A Black Door Novel


St. Martin's Griffin

Chapter 1

Business at the Black Door, New York’s only adult playground exclusively designed for women, was thriving. Owner Trey Curtis had conceived the concept one night while at Scores—a high-end strip club—as he watched men and women take pleasure in scantily clad dancers, disrobing and gyrating onstage. While the men were forthright with their wants and desires, some of the women seemed a bit reserved. Trey sensed that the ladies didn’t want to be judged by prying eyes, and that’s when the idea for the Black Door was born. Shortly thereafter, he opened a women’s only club where members could partake in as many carnal activities as they could handle. And to ensure anonymity, so that they could really feel sexy and uninhibited, he personally designed identity-concealing masks. The only men allowed to enter the Black Door were servers, hired to entertain and please members with anything from a stimulating conversation to a stimulating orgasm.

The Black Door was housed in a three-story brownstone located uptown in the Washington Heights area of Manhattan. Trey spared no expense in decorating the club; he imported gold-leaf wallpaper from Italy for the foyer and installed an eight-tier crystal chandelier to give the entrance a regal appearance. He wanted the members to feel like pampered queens the moment they stepped across the threshold. And to accomplish that goal there were two parlors on the ground floor where members could mingle, have cocktails, and loosen up before venturing upstairs.

In one of the parlors, hidden behind a crimson velvet drape, was a narrow staircase that served as the entry to the second level. Upstairs, along a dimly lit corridor, which seemed to stretch for blocks, were a series of doors that led to various chambers where the serious activities took place. Trey exhausted his imagination when he created the various theme rooms. There was the Voyeurism Room, where through a one-way mirror members could watch one another get their brains fucked out. In the 8mm Room, vintage porn flicks played nonstop for those who needed a little visual stimulation to get the juices flowing. The Pink Room was geared toward members who wanted some girl-on-girl action; everything in the room was pink from the lighting to the drinks to the furniture to the exposed pink pussies. The club even had its own bar. The Leopard Lounge was inviting, with black and tan leopard print walls and private booths, so members could relax while sipping on the club’s signature martini—the Black Door—made of Moët & Chandon White Star and a splash of Hennessy.

The club was sexy yet sophisticated, and had something for everyone’s comfort level, which made it popular among the ladies who fucked around on the side. So popular in fact that Trey had to open a second club. Overseeing the operations of the Black Door took up the majority of his time, and whatever was left of the day was spent dealing with his personal problems. He had a few unresolved issues from his past that kept him preoccupied. Though Trey loved running the club, he knew that he couldn’t handle both clubs successfully, so he hired Mason Anthony to manage the Black Door Two.

Mason Anthony had risen through the ranks from server to escort—which was another component of the business—to manager. Mason wasn’t keen on being a sex slave, because some of the women had insatiable appetites and could cum for hours, so he transferred over to the escort department. The escorts were under no obligation to maintain a rock-hard cock; they accompanied clients to black-tie banquets, award ceremonies, parties, and private dinners. Mason was the ideal date-for-hire; he was a towering six feet four inches, with well-defined triceps, biceps, and deltoids. Even his gluteus maximus was firm and looked great in a pair of slacks. His cocoa brown skin matched his sensuous brown eyes to a tee, and his black goatee framed a pair of full, kissable lips. The icing on Mason’s cake was his sexy Denzel-like strut. When a client strolled into an event with him on her arm, she was sure to be the envy of the night. Not only was he handsome, he was articulate as well.

Mason had only worked as an escort part-time while he attended med school, but when his funds ran out and the grants dried up, he approached his boss about returning to the club as a server (since they made more moola), but Trey had something else in mind. He needed someone whom he could trust to run the Black Door Two, and Mason fit the bill perfectly, since he knew all aspects of the business. When Trey offered Mason the job as manager, he eagerly accepted. The opportunity meant a chance for him to stack his cash so that he could return to school and become a surgeon. In addition to a generous salary, the job also came with generous perks—like being in the company of beautiful women 24/7—which he enjoyed immensely. Mason hadn’t been in a committed relationship in eons, so on those lonely nights when he got horny, he donned his bronze mask and prowled the club for a willing victim. Since all the members and servers were screened for STDs, Mason could fuck without fear of catching some kind of dreaded disease.

