The Order of Dionysus is a mysterious society that gathers in secret to do perverse things. They revel in hedonism. Pleasure is their guide. This book contains nine short stories about this sex cult and their hidden meetings and plans. From those who stumble upon clues about them, to their inner workings, this books exposes some of the many secrets of this dark and alluring Order. This anthology contains nine interconnected stories.
Here is a free story from this delicious anthology.
Shelby pressed “send,” then closed her eyes and prayed.
She looked in the mirror again. The big mirror on the wall across from her bed was one of her few real luxuries, wide and tall and taking up most of the wall of her small bedroom.
She liked sitting in the middle of the bed naked, legs tucked under her ass, hands on her thighs, knees spread, looking at her reflection. She liked the way her lips pouted, the swell of her breasts, and the contrast of her black tattoos against her tan skin. As much as she liked modeling for herself, taking pictures was a very different thing. Sending pictures to a stranger was something else entirely.
The message that started her strange adventure had come at midnight a few nights before. A little buzz on her phone, which she kept on the pillow next to her. An email from an address she didn’t recognize. She almost deleted it, but something about the subject line gave her pause.
“A Friend of a Friend,” it read.
“It has come to our attention that you are a bright woman with certain predilections we find entertaining,” the email explained.
“We are a small collective of like minded individuals and we have gleaned through some cursory investigation and conversations with mutual acquaintances, that you might enjoy our gatherings,” it went on.
Shelby found herself shaking a bit, her face flushed, and her heart quickened. She scrolled down.
“We gather in secret to do perverse things. We revel in hedonism. Pleasure is our guide.”
She read the words over, wondering if it was some creepy come on or something more.
“If you are interested, reply with your questions. Curiosity will be rewarded. Charmed, Mister James, Chevalier of the Order of Dionysus.”
It took a while for it to sink in. She went through a variety of reactions, one of which was deleting the message, another was undeleting it and reading it a few more times.
Her reply was typed quickly the next morning.
“What mutual friends? What do you mean perverse things? How can I be sure it is safe? Where and when are these gatherings?”
The reply came the next day at midnight.
“We are in contact with the man you dated right after college. The one who showed you the belt for the first time. As well, we know your old roommate. The one who you occasionally let cover your mouth while she fingered you and told you not to tell anyone or you would ‘get in trouble.’ We have also perused your blog, which, while anonymous, is quite informative to those who know its secret author.”
She immediately knew the two people the email mentioned. They were people she trusted. She remembered feeling innately that they were kinkier than she was and that they were keeping some secret from her.
The email went on, “the perverse things are just that. Sex and pain and teasing and torment. Fetish and kink. A world you have been to the periphery of, but are now being invited to enter. Further details will come if you are game. Safety, I assure you, is near the top of our list of priorities, next to discretion and indulgence.”
The spark of pride seemed to come out of nowhere, but there it was, a warmth in her belly telling her that she had been noticed. She had been picked.
“The next step is to decide what part you might play. Will you be le chat, the cat, free to roam and explore, only to be pet by those you pick? Will you be le cheval, the horse, there to serve and carry and wait? Will you be la souris, the mouse, who will only watch from a corner? Or will you be le lapin, the rabbit? And you know what rabbits do, don’t you?”
She felt emboldened by the letter and far more curious than before. The fear was still there, but it had distilled into something intoxicating.
“What does the rabbit do?” she wrote and hit send before she could stop herself.
The reply came quickly.
“Why, they fuck of course. If you come as the rabbit, you offer yourself up to be used by the guests. A toy for them to hurt or fuck or laugh at. You can, of course, call out to stop at any time, but in learning about you, we know you are a girl who likes to please and a girl who likes to be used.”
She felt her eyes wet. It was true. It had always been her secret truth.
“Yes,” was her only reply.
“More information will come in time, but for now you have been entered into our records. Please send us photographs so that we might complete your file. As we have seen from your blog, you are no stranger to taking dirty pictures. Now is the time to show off. The first event will be two Saturdays from today.”
The rabbit. The name and the image floated in her head as the days passed. In those two weeks she went back and forth with the gatekeepers of the mysterious Order. They gave her instructions on how to groom, what to wear, always insisting on more pictures. Dirty pictures.
The week before the event she was given a cross street on the Lower East Side. Not an address, but a picture of a red door. The instructions spoke of a green bell. They said to come at midnight.
That Friday morning, a text came as she was getting ready for work. Her heart stopped for a moment, until she saw it wasn’t from the Order. Who it was from was someone she had completely forgotten about in the rush of excitement. A man called John, who she had met on a dating site a few weeks before and had completely forgotten she had agreed to have a drink with.
“Are we still on for tonight?”
Were they? She wondered.
As usual, she typed before thinking.
“Of course! Pegu Club at seven,” she wrote in a flash.
And with that, it was settled. She would go on a date with some accountant before she stepped off the deep end and into a mysterious sex party.
She took a deep breath and went back into her bedroom to put on different underwear.
A few nerve wracking hours later she was sitting in the dimly lit bar, tugging on the too short hem of her dress, waiting.
He was cute. She didn’t remember him until he walked in and then the memory of his picture and witty profile came back to her.
He spotted her and she waved.
