He’s not a cowardly man by any means. Michael is lean and above average in height. Confident in his manner of address; even possessed of a tendency towards aloofness at times. Michael Barnabas Foucault has every right to be so. He comes from old money and is successful in his own right. Some half jokingly say his family might as well be Parisian royalty. Which is why even though his heart is pounding and his cock in a painful state of tumescence, he must exercise caution. He doesn’t really want to be seen.
These are not exactly the back streets either. Madame Vivienne is a brazen woman who has placed her establishment right in the heart of Avenue des Champs-Élysées. She is also cunning. By day the sign above the shop front declares it to be ‘The Creme de la Creme Tailoring and Fashion House’. By night, a few nights per month at least, the sign is reputedly altered and no one seems to know when this occurs or admits to knowing what the other sign, ‘Double Entendre’ means.
It is this duplicitous nature that he is here for. Yes, he has availed of Madame Vivienne’s tailoring services; under the guise of her ‘Creme de La Creme’ fashion house for many years. She is good at her work too. Vivienne the vivacious makes every gentleman that graces her premises feel special and welcomed. Her meek little assistants trot about, following every want and whim posed by the patrons, as Vivienne looks on, supervising. And she has a keen eye. No gentleman ever leaves her store with a trouser hem too short or a shirt collar too tight. She is as fastidious as she is enchanting.
Michael turns the corner of the Avenue and recalls the last time he saw her, her rich chestnut hair coiled upon her head like serpents formed of silk. Eyebrows softly arched. Skin like cream. Eyes, a sapphire cacophony of expression. Always she varied, like oil on the surface of a pond. An array of iridescence and shimmering emotion. No one else he knew could be so obviously full of ardor and yet so in control. That is why his hand is so sweaty, gripping his much coveted invitation.
In certain privileged circles of Paris, there is a whisper, more than a whisper, that Madame Vivienne’s House of Couture and tailoring is in fact a front. That much more goes on there than stitching and the innocent act of taking measurements. Michael has been aware of this for years. He knows a small handful of men who have previously admitted when pressed and plied with brandy, that every once in a blue moon, Madame Vivienne extends written invitations to those whom she chooses, to join the secret club that she hosts for ‘wayward gentlemen.’
Getting much more than that from his contemporaries has proven very very difficult, but he has teased out of them one ominous fact, that you do not discuss ‘The Club for Wayward Gentlemen’ openly. Or dark things will likely unfold when least expected, no matter how vigilant you are or protected.
Although reluctant, a man Michael is particularly close to through family connections, confided in him that if you are chosen, a card arrives, hand delivered, unseen. The card is usually silver, and gilded with obsidian black calligraphy, stating the time and date of your invitation. To tell anyone invalidates your summons and there is an implied threat upon your person if you do so but through undefined means.
So not unsurprisingly, Michael’s heart is in agreement with his mind that this is indeed a mad excursion, but he has been secretly hoping for so long to be asked, if only to satisfy his curiosity on the matter, that his feet are doing the talking tonight.
Elegant drapes cover the windows. A splinter of light is visible here and there. No sound comes from within. It’s as if someone is waiting. He can feel it. The night is bitter. A scorching bead of sweat runs down his back, disappearing into his underthings, where it is soaked up by the cottony cloth that Madame Vivienne herself has sewn. He gulps. Should he knock or…?
‘There you are Foucault.’
He spins round, mouth open, to find Vivienne standing there behind him. She must have been waiting somewhere watching for his arrival.
‘Cat got your tongue my little cherry tartlet?’ she croons. She circles him. ‘How are those drawers we made working out for you?’
She glances brazenly at his groin.
Still he can form no proper sentences.
‘I, er…um…I just…’
A fine white alabaster hand with delicate, refined fingernails, shoots out and grabs his crotch, gripping tightly. His face screws up both in pain and delight at the unaccustomed sensation of a woman touching his manly parts.
‘We have business to attend to, I believe,’ she says. ‘We had better go inside.’
He nods helplessly and she drags him into ‘The Double Entendre Club for Wayward Gentlemen…’ Her hallowed lair.
His eyes blink in reaction to the light when they enter. He is glad of the warmer surroundings, although giddy with fear tinged anticipation of what may occur. Glad to find it is just the two of them.
