The Freyja Club

The Air France flight back to the United States was routine, no mysterious envelope appeared inviting me for membership in a 90-year-old club no one had ever heard of, so in one respect, I appreciated the return to normalcy, but I kind of missed the feeling of apprehension that had characterized the last half of the flight to Paris.

I kept looking at my left hand but could see no evidence of the microchip that had been implanted there two days ago, a microchip that I had been told was my key to enter any of the Freyja Clubs in the World. As I closed my eyes, I could still envision Danielle, the beautiful Executive Director of the Paris branch of the club, and the initiation that I had accepted from her. The mere remembrance of her naked body still sent tingles through my groin.

The Freyja Club was something out of a wet dream. Of course, I was aware that every city on the planet probably boasted a sex club or two ranging from exclusive "gentlemen's clubs" to tramp traps that I'd never consider patronizing, but The Freyja Club was above and beyond anything I ever thought about.

I was heading to New York and would be staying for a few days meeting with some investment bankers at Lehman Brothers about an acquisition my company was considering, and I was hoping that time would permit a visit to the Freyja Club in the city. A glance at my watch confirmed that we would be landing at Kennedy in about two hours.

It was after eight in the evening by the time I finally got to my room at the Intercontinental Hotel on West 44th Street. Air France Business Class had done a superb job of filling me with both food and drink, so mundane things like survival were far from my mind.

As soon as I finished unpacking, I removed a plastic card from my wallet. The front of the card, or was it the back, I couldn't tell because both sides looked similar. Each side had a list of ten cities printed in red, and below each was a telephone number printed in black. They were in alphabetical order, so I looked for the number of the New York Club and dialed.

A woman's voice answered after the first ring, "F.C. May I help you?" I guess I didn't exactly know how I expected the phone to be answered, but I quickly surmised that I had the right number. The logo of the Freyja Club was a Viking long boat with the initials F.C. on its sail. Also, I knew the club was fanatical about secrecy, so the use of just F.C. made perfect sense.

I gave the woman my name and birth date as well as a three-digit number I'd been given and said I would like to visit this evening. The woman took a second to confirm that my information was legitimate and said, "Yes sir, we would be pleased to see you. I notice that you are a new member. Do you wish our address, and will you be driving or using a cab?"

I gathered that had I been driving, she was prepared to give me parking information, but I just responded, "I'll be coming by taxi." She didn't ask if I would be accompanied by a guest, because I was sure she was looking at my profile and I hadn't submitted any guest names to be vetted, so none would be shown.

The address was on East 91st Street between Madison and Park Avenues, so I figured a 45-block ride uptown should take about twenty minutes, so I told the woman to expect me around 10 p.m. I took a minute to change underwear, shave, brush my teeth, and apply some cologne and I was soon on my way.

The address turned out to be a six-story building that looked like a hotel or an exclusive condo, but there was no sign of any kind. A ramp led down to a closed steel door which I assumed was a parking garage. The cab pulled beneath a covered portico and let me out.

The door was locked, but I expected that. An intercom and keypad were hanging on the wall, but my attention was drawn to a chip reader. I placed my hand near and I was rewarded by a buzz that unlocked the solid door. Just inside was a room perhaps 25 feet square. There was a rich blue and gold carpet on the floor and the two side walls had paintings that showed New York in times past. Directly in front of me was a door similar to one I'd seen in Paris. Carved into the rich mahogany was an outline of a Viking ship with F.C. on its sail, but in front of it was a man behind a desk that looked like he had stepped off a recruiting poster for Navy Seals.

When I approached he pointed to another chip reader by his desk and I dutifully extended my hand. A small green light flashed and the guard, because that's what I assumed him to be, glanced at his monitor and looked back at me. I could just see enough of it to know that he was looking at a picture of me taken two days ago in Paris.

Satisfied that I indeed was who I said I was, he clicked his mouse and the door to the club opened about an inch. So far the guard had not uttered a single word and was still silent as I passed by to enter the club. And as I did, I turned toward him and said "Semper Fi." That got a little smile out of him.