The Black Door Two was located in an old warehouse in the trendy Meat-Packing District, an area of the city that had been gentrified from bloody meat-packing storehouses into multimillion-dollar lofts, pricey boutiques, and hip bistros. From the outside, the six-storied brown brick building looked abandoned, and that’s exactly the look that Trey was going for when he bought the property. Unlike most of the buildings in the area that had been totally gut-renovated, Trey chose to keep the exterior untouched so as not to cause any unwanted attention. He kept the four bottom levels in their original condition, but rehabbed the top two floors. If you didn’t know the club existed, you’d assume that this was just another old dilapidated warehouse. There wasn’t even an address on the building; the only discerning mark was a black metal door. Unlike the uptown club that serviced a more mature clientele, the downtown location catered to the Generation Nexters; young trophy wives who were tired of spreading their legs for potbellied husbands who popped Viagra like Tic Tacs in order to get a woody; and well-bred East Side debutantes who put their sweater sets aside and slipped into see-through lingerie for an evening of uninhibited freakiness.

“Evening, Boss,” the elevator attendant greeted Mason.

“Hey, Moe, how’s business tonight?” Mason wanted to know. Moe was the keeper of the gate, and since no one could enter without riding up in the freight elevator, he kept a mental count of how many members entered the club.

“Business is good.” He smiled slyly.

Mason knew exactly what Moe’s smile meant. It meant that he had seen more than his fair share of tits and ass. Most of the members came to the club draped in capes, pashminas, and trench coats to conceal their outrageous outfits; but the moment they entered the elevator, those coverings were peeled off posthaste, revealing lace, leather, and little else.

Moe clanged the metal gate door shut, shifted a long, arm-length lever to the right, and the ancient elevator slowly began to rise. Once they reached the fifth floor, Mason stepped out. The club occupied the top two levels of the building. The oval entryway was painted pitch-black with silver flecks adding a reflective element underneath the glow of the overhead pin lights.

“What’s up, Gee?” Mason asked the greeter. Gee was a huge hunk of a man, with steroid-enhanced muscles that made Mason’s physique pale in comparison.

“Just hanging out enjoying my job.” Gee grinned, wiggling his fingers in the air. He had the best J.O.B. in town. Gee was responsible for digitally stimulating the clients and getting their pussies all wet and juicy before they strolled into the inner sanctum of the club. Wearing only a light sheen of baby oil on his upper body, which enhanced his muscle tone, a camouflage mask and matching G-string, he was the perfect tweaker, and the women loved his touch.

Mason shook his head. “I’ll just bet you do.” He strapped on his bronze leather mask and walked toward one of the many doors that lined the perimeter of the entry.

The fifteen-thousand-square-foot loft was divided into several suites. In addition to the titillating theme rooms that were in the original club, the downtown location had a few special chambers of its own. There was the Naked Pool Room, where members played the game in the buff wearing only their identity-concealing masks and pumps. In the Mani/Pedi Spa, women got toe- and finger-sucking manicures and pedicures. And in the Chocolate Chamber, buffed servers smeared liquid chocolate all over members’ breasts and clits, and then licked off every inch of the decadent sweet. The Disco was a throwback to Studio 57, the seventies nightclub where celebrities, models, and a smattering of lay people were among the select few who partied underneath a mirrored disco ball until the sun rose, set, and rose again.

Mason could hear the pulsating beat of Donna Summer belting out “Love to Love You Baby” as he made his way to the Disco. He had a stack of paperwork a mile high sitting on his desk, but he decided to peruse the club before heading upstairs to his private office. Mason was love-starved, and needed to take the edge off before he could concentrate on work, and a little eye candy was the perfect solution. Once inside, he stood back in the cut and scanned the room. The dance floor was packed with masked women and servers dressed in provocative outfits. He had seen more sheer negligees than Frederick’s of Hollywood, so the see-through numbers were doing nothing for his libido tonight.