The rows of hanging garments are still there. As are the changing rooms, the long mahogany counter and tall gilded mirrors. The only new item as far as he can tell is a chair, placed very overtly in the center of the room. It is sturdy, with a deeply cushioned high back of studded velvet. The colour is a watery teal, except for the carved wood of it, which is a dashing shade of pewter. Two leather bound handles protrude at the back.
Vivienne releases his cock which she has still been holding and motions for him to sit in the chair.
‘Sit Michael.’
By day it’s always – ‘Monsieur Foucoult.’ But now it’s just plain Michael. He notices this aberration as well as a particular peculiarity of the seat itself. It has wheels. Nevertheless he hesitantly settles himself into the extravagant seat and meets Madame Vivienne’s enigmatic stare. He wants to take in her appearance but he knows somehow that he must keep his attention where it is.
‘You have questions Michael. You are inquisitive, on high alert and perhaps a little scared.’
He shifts his feet. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say scared.’
Something in her visage changes. A flinching shift from relaxed to rigid, cold. Arctic cold. His mouth snaps shut. Somehow he feels the longer he looks at her the more he becomes locked in place. His mouth becomes uncomfortably full of saliva. It is an effort to swallow it.
A mention of a smile returns to her face.
‘I will answer three of your questions. So make them good ones,’ she concedes.
She crouches before him, her midnight blue gown falling in rippling folds around her and even though she is now a little lower than he, his tension does not diminish. He feels like an ant being studied, a butterfly in the killing jar.
‘What is this place?’ he blurts.
She drops her chin, a clear sign she has heard this many times before. He is a disappointment already.
‘Not everything in the world is as it appears,’ she says carefully, words dropping from her ruby lips like potent wine. He stares, entranced, cock stiffening once more as he imagines them doing lewd things.
‘The people you think you know can be monsters or angels Michael and everything in between. Buildings can be respectable by day and dens of inequity by night. Minds can appear stupid, whilst harbouring the deepest and most poetic thoughts. It all depends on what we allow to be revealed. And tonight, if you wish it, you will see the darker side of this establishment. After all that is why you are here is it not?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And you already have an idea of what this place is, don’t you?’
He nods.
‘It is a club that caters to the passions of strong women and men who feed on that dominance. Who lick at the boots of it and do obeisance for the gift of its pleasures. It is not for the timid. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘I’m going to do very sexual things to you Michael. Some pain is likely to be involved. Humiliation. It will be messy. And we will not be alone.’
He feels his face burn. His pulse quakes visibly in his neck. He takes a few seconds to digest what she has just said.
‘Can I leave at any time?’
‘No,’ she says curtly. ‘You are free to leave before we enter the club, but once inside you have to stay until the end, which is at four am. You can however choose to be a mere bystander, rather than participate. But you will remain until the doors are unlocked at four.’
The urge to get up and leave is strong. Then he remembers that she has extended the gift of three questions rather than take him in totally blind. So he decides to use his last to allay his fears.
‘So why have you chosen me Vivienne?’
The bold use of her first name without the proper signifiers amuses her. She pats his knee.
‘I have been watching you for months, although you didn’t know it, everytime you came into the shop. I saw how you interact with people. Saw a need in you that needs filled although you are yet privileged.’
She leans closer.
‘I saw a man whose every inch of skin I want to lick. Whose skin ought to sing with the flash of my whip. Whose spirit must be broken. Then put back together again by a woman who knows what she is doing. A woman that desires you. That woman is me.’
Michael’s phallus starts to leak, two tiny gushes of clear soaking through his breaches.
‘That is your last question. So now you must decide. Will you stay or will you leave? You can’t ever return if you chose the latter. No second chances. And you must never talk. Ever. My influence reaches far in both rank and distance. Take care to remember that.’
This is a far cry from the woman who oversees seamstresses by day. He does not hesitate. His third question was a good one. He has what he needs.
‘I will stay.’
She stands. ‘Good.’
From a drawer in the counter, she removes four soft black leather straps and gently affixes them to a still uneasy Michael’s wrists and ankles, binding him to the chair. She adds a silk blindfold and smooths down his hair and pinches his cheeks, making them rosy.