However, just before reaching for the handle, I noticed a second door that was obscured by a partition in the right corner of the room. This second door was also mahogany but it had a circular leadlight window made up of crystal glass in the form of a swan. It dawned on me that had I been accompanied by a female, she would most likely have had to use that door, which I assumed led to the lady's dressing room.

The Freyja Club had several rules, the most significant of which they called the "iron rule." Simply stated the "iron rule" required all female members, guests, and staff to be naked, or nearly so, while in the club proper. Had I been accompanied, the woman had to have a place to change, and I assumed the swan door led to the dressing room, or in this case, the undressing room.

Not for the first time, my mind wondered how women felt being unclothed and exposed in front of mostly strangers. I had heard that a common dream theme was to suddenly find oneself in just such a situation and psychologists opined that it was an indicator of insecurity. When I was in Paris, the looks I saw on the ladies' faces there seemed to belie that notion they seemed to revel in the power of their femininity. When I imagined myself in their place, I felt my cock tingle and firm, and I wondered if pussies had a similar reaction. I would have to ask.

The guard looked at me questioningly, since I had paused for a moment as these thoughts were racing through my mind, so I smiled a sheepish apology and opened the door.

Immediately inside I was met by a strikingly beautiful black late twentysomething woman whom I assumed to be the club's hostess. She greeted me by name and informed me that she was aware that this was my first visit to the New York club. Would I appreciate a quick tour?

I looked at the silver tiara that the female staff used as a kind of name tag and noted the woman's name was Kyree. It was about the only place a name could be found unless they wrote it on her bare skin because she was almost nude. I say almost, because, unlike Paris, it appeared that the female staff in New York wore barely black stockings with white garter belts and red heels. As I took in Kyree's womanly figure, I decided I liked the garter belt look a touch better than the wholly nude style employed in Paris.

Kyree spoke in the lilting English that I associated with the Caribbean and her pale bronze skin bespoke of mixed racial ancestry. Her dark hair was shoulder length and her breasts thrust out lovingly from her chest with only a hint of sag. She had shaved her pussy and the curve to the delta between her legs was smooth and decidedly feminine. I thought she was perfect for the role of hostess.

I responded affirmatively to her question and I saw her pick up a phone beneath her podium a second later we were joined by another woman whose name was Jenna, who would be my guide for the tour.

Jenna was a few years younger than Kyree and was a cute brunette. We were introduced and as Kyree was speaking, I was aware that both Jenna and I were appraising each other. I was, of course, fully clothed while Jenna was naked but I hoped that she liked what she saw. I was 48, but at six foot and just shy of 200 pounds I thought that I looked OK.

Jenna was barely five feet tall and weighed a hundred pounds lighter than me. I would describe her figure as elfish, but deliciously so. Small, pert breasts sat on her chest with prominent nipples and, unlike Kyree, Jenna had natural fine light brown pubic hair which I found to be erotically attractive.

The tour began in the room we were in. I guessed it took up fully half of the first floor of the building and had two wide marble staircases that curved up to a mezzanine level that overlooked the lobby below. To my immediate right was a duplicate of the swan door I'd seen before, but this was the entrance into the club from the women's dressing room. As I watched it opened and two middle-aged ladies emerged and walked past. My gaze fixed on their bouncing tits and they looked in my direction and smiled.

Adjacent to the door were three couches arranged in a U shape which appeared to be placed there to accommodate gentlemen who might be waiting for their female companions.

In the center of the room was a marble statue of Freyja naked save for a Viking helmet and sandals. There was no chandelier like in Paris, but rather recessed and hidden lighting that shot column's up the paneled walls creating a warm and erotic mood.

On the wall to my left were four groups of five pictures each arranged in a cross pattern. Each picture was a 24x36 photo mounted on canvas of a naked woman in a portrait pose. While no two were the same, they were all taken from an oblique angle which emphasized the shape and fullness of the lady's breasts. Jenna said they were portraits of members and were regularly changed.

