on him as he struggled in vain to get away.

“This is what bad husbands get for coming too soon,” Madame Bovary said, torturing him with tugs.

Lewis groaned in agony. It was worse than tickling. Worse even than pain.

“Do you wish me to stop?” Madame Bovary said.

“Yes! Please!”

“Then make me come.”

She climbed atop Lewis, straddling his face, her bare sex pressed against his lips. Lewis began to lick her, desperately wanting her to stop tormenting his poor, sensitive penis.

“Do you like seeing me sit on your husband’s face, Alice?” Madame Bovary said. “When was the last time you did? Answer me.”

“Years,” Alice moaned.

Years? Had it really been that long? Lewis closed his eyes, despising himself as Madame Bovary continued to torment him. He deserved this, and more, for taking Alice for granted.

“One!” Alice yelled.

“Lick harder,” Madame Bovary commanded. “We’ll make a lover out of you yet, Lewis.”

Heathcliff was just as devious with his fingers as he was with his tongue, and he ripped climax after climax out of Alice until she felt ready to collapse. Even worse, watching Madame Bovary torture Lewis turned Alice on something fierce. She rode his face while teasing his soft manhood, crying out in orgasm as her husband whimpered in agony. But, incredibly, Bovary’s expert hands were able to reinvigorate Lewis’s arousal. Alice couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten it up twice in one day, let alone twice within ten minutes. Watching it made Heathcliff’s orgasm torture even more unbearable.

Madame Bovary came a second time, then crawled off of Lewis’s face and impaled herself on his cock, reverse-cowgirl.

It was Lewis’s favorite position. He always loved to watch his shaft disappear inside Alice as she bobbed up and down. And Madame Bovary was good at it, making her strokes slow and sensual, her breasts swinging with each plunge. Alice groaned inwardly, and then outwardly. Her husband wouldn’t last long.