‘We want you looking your best for your audience,’ she says. And then she steers him to the back of the shop, through a curtain, into a store room, to a further room and then down an ancient cold stone tunnel into the basement beyond.
His cock has shriveled and his heart swells with every heavy beat.
What has he done?
Where they end up is not as before. There is humidity in the air. There are many people here he senses. He can hear them. Maybe the heat arises from that? Music deep and heavy fucks his ears. Although he cannot see, he moves his head, trying to discover more. Unbeknownst to him, Madame Vivienne hands charge of his chair to a woman dressed only in emerald green knickers with a peacock feather train as she herself goes over to her husband – Monsieur Paul-Ryan Rosseau.
Paul-Ryan acknowledges her presence, noting, accepting, appreciating the fact she has not touched him without permission. She is as ever, faithful.
Over sixty people fill the dungeon. Paul-Ryan and Vivienne survey their kingdom of semi naked bodies shimmering in the fire and candle light and smile at each other – a brief sideways glance of milliseconds, filled with so many things that only they comprehend its meaning.
Two females are nearby. Both very attractive and yet lacking definition of character. Vivienne grabs them both.
‘You,’ she says to the one on the left. ‘You will help attend to the fires tonight.’ She nods to the roaring hearths at each end of the room, a mass of wood stacked up beside them. The room is large and deep underground. It will take significant effort to keep it comfortable. The girl looks disappointed. Vivienne cares not what the girl wanted or expected. She is meat.
‘And you,’ she says to the other. ‘Will suck my husband’s cock as and when he requires it.’
Vivienne looks up at him briefly. He nods. She has chosen well.
‘You have a fine mouth. I can tell that he likes you. And I have other things to do.’
She grasps the befuddled girl by the chin and instructs her to open her mouth.
‘Present your tongue.’
The girl does so.
Vivienne peers at it, tilts it towards her husband and leans forward and envelopes it with her own mouth testing it for lubricity, flexibility and temperateness. She kisses and sucks the girl avidly for a while and then halts abruptly, spits and shoves the girl towards Paul-Ryan.
‘I think she will do,’ she says to him. ‘Just be sure to wash him before you come near me afterwards.’
Suddenly he comes to life, having stood there like a statue this past while. A pale white thoroughly masculine arm wraps itself around Vivienne’s shoulder and a very male hand palms her breast. Not content with that, Paul-Ryan spins her around like a top, rips her bodice open and plays with both his female’s mounds in front of everyone. He takes a ruthless bite of each, then kisses her rigid nipples. In her ear he whispers;
‘Thank you for this gift my sweet. I will enjoy it. But only as long as you know my cock is only truly yours.’
Vivienne looks up and smiles.
‘You are this Dommes Dom. We are each others. I give you her tonight. Now I must away to play Sir.’
She kisses him with such passion it makes his cells roar. Then she weaves her way through the crowd, blue skirts swishing, to find her victim – Michael Foucult.
‘There you are,’ she says in his ear eventually.
He does not know whether to speak or be silent. He detects a smell. Perhaps because he is blindfolded his other senses are working harder.
How is he to know she just suckled a woman’s tongue?
The music throbs. The crowd grows quieter. His chair is moving. Where is she taking him?
He is Michael Barnabus Foucult. Heir to the Foucult dynasty. Millionaire businessman. Respected socialite. He does not need to be afraid. She is a seamstress. A fucking seamstress.
Hum. But is she?
Why has he done this to himself? On account of rumours? He does not make mistakes.
She unfastens him. Raises him in front of the half dressed crowd. From afar Monsieur Paul-Ryan watches with a faceless one latched onto his now exposed cock. Although blind, Michael feels a blackness approaching beyond the silk enrobing his eyes.
A huge steel circle stands on a platform. Vivienne leads him to it. Many victims have been here prior, but his reactions are more pleasing to her than any before. Especially since her Dom is watching. He thrives off her power and knowing she respects him enough to submit still. With his cock in the mouth of another woman, one she has provided, he watches her, enthralled.
She feels his attention and that of the room. Ultimately she feels the turbulence in Michael. She responds to it by shredding the very clothes she has made him, with her hands, teeth and a pair of shears handed to her.