Just as Mason was about to leave, in walked a short, curvaceous woman wearing a red plaid micro-miniskirt, black platform boots, a teeny-tiny midriff sweater, and a white mask. He watched as she grooved her way to the center of the dance floor. The crowd parted slightly as she began to gyrate to the beat. Her skirt was so short that Mason could see her butt cheeks wiggle with each move.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he whispered to himself.

Once her ass was in motion, she began moving her shoulders quickly, causing her extra large jugs to jiggle. Mason could feel his groin heating up as he watched her titties bounce up and down, and the way they shook freely, it was apparent that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He licked his full lips as he watched her shake her groove thang. She spun around in a circle, causing her tiny skirt and long dark hair to spin in the breeze. She was seducing him with her fluid dance moves, and as much as he was trying to restrain himself, his dick was growing harder and harder. He had come into the Disco to watch, but now with a serious hard-on between his legs, he wanted to do more than just observe from a distance. As Mason abandoned his position in the back of the club and strolled onto the dance floor, he was no longer thinking with his brain, because his dick had taken over.

Her back was turned and she didn’t see him as he slipped up behind her and placed his hands on her hips. She turned her head slightly to see who was dancing with her, and when she saw the bottom half of Mason’s handsome face, she smiled and turned back around.

That smile was all Mason needed. He knew that it was his stamp of approval to do whatever he wanted, and he wanted to fuck. As he seductively swayed back and forth with her, he slid one hand down to her thigh and underneath her skirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, not even a thong, and the feel of her smooth ass made his dick grow an inch. He reached down farther until he was touching her pussy lips.

“Oh, yeah, Papi,” she moaned in a heavy Latin accent, and leaned forward so that he could have easier access.

Mason looked around to see if they were the only ones on the dance floor getting jiggy with it, but everywhere his eyes turned, people were fucking and sucking. Everyone seemed caught up in their own world and oblivious to their surroundings. He removed his other hand from her waist, unzipped his jeans, and flipped out his cock. He rubbed his massive member in between her cheeks until it was as hard as slate.

“Fuck me now, Papi,” she demanded.

Her commanding voice turned him on and he slowly entered the head of his dick into her ready pussy, doggy style. Once inside, he grabbed her hips and firmly pulled her toward him.

She bucked him back. “Fuck me harder. Fuck me harder!” she panted.

Mason couldn’t believe that someone so small could take all ten inches of his rod, but she was giving as good as she got, so he rammed her pussy repeatedly as hard as he could until they were both dripping in salty sweat.

“That’s it, Papi! Give me all of that dick.”

He grabbed her around her tiny waist and nearly lifted her off the floor with each thrust. Mason could feel himself cumming, so he pulled out and shot his load on the back of her sweater, and the fuzzy material quickly absorbed the creamy substance, leaving a wet mark in the center of her back.

The second he released his grip from around her waist, she flipped down her skirt and danced away as if nothing had happened. Mason put his dick back in his pants and made his way through the crowd and out the door.

Once inside his office, he went into the bathroom and washed up. He took his mask off and looked into the mirror.

“You gotta stop fucking around with the clients,” he told himself, his brain now returning.

Though Mason could indulge anytime he wanted, he knew that it was unprofessional and distracting. Besides, he was tired of just “fucking,” and wanted a real relationship, something he hadn’t had in years. But ever since the Black Door Two opened, his libido was on high alert, and he’d been using the club as his personal playground. Sex at the club was addicting and he couldn’t seem to satisfy his insatiable appetite; it was almost as if he were possessed by a sex-crazed spirit. He knew what he needed to curb his extracurricular activities was a monogamous relationship. A relationship with a hot sexy intelligent woman would keep his mind off the random women he encountered nightly. He wasn’t commitment phobic like some men and enjoyed the companionship that a relationship offered. However, he was having trouble finding Ms. Right. He knew that she was out there somewhere, but the question was . . . where?

Copyright © 2007 by Velvet. All rights reserved.