Just under the leftmost staircase was the "board." It was one of the ways members connected to pursue whatever erotic act they pleased. While I was in Paris, I used a card posted on the "board," to meet up with a woman named Fionia who was seeking a man to eat her pussy. Looking back, I hoped that I had given her that and more, so I informed Jenna that I was familiar with the "board" procedures, but she needed to show me where the activity suites were and how to get there. She smiled and nodded.

Under the right staircase, there was a fountain built into the wall, and water cascaded over marble nymphs into a large green pool surrounded by tables. A door under the mezzanine accessed the main bar area where I found a replica of Goya's famous painting "The Naked Maja" hanging. To the left of the bar was the restaurant with about fifteen tables, and I assumed behind that was the kitchen.

Jenna escorted me to the very back of the building where another wide door opened into a small elevator lobby and we rode up one floor to the mezzanine level. This proved to be only half the size of the floor below and was divided into two rooms. On the left was the gentleman's smoking room where ladies were not permitted and a large room with couches and plinths which Jenna told me was the Dewitt Clinton room but which most people called the "orgy room."

We returned to the elevator and one more floor found us on the level of the activity suites, which was where one went with whomever to do whatever. The twenty rooms were arranged around a large common area that sported a secondary bar, but with only four tables. The fourth and fifth floors were the hotel rooms which were accessed from a different entrance. Jenna asked if I would like to see them, but I declined.

I pointed to one of the unoccupied tables by the bar and asked Jenna to join me. I offered to buy her a drink, and she smiled and informed me that staff was not allowed to eat or drink in the public spaces, but they were also told that whenever possible they should accede to member's requests, whether it was to touch and fondle their bodies, fuck or suck, or in my case have a drink. So if I was "requesting" she have a drink with me, she could.

I made a formal "request" and soon two generous glasses of white wine were placed on the table. The bartender was male, so he was fully clothed, and Jenna introduced me to Rick, who shook my hand in a manly grip, and looked at Jenna in a way that made me immediately think that they might be friends with "benefits."

I told Jenna that I was interested in learning about the club's staff in general and of course her in particular. She smiled and took a sip of wine and said, "shoot, what do you want to know"

Over the next hour, I learned that Jenna had grown up on a farm in North Carolina, and she was the valedictorian of her class in high school. She had gotten a scholarship to CCNY to study chemistry, but in her junior year, both of her parents were killed in a car accident. She didn't know what to do, so she finished school, but jobs in her field were scarce. She heard about the Freyja Club when she was called out of the blue. She'd never considered doing anything like what she discovered her responsibilities would be but agreed to give it a one-week trial, because, as she said, the money was outrageous.

While we were talking, I noticed that action was taking place in and around the activity suites. Mostly it was male/female couples, but there was one male/male and two female/female. One group of six went into a room for what I assumed would be a mini-orgy. I noticed four of the people were staff, including our bartender Rick. It was a small sample, but it appeared to me that women members tended to prefer the male staff to male members. I asked Jenna, and she said that was considered common knowledge.

I asked Jenna how she felt about being naked in front of other men and women. She admitted that the first couple of days she was terrified, but there was a tingling in her pussy. No one had asked her for any kind of sexual favor until she was almost at the end of her self-imposed trial period when a man asked if he could touch her. He played with her tits and ended up fingerfucking her to what she said was the best orgasm of her life. Jenna said the clincher was that weekend she'd gone on n a date with a guy she knew from school and he'd tried the same thing, but he was so awkward and fumbling in his efforts that it dawned on Jenna that between the money and the eroticism of the club, that she wanted to stay.

I didn't ask her about Rick, but I did want to know more about the staff in general, and particularly the women. Jenna said that in the New York club, half of the women were married and all of their husbands knew what they did. She told me that spouses were required to sign the NDA and as compensation received an extra $1,000 a month.

Laughingly, I wondered aloud how the women, but especially the men on the staff handled the almost constant eroticism. Jenna laughed back and said that some, and she nodded in Rick's direction, were highly sought after, particularly by the women members, but if the pressure ever got too much there was a staff-only activity room that she had made use of on occasion.