He is utterly naked now. A few minor cuts on his body from her teeth and the shears. He shivers. So does she, but from lust. She strokes him. With a riding crop and circles.
All he knows is dark, this night. And all he knows this night, is dark.
He is a smart man. He willingly agreed to this. Anything could come next.
He is a gazelle strapped to a post on the Serengeti.
As she straps him to the huge steel circle his cock juts, ineffably proud.
He is prey.
He is hers.
Madame Vivienne inserts two fingers into her mouth and then whistles loudly in a very uncivilised manner. It is so loud that it is heard above the music and it actually hurts the ears of those nearby. People look on as four women approach, dressed in strange black and gold lingerie. It appears shiny and slick looking. Almost serpentine in how it molds to their bodies; the thong slicking its way into their crevices and the bralet licking its way, smeared almost across their shimmering breasts. They wear gold sandals, with straps criss crossing their calves. Their hair is slicked back and knotted in buns at the back of their heads. Dark eye make-up has been applied and their lips are heavily glossed but nude. At the back of each woman, a black gauzy lace train spills from the waist band of their thong. Still the material is see through enough to reveal their pert buttocks to anyone who cares to look.
Upon the steel circle, Michael, now divested of the blindfold, sees in full his surroundings. He had known there were many people, but not this many. Neither did he have reason to think he was the sole focus of the room. He is though.
The women approaching him each carry an object. He tries to compose himself. A difficult task when one is completely naked under the scrutiny of over sixty apparent strangers.
The woman on the far left carries what looks like a coil of rope. The one beside her has a carafe of dark liquid. Possibly wine. The next has something metallic, perhaps an item of jewelry. The last has a bullwhip slung over her shoulder.
As they get closer, stalking him like lionesses, he recognizes one as a timid little seamstress assistant of Madame Vivienne’s. Only she is not timid now. Nor is she dowdy. He can see her blushing nipples through the scant lingerie, her thigh muscles moving with exciting potency, her abdomen flexing as she walks. His member responds and she smirks, having obviously seen it.
All around people quaff their drinks, chatter and guffaw, but not one takes their eyes fully off the scene. Michael is actually trembling a little when they reach him.
‘You know the first step ladies,’ says Vivienne. She thrashes each woman across the ass as they prostrate themselves to her on all fours. Michael flinches. They don’t. They know better.
Vivienne casts a glance over her shoulder at her husband who has tired of the assigned young woman’s oral skills. She wonders whether to send him over another, but he seems content, although not spent. She will drain him fully later.
Upon the great steel circle Michael is being further held captive. The metallic item he mistook for jewelry is in fact a cock cage. The third beauty presses his cock inside it, stuffing his eager flesh into it. The device encases his balls. The screws are fastened and he tries valiantly not to register her soft hands handling him; his scrotum, his shaft, with its steadily moistening tip. He remembers her warning him she would inflict pain. And the steel wired cage does hurt. The groans trying to escape him attest to that.
Suddenly the steel circle is spun, once, twice, thrice. He’s dizzy. The bullwhip cracks and he screams. He does not even know where it hit him. All he is aware of is fire. He is spun again three times in the opposite direction. Only afterwards he receives a very different type of licking.
The four women stroke him everywhere with their tongues. Coat him in saliva till he is dripping in it. Feet, face, ass, stomach, everywhere. They spit on his cock cage and the wetness drips through, teasing. Although in ecstasy he has a very bad feeling about what comes next.
Cock straining against the cage, drenched in spit from the hot mouths of comely young ladies, he is spun three times more. The bullwhip cracks again, only this time afterwards, the handle of it is lubed with spit and forced into his rectum. He does not even try to hold back his cries this time.
‘Will we continue Michael, or do you want to sit out?’ says Vivienne.
He winces. He effectively has a very long tail now. The bullwhip still lingers, draped across the floor.
‘No. I will stay, Madame.’
She looks delighted.
‘Good,’ she says, yanking out the bullwhip.
‘Time to tie him up. Show me your shibari skills ladies.’
