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Everyone who walks through the door has a shared interest in exploring decadence and debauchery, with safety and privacy assured. It’s not solely about wealth, although it’s clear there’s plenty of it here. No, the men and women, congregating in small groups near the bar and at tables circling the room near floor-to-ceiling windows that highlight the bright lights of the city below, aren’t here because of their wallets. We’re here because our libidos demand it.
I’ve been a member of a few BDSM clubs in the past. None had nearly such a niche focus as Club Sin. The rooms in the four floors of bacchanal revelry are devoted to any imaginable kinks or fetishes, including the room we’re visiting tonight.
“Do you think she’s one of the women here?” Asher asks as he surveys the few ladies not already paired up with others in the open floor plan lounge.
The women I see are lovely, to be sure, but none seem to be what I expect of woman who’ll meet our very specific criteria for tonight. We have an unexpected kink that was unlocked a few months ago by a public scene we watched at the Pleasure Factory. Ash, Hudson and I had met for drinks at the much less luxurious BDSM club we belong to after Hudson and his cold-fish girlfriend had broken up last summer.
Neither Ash nor I could figure out what he saw in the woman. She never seemed to smile, which is wild considering Hudson’s the jokester in our little group. Whenever we saw her, she appeared stonily silent while she weighed and measured the wealth and status of everyone around us. Hudson’s final straw was when the woman had intimated to his mother that she should pass along her wedding ring to Hud, so he could propose properly. Hudson’s father had only been in the ground for a month.
There was no heartbreak for either Hudson or his ex, at least as far as I could see, and she’s already engaged to a fool we went to university with. Still, he’d been subdued for a while and convincing him to meet us at the Pleasure Factory for drinks had been a coup in itself. What happened next was an unanticipated boon for all of us.
“I don’t see anyone who looks like she’s wearing a, you know, one of those clippy tops.” Hudson murmurs.
The conversations ebb and flow around us as we meander toward the bar, but anticipation sits so heavy between the us anything louder than a whisper would feel inappropriate.
“Clippy tops?” I question.
“You know, like Lisa was wearing.” Hudson explains. I follow his scan of the crowd, looking for anyone wearing a top similar to the one the submissive at the Pleasure Factory had worn while bound to a Saint Andrew’s Cross on stage.
I close my eyes and think back to that night. The lights had been low everywhere but the main stage. Under a spotlight in the center of the raised dais, a woman had been strapped onto the red-lacquered wooden cross. Her arms and legs had been securely bound to the X-shaped posts, with a sheer sarong style skirt wrapped around her waist. The nearly transparent material had provided a tantalizing glimpse of her sex while every eye in the building focused on the way her weight shifted against the wood at her back.
Instead of being topless or adorned with a typical bondage-looking bra, she’d worn a soft pink cotton camisole, further capturing my attention for its uniqueness in a setting more used to buckles and leather. The service sub who delivered our drinks had explained the demo that night was the woman, Lisa, and her partner, John, having their first play night since she’d given birth to their son several months earlier. The adorably twinky sub had gently clinked our drinks to the table while he confessed the plans in a playfully scandalized tone. He claimed it was rumor her milk was so abundant her Dom could use it for his cereal every morning. He planned to show how far the sweet nectar could squirt while he pleasured her on the cross for all to see.
At thirty-six years old, I’d thought I’d unlocked every kink I had. I expected I’d at least borne witness to things I hadn’t personally experienced before I ruled them out. Nonetheless, very clear interest twinged behind my zipper, and when I looked across the table at my best friends, I realized they felt the same.
Later, we’d discussed the eroticism and sensuality of watching Lisa’s partner work her body into a frenzy on the cross. None of us had any desire for Lisa, nor did we feel any pull to be the men at her breasts when her Dom invited members of the audience to sample her milk.
Even now, the idea of tasting milk from a sub I don’t know and who belongs to another Dom gives me an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I know such activities are absolutely wonderful for others, but personally, I can’t envision sharing my sub with strangers. Not that I have a sub. Or have in a lon time. It’s been years since I had more than a casual, pre-negotiated scene in a club. And frequently, those are more about controlling a submissive’s journey to subspace than getting my nut.