Jenna admitted that the club had had a profound effect on the way she viewed sex, eroticism, and relationships and she thought that it better prepared her for choosing the right man when it came to that.

It was after midnight when we finished talking and as both Jenna and I rose, she looked deeply into my eyes and asked, "Is there anything else?" It wasn't what she said, but the way she said it that hit me. Truthfully even though Jenna had been sitting next to me, totally naked, for the past hour I had been focused on her as a person, not as a woman. It appeared Jenna was asking me to rebalance my priorities.

I took a step forward so that our lips were only inches apart, and I asked politely, "Jenna, may I kiss you?" The words had hardly died on my lips when I felt her demanding kiss. Lips and tongue interspersed with a sense of her teeth as well. After a moment I broke and asked, "should I get a room?" She shook her head and resumed her assault. As far as I knew, even though we were in a public space, no one else was around, but it seemed, even if there were, Jenna, didn't care if I didn't.

Our height difference wasn't a problem while we were kissing, but I knew it would be awkward if I wished to carry this budding relationship further, so I backed up to the table and sat on the edge. When I pulled Jenna to me, I spun her around so that she was sitting in my quasi-lap. I wrapped my arms around her small body as I began to kiss and lick her neck just under her ears.

I was about to ask if, in addition to kissing, I could touch her, but before I got a chance, she grabbed one of my hands and placed it on her tit, then covered it with her own. I kneaded her tit and continued kissing her neck. Jenna had thrown her head back to give me total access and I was taking advantage.

Soon my other hand slipped under her other breast and I fondled it from underneath. Jenna's tits were probably about 32B's but there was enough definition that her femaleness wasn't in doubt. I played with her for a couple of minutes before I decided to check out what was going on between her legs. What I encountered was her hand.

Jenna let me push it aside and replace it with my own, and what I discovered was that Jenna was probably right on the edge. My fingers slipped into her folds and easily found her seeping hole. First one finger and then two inserted themselves and I knew that my thumb was positioned directly over her clit, which I refrained from touching.

Jenna was using her legs to assist my fingers in their "in and out" invasion of her vagina, and of course, I was still kissing her neck and squeezing her tit. Her head was resting on my shoulder and her moans of pleasure were being sighed directly into my ear. I had only fingerfucked a few girls to orgasm, but from the looks of it, Jenna was giving me a lot of room for error.

After one particularly long gasp, I assumed she was ready, so I brought my thumb down on her clit. Jenna jerked as if she'd just stuck her finger in an electric socket and all of a sudden my arms were full of spasming female.

I believe that no one in the building was unaware of Jenna's climax, Her loud "Oh God.... Fuck...Aaaaagh... Fuck.... Shit... Aaaaagh," was unstifled. I quickly looked around, but still, no one opened any doors and Rick was nowhere to be seen.

Jenna just sort of collapsed, and if I hadn't been supporting her body, I'm sure she might have ended up on the floor. It was just at that point, that I saw the elevator door open and Kyree stepped out and stood looking at us. Jenna looked up and I thought I saw her smile before she tried to stumble to her feet. Kyree wanted to know if everything was OK, and I said I thought better than OK. Jenna mumbled something incoherent and I saw Kyree chuckle. "Welcome to New York," she said as she returned to the elevator and pushed the down button.

Jenna looked back at me through tear-stained eyes and mumbled a "thank you," and said something about having to get back to work. We rode down in the elevator and Jenna kissed me and departed through a door marked "staff only." I went to the bar and ordered a Heineken.

A half-hour later, I was talking to a couple of other men and we were holding a debate about the upcoming election between President Reagan and whatever sacrificial lamb the Democrats would put up against him. My bar mates thought maybe Mondale, but I said that even Democrats weren't that stupid. The conversation was just getting good when I felt a warm hand on me. my shoulder. It was Kyree.

She motioned me to one of the tables and I said goodbye to the debate team. As I sat down again, I looked across the table and again thought what a strikingly beautiful woman Kyree was. I'd brought my beer and Kyree held up a finger to the bartender and a few minutes later, what to me looked like a Brandy Alexander, was placed in front of her.