They release him from his leather bonds and truss him in turquoise rope. Their hands feel like butterfly wings to his sensitised skin and by the time they’re done a thick ooze of precum dangles from the rim of the cock cage. Vivienne spots it and captures it on the end of her riding crop.
‘The spoils of war,’ she grins, then lifts it to her lips to sample.
‘Not bad. Earthy sweetness. All male.’
‘You ladies know what comes next. Proceed.’
Vivienne disappears and Michael is hung suspended by pretty coloured rope from the very top of the steel circle – dangling. The woman with the carafe steps forward and uncorks her bottle. Veins stand out in Michael’s neck. He’s sweating as she slings the liquid chocolate across his body, runs it over his ass crack. His legs. Thighs. His toes.
He’s bound to know someone here and the thought is suddenly terrifying. He scans the crowd hysterically with chocolate running from his ass down to his balls, hung like a fly in a spider web. The option of capitulating looms. He sees five faces he knows.
Fuck.
He hangs humiliated – Parisian royalty naked, whipped and dripping. He looks again. They don’t seem disgusted though. Instead he sees curiosity, lust, admiration.
He hears a very rhythmic sound and the crowd parts.
Madame Vivienne has returned on a very large white horse and she is coming straight for him.
What now.
The look on her face is strange. It’s serene perhaps. A little gleeful. Focused. This is important to her, this moment. The horse is thoroughly obedient. She guides it to the rear of him. He sways on his rope like a conker at the end of a string.
Dark rich chocolate tracks over his back and exposed arsehole. She sits, taking in the view for a few moments. Everyone watches; as club members, they know what she is like – unknowable.
Her bare knees grip the horses sides a little tighter and she tugs the reins to one side. Her long hair drifts over her arm, as it stretches out to push Michael away. He swings. Her chin tilts up in triumph. After a minute he slows his rocking back and forth, back and forth and then she comes to him. Places her face, her tongue before his ass. He feels the cold whoosh of air as he flies, then the warm tongue of Madame, sipping his sauce soaked hole. His movements reduce and her tongue starts to sally forward. Little prods that everyone can somehow see, no matter how far they stand away from the scene.
Inside him, he now contains chocolate ganache and her saliva.
She stands up in the stirrups.
‘Do you want more?’ she says, loudly.
His whole body is suspended, he is totally powerless except for his answer in this moment.
‘Yes, more,’ he says. Sweat drips off his chin.
‘There is a price,’ she growls.
She nods to the girl holding the bullwhip and makes way.
CRACK!
CRACK!
He shrieks and as he recovers, the four girls arrange themselves before him so he can clearly see. A couple of tears escape his eyes. Two of the girls limpet their mouths to each others genitals. The other two scissor their legs so that their sticky clits are squashed against each other. Vivienne struts her steed around them, watching Michael, watching them. She takes some of her arousal and paints Michael’s mouth with it. It dazes him. He can still feel the chocolate sluicing his delicate skin. The sensations are heady.
He scans the crowd again and realises that some of them are fucking, including two that he knows. The four girls in front of him are panting and writhing, all mouths and slippery warm cunts. He feels close. His cock is jammed hard against the metal cage. Desperation stretches his being. As he looks on, the girls orgasm in pairs. Mouths opening like flowers. Legs flopping open so he can see their moisture. It is perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. But he can’t cum. There’s no space for such an event in the cage.
Vivienne beckons them. They each fill his ass with a fingertip of girl cum and then exit the room leaving only Vivienne.
She stares at his wetness for a very long time. After a minute or two she strolls forward on the horse till her steed is directly underneath Michael and then she pulls back her cloak to reveal a harnessed artificial cock. She drags it through the mixed liquids upon his body and applies the tip. Only then does he realise what is occurring. He yelps.
‘Can you take this Michael?’
He groans. It burns like acid.
She shoves a little more, sending chocolate, saliva and pussy juice further into his rectum. Everyone is hanging for his answer.
‘For the last time Michael, can you take this?’
He breathes deeply and sighs.
‘Yes.’
Then she drives all the way in as she looks over to her husband who is cumming in her very best seamstresses mouth.
‘Good boy,’ she says, stroking Michael’s thigh. Then she rams him without a scrap of mercy.
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Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/u74nkg/madame_viviennes_club_for_wayward_gentlemen