Asher and Hudson are in the same boat as me. None of us are willing to sample the tit of another Dom’s committed submissive and mother to his child. All of us are desperate to explore the scorchingly hot eroticism in pleasuring a woman until her milk lets down, then suckling at her breast to savor the sweet nourishment she provides.
Asher’s the one who came up with the idea of joining Club Sin after he learned they have a room dedicated specifically to lactation kink. A room where, if we’re lucky, the club’s concierge might match us with a single woman capable of being milked and suckled like a wet-nurse while being fucked and pleasured like a courtesan.
We’ve never shared a woman. But when the concierge divulged how uncommon it is for a lactating woman to sign up to be matched in the room, we all agreed it made sense to go together. We’d been told it would be easy to arrange for a woman who would roleplay a milking scene, but if we wanted to nurse actual breastmilk from a woman’s live breast, the wait could be lengthy.
That’s why tonight’s our first night here, despite our memberships being approved several months back. Recently, we’d gotten the call that a new member had joined and submitted her information. A woman, who’d apparently been a surrogate and nursed the resulting baby for a year, was now willing to submit to three strangers desperate to suckle at her breasts and maybe, if fate is willing and the chemistry is right, fuck her into next Tuesday.
Chapter Three
Hudson Craft
When Asher called to tell me we had a Club Sin match, I’d been in Sydney finalizing the details of an acquisition my father had worked on before his death last year. The boutique hotel he’d wanted to bring into our family’s resort portfolio was one he and my mother enjoyed visiting whenever he was in Australia, and it was important to me that I negotiate terms that ensures the facility maintains all the charm and local flair my parents loved.
I almost begged off, the hassle of arranging last minute flights and rushing off after finally getting the deal hammered out feeling like more than a night of fuckery was worth. Then I’d called my mom to tell her we’d settled the deal and heard her happiness, her pride in me working so hard to honor something my dad would have wanted so much. She’d demanded I celebrate and reward myself with time off, and since she’s the CEO of the family business’ resort arm, now that Dad’s gone, I didn’t argue.
Now, I’m here in a rumpled suit, fresh from flying across the ocean, wondering if tonight will really happen. It seemed like an impossible ask when we registered our request with the club. How could we realistically expect an absolute stranger to wander in with such a narrowly constructed set of expectations?
We didn’t want a club submissive who’d roleplay a dirty hucow fantasy. No amount of imagining a woman trussed up to simulate a nursing mother’s breasts full of milk did anything to get my engine going. It wouldn’t matter if she were the sexiest woman alive; I have no desire to suck milk through a straw fed through a fake nipple the way milkmaiden porn plays out.
Even terms like hucow and milkmaiden are new to me, so alien to the fetishes I’ve long had. I’d never even contemplated them before that damned night at the Pleasure Factory. I don’t know if I want to curse Lisa and John for that ball-zapping, hot demo or thank them ‘til I’m as blue in the face as my balls have been ever since then.
I’ve traveled for work almost nonstop since that night, but thanks to internet porn and incognito browsers, I’ve watched squirts of sticky white milk dripping from heavy tits and jerked myself to images on my tablet screen in hotel rooms across the fucking globe. So when Asher swore the club had found us a real live lactating woman we could milk and fuck to our heart’s content, I booked the damn flights and dragged my ass here.
“I think we should wait for her in the room.” I suggest. Partly because I don’t see anyone here who looks as if she’s got breasts I want to nurse and partly because I want to explore the accommodations.
Club Sin’s exclusivity means what happens behind their doors won’t show up in pictures online. We’ve been told the room will have everything we need to accommodate a party of our size, and that the room is stocked with either new or professionally sanitized equipment to ensure we can fully explore any lactation or breeding-related activity we wish. Supposedly, there’s everything we might need for a traditional D/s scene as well as aftercare materials, too.
The guys like to tease me for being the go-with-the-flow jokester of our group, but I’m also the one who likes to prepare ahead, so I won’t stress out once it’s go time. My gut is crawling with the urge to ensure the room truly has everything I expect. Now that I’ve watched enough hucow porn to become an expert, if such thing exists, I’ve got some very specific expectations for how I want tonight to go down.
