“Now your jeans,” she orders.
Taking a step back, Lena unfastens her bra. Fuck, it’s one of those bras with the hook in the front — like a package concealing a wonderful present. The tightness of my jeans against my erection is infuriating, knowing I have to wait an hour before I can play with her tits.
“Jacket,” Lena instructs.
As I reach for the tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Lena fondles her nipples. Her skin is so flawless and delectable — I want to nibble and suck every inch until she moans in pleasure.
Pulling on the jacket and exhaling in agony, I ask, “One hour?”
Lena smiles. “Yes, Professor.”
9:40 p.m.
We stop in front of a walkup somewhere in SoHo. I pay the driver and then help Lena out of the cab. She pauses on the sidewalk to reapply her red lipstick — slowly and methodically, just to torment me.
“Is this a costume party?” I ask, still unsure of what I’m about to encounter.
“I suppose.” Lena takes my hand and earnestly adds, “Don’t be afraid to let your inhibitions go. It’s more enjoyable for everyone involved when guests are comfortable and open to new things. Role-play can be liberating, especially when encountered with people that share the same objective.”
No way. No fucking way — I’m on the cusp of my first swinger party! I shake my shoulders and roll my neck. “I’m ready, Lena.”
The palm of her hand moves to my cheek. Her thumb glides over my scruffy stubble, grazing the edge of my mouth, as she whispers, “Don’t forget your pipe.” Lena’s other hand slides into my jacket pocket to remove the smoking pipe. I smile as she tries to position it between my lips. “Hurry along, Professor,” she instructs.
If she wants me to act like a professor, I’ll do it. I know a lot about military history, and I can fake my way through a few conversations before the orgies commence. I need a back story — I’m a professor at a college on Long Island. I teach four graduate classes, and I’m currently writing a book on the JFK assassination. This is good!
Mission Three: Accomplished.
I follow behind Lena, watching as her ass shimmies when she climbs the steps to the front door. She presses the buzzer and I quickly pinch her ass. Lena shoots me an annoyed glare, but I simply smile.
A man decked out in a black tuxedo with tails and a tight frown opens the door. “Good evening. I’m Wadsworth, the butler.”
“Hello, I’m Ms. White,” Lena replies.
Wadsworth switches his attention to me as I chew on the pipe. “And you, sir?” he asks with a strained British accent.
Lena places her hand on my arm and answers. “I believe this is Professor Plum.”
“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” Wadsworth states.
“We only met today — we received similar invitations to a dinner party at this address and decided to share a taxi.”
Oh, so that’s our story. Hot.
“Very good. Follow me and I will introduce you to the other guests.” Wadsworth sharply turns toward the entry hall, so we obediently follow him. “Everyone is in the dining room,” he adds over his shoulder.
That’s weird — I guess swinger parties start with a nice meal so everyone can get acquainted. Like a potluck dinner that turns into potluck sex.
Whispering into Lena’s ear, I ask, “Why are we eating dinner?”
“Shh, just play along,” she scorns.
Fine. I’ll play along. I’ve read that Manhattan sex clubs have crazy memberships and vetting processes, but so far, this all seems like a silly game. Nothing like that movie with Nicole Kidman and the mask-wearing sex cult.
“Ladies and gentleman, may I present Ms. White and Professor Plum,” Wadsworth announces.
Wadsworth — where have I heard that name before?
Wadsworth extends his arm in a presentation gesture, and then pulls out a chair for Lena. I take the last available chair on the opposite side of the table between two attractive women.
Placing my pipe on the table and checking out the hot chick to my right, I ask, “What’s for dinner?”
She leans into me and smirks. “Mrs. Peacock revealed a few minutes ago that we’re having one of her favorite recipes prepared by the cook.”
Huh.
“I’m Miss Scarlet, and I love a man in tweed.” She pinches the fabric of my sleeve between her fingers and winks.
I wink back at her and then study the guests slurping bowls of soup around the table, none of which are wearing an actual Halloween costume. Across from me is dark and sexy Lena, dressed in black and going by the pseudonym of Ms. White. Miss Scarlet is wearing a revealing burgundy dress and staring at me with lust. Mrs. Peacock is to my left, drinking wine and nodding goofily at the table conversation. A dude next to Lena is dousing his hands in hand sanitizer and squirming in his seat.
“Do you like Kipling, Miss Scarlet?” asks a man with a fake mustache.
In a seductive voice, Miss Scarlet replies, “I’ll eat anything, Colonel Mustard.
“Colonel Mustard, are you a real Colonel?” Lena asks between slurps of soup.
White. Mustard. Peacock. Scarlet.
“Yes, of course. Retired and presently working in Washington,” Colonel Mustard adds.
“And what about you, Mr. Green? What do you do in Washington?” Miss Scarlet asks.
Green. Oh shit — Professor Plum.
Nervously, Mr. Green stands from the table and throws down his napkin. “I work for the State Department and I’m a homosexual,” he recites.
What the …
“Everyone, please follow me to the study to meet our host, Mr. Boddy,” Wadsworth instructs.
I watch in confused horror as the cast of Clue obediently rises from the table and follows a fictional butler through the entry hall.
“I’d like to know why we’re here, Wadsworth,” Colonel Mustard shouts.
Yeah, me too.
“I invited you — please follow to me the study and I will explain …” Wadsworth’s voice trails off.
I try to get Lena’s attention but she patters off ahead of me. Miss Scarlet on the other hand, gives me all her attention — pressing me against the wall outside the dining room and running her hand over my chest.
“I hear you do things to lady patients that doctors aren’t allowed to do,” she whispers while grabbing my junk. “Nice boots, Professor,” she adds in a breathless pant.
Miss Scarlet pushes off me in slow-motion but then she turns sharply and dashes off in front of me. As we make our way into the study, the guests disperse. Miss Scarlet chooses the antique desk to sit atop while I cozy up on the sofa next to Mrs. Peacock. Lena is seated in a wingback chair with her legs crossed. I stare feverishly at her body while placing my pipe in my mouth — this game better hurry up so I can get her naked.
A man in a dark suit and carrying a duffel bag moves swiftly to the fireplace. He looks at me like he’s confused and then shoots Wadsworth a nasty frown. No worries, because I’m soon distracted by a scantily dressed French maid with a huge rack.
“Would joo like some brandee?” Her French accent is terrible, but the view down her cleavage is awesome.
“I’ll take one,” Mrs. Peacock answers.
The maid continues to pass out the drinks to the guests and then places the tray on a table. She leaves, shutting the door behind her.
Wadsworth moves to the center of the room and nods to the man in the dark suit. “Very well, we’ve all been called here for one reason … blackmail!” His face becomes animated and excited as he addresses the guests. “Our host,” he points to the man with the duffel bag, “is blackmailing us.”
Mrs. Peacock fans herself with her purse and whines, “I’m not being blackmailed! I’m an open book. I have nothing to hide!”
The man against the fireplace laughs maniacally as Wadsworth reveals seven envelopes. “In my hand, I hold the only evidence of our government indiscretions. Including you, Mrs. Peacock.”