He was generically handsome. Glasses and a blazer with leather elbow patches. He reminded her of a professor she had a crush on in college.
As he sat down, she abruptly wondered if he was part of it. If he was some plant or test from the Order. She didn’t know if that made him more attractive or less.
Still, they had a drink. They chit chatted. They flirted, somewhat awkwardly.
He moved in closer, he smelled good, yet something inside of her made her close up like a wilting flower. Her head full of confusion, not knowing what was the Order and what was real life.
“You are even prettier than your pictures,” he said, sipping his drink.
Her stomach dropped and her throat went dry. She remembered the flash of her camera, her legs spread, her tits out. Biting her pouty bottom lip.
“My pictures?” she said, trying to hide behind her bangs.
“On the dating site,” he laughed.
Her blush darkened.
“Oh right, the site,” she mumbled.
She wondered if he thought she was stupid. For a moment she like that idea. To be a dumb bimbo. To be a giggling slut for him to take home and fuck. She downed her drink.
“Sorry, I am still kind of in work mode,” she said.
“I think I need another drink,” she added, waving to the waitress.
An hour later she was standing in his studio as he made small talk and fumbled with a French press.
She walked over to his bed, turned around and let herself fall back on it. The comforter was thick and soft and smelled like his cologne.
She took three deep breaths, gathering her courage. He was going on about some documentary he had seen. He was very smart, but also an idiot.
“Would you spank me really hard if I asked you to?” she asked, silencing him mid-sentence.
He turned from the coffee and looked at her.
“I think I’d like that,” he said, taking off his blazer.
She smiled up at the ceiling.
He walked over to the bed, standing at the foot of it, right between her legs.
“What else would you like?” He asked, his hands on her knees.
She looked up at him and she saw something new in his eyes, some edge of cruelty, but tempered.
“Spank me and use me. I’d like to be a toy for you to use and hurt and play with and fuck.”
A rabbit, she thought.
He leaned down, his hands moving up her legs, under her dress, hooking his fingers around her panties and pulling them off.
She was glad she had worn a garter belt and stockings and that she had worn them the right way like a good slut.
She saw that his smile was gone and hunger and cruelty were all she could sense from him. She liked that. It was good practice. If she could let this stranger use her then it would be easier to let the Order do it.
He pulled her so that her ass was at the edge of the mattress. He pushed up her dress. She barely controlled the urge to cover herself.
He rested his hand on her thigh and squeezed it so hard she cried out. Then the warm rush of want came over her, mixing with the pain like a cocktail.
He did it again, then slapped her tender skin. Before she could react, his hot mouth was on her cunt.
She tried to stop him, tried to say it wasn’t necessary, she was there for him to use, but then she saw the ecstasy on his face. His eyes closed, his mouth hungry as he licked and sucked at her.
There was pleasure there, but it was far away, overshadowed by the feeling of being a useful little toy. Used how ever he wanted. A feeling that filled her with happiness and shame.
When his fingers pushed into her, her whole body tensed. His mouth was nice, but penetration was what she needed. His fingers made quick work of her, his tongue still on her clit as he worked two fingers in and out, pushing her legs wider apart roughly with his elbows.
He seemed to know when she was close, because he suddenly stopped and flipped her over, just as she was climbing.
With her face in the pillows and her ass in the air, the spanking started.
Sometimes a spanking hurt, but was managed. Sometimes it was a crucible. That time, though, it was like a dream. There were flashes of pain, but mostly it all got transmuted to pleasure instantly.
Then she was dimly aware of a drawer opening and the foil square of a condom, then he was on top of her and the world was nothing but his hand on the back of her neck and his cock hard and thick, filling her, making her complete and finally truly useful.
An hour later she was outside in the crisp early Spring air, waiting for a cab, her ass burning, her knees jelly, and her thighs still wet.
As intense as the encounter was, she wanted more and more was waiting for her behind that red door.
The day of the event she had to work hard not to bite her freshly painted nails.
She tried to force herself to nap since it would be a late party, but it was no use. All she could do was think and give in to the needs of her greedy cunt.
At eleven she got on the train. She was wearing an even shorter dress than the night before. As the train crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, an old man sitting across from her blatantly ogled her and it made her ears burn. His eyes on her legs and then between them.
Almost against her will she felt her legs spreading open. His steel gray stubble covered face splitting into a smile. The temptation to be useful to a stranger was overpowering.
She wondered how much she might show him, but soon enough her stop came.
The five blocks to her destination was an obstacle course of drunk college kids. Muscle bound dudes in A shirts, who would usually be an annoyance she would roll her eyes at, became obscene looking. She longed to see their thick cocks and rub their rippling pecs and six-packs.
Then suddenly, the red door loomed like perdition’s flames.
She rang the green bell. She was breathing in gasps.
From the window in the door, she could see a staircase, then a slinky pair of legs in black stockings descending them.
A pretty young woman with short hair and makeup like a kewpie doll opened the door.
“And you are?” she asked with a smile.
The words were on the tip of Shelby’s tongue, but they suddenly felt too ridiculous to say out loud.
“I-” she said, but her throat was dry and she could only cough.
“I’m the rabbit,” she choked out.
The doll smiled wider.
“Right this way.”