The Discreet Brothel: a report on recent occurrences at the Velvet Glove Social Club, based on interrogations and surveillance camera files.
The evening of October 31 proved to be far more remarkable at the Velvet Glove Social Club than anyone had expected, even considering it was Halloween and Madame Solange had arranged some special entertainments for the delectation of a clientele whose sophistication should have prevented it from taking any notice of a holiday intended for small children. Nothing of the exterior suggested anything of the decadent activities to be enjoyed within. The club presented an austere, though somewhat foreboding front to the view of non-initiates who drove or walked past. Located in a brownstone on a nondescript side street, its windows were muffled by heavy, deep purple draperies. A small, simple brass plate on the door announced the club’s unusual name, and a plain black button to the right of the door enabled a visitor to ring for admittance. A cone-shaped fixture emitted just enough sour yellow light to illuminate the top step in front of the door, leaving the rest of the building’s front in dim obscurity. No light penetrated from around window draperies. Beginning at eleven, anyone standing across the street would have viewed a slow trickle of well-dressed men, and a few richly outfitted women, filtering along the street front alone or in groups of two or three, or disgorged from expensive but nondescript chauffeured automobiles, who climbed the steps, rang for admittance, and disappeared into a briefly illuminated gap in the doorway.
Once inside, they found themselves in a dazzlingly rich entry hall, enveloped in draperies and tapestries of deep burgundy, gold, navy blue, sparkling with brilliantly candle-lit crystal chandeliers, leading up a staircase carpeted in deep blood-red plush along a curving mahogany banister. The wall upward was lined with obscurely rendered paintings portraying intricately detailed erotic entanglements of a disturbing quality, hinting at bodily distortions and couplings not found in any normal dimension. An array of accommodating, compliant hostesses, young women draped in the scantiest of costumes—all protuberant bosoms, bottoms, nipples, and clitorises, curving thighs, black velvet on pale alabaster skin, ivory baubles strung over lush expanses of ebony skin, outrageously contrived hairstyles, musical voices edged with a note of hysteria—accompanied the guests up the stairs, arms entwined, hands groping and fondling, eyes brittle as ice offering the hint of reality at odds with the exuberant mood.
When they reached the top of the grand staircase, patrons were met by Madame Solange, a ruined beauty in an exotic antique kimono whose porcelain makeup just managed to obscure evidence of far too many facelifts and Botox injections, whose age seemed to be mid 50s but might just as easily have lain somewhere in the mid 70s, and who managed to convey to each individual guest in just a few words that he or she would find within the club’s warren of rooms—containing an infinity of forms of feminine enticement, of every race and hue, color and language, level of erotic proficiency and kink—precisely that particular decadence that would first arouse and then satisfy ultimately unspeakable desires. Madame Solange conveyed some guests to the bar, where exotic fillies of every nation, wearing nothing more than festoons of rhinestones, feathers, and carnival beads, with ornate gold piercings through surgically enhanced nipples and labia, served cocktails of rare liqueurs whose importation and sale were still legally outlawed—with vaginal secretions and in some cases menstrual blood smeared along the rim of each glass by a perfectly nailed finger. Other guests repaired to a small theater, lushly upholstered in deep blood-colored burgundy plush on walls, floor, and seats, to watch an endlessly shifting ballet of copulating couples (gymnasts hired away from Cirque du Soleil whose gyrating contortions, performed while hanging from rings, standing on their heads, or riding unicycles, left their viewers feeling dizzy and even vaguely disembodied). As the guests gazed in stunned silence at this arousing tableau, pubescent nymphs, crouching on their knees, one to a patron, with surgically modified lips sucked and vacuumed flaccid middle-aged penises or suctioned deep within the collapsed membranes of post-menopausal vaginas. Still other guests were escorted, in ones or twos, and sometimes threes, through winding hallways to the dim doorways behind which each patron would find the world’s only courtesan whose special talent meshed precisely with their own individual fetishes.
After the house lights came up in the theater, a half dozen or so patrons remained seated, for Madame Solange had previously whispered they should stay for a special attraction. A brief intermission to allow patrons to refresh their drinks and peruse a leather-bound catalogue of Fine Leathers fetishwear, including gloves, dildos, and artificial vaginas crafted from human skin, the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the scene as the music of a theremin floated through the room, carrying the unearthly strains of an entirely new musical composition whose gradually quickening pace and rising volume were vaguely reminiscent of Ravel’s Bolero, though hardly as obvious, even ethereal. Indeed, some patrons seemed to have fallen into trancelike sleep under the music’s insidious effect. Two dancers appeared in the stark, bright cone of a narrow spotlight, their cross-lit shadows hugely projected on an apparent burst of fog. One dancer, a lush brunette, was announced as Marjana by a discreet placard to the side of the stage. She appeared, moving slowly but seamlessly in a slow tango with her black-clad male partner, in a tight, skin-fitting burgundy body suit, its silk fabric, thin and translucent enough to reveal every shifting texture, fold, and shape from nipple and collarbone to vulva and tailbone. She appeared as a floating nude vision from some other, perhaps hellish, dimension. Both dancers wore discreet carnival masks outlining their eyes only, which seemed to gleam an unearthly greenish yellow with catlike intensity. As the tango continued, their limbs entwined and parted in motions simulating copulation, with Marjana always eluding her partner at just that moment when it seemed he would certainly drape his arms and legs round her in a final orgasmic convulsion. As she bent and turned, her heavy and pendulous but firm, self-supporting breasts moved with her in a constant slow jiggle, the burgundy fabric emphasizing hard taut nipples with a nearly holographic sheen, and the minute ripples of stomach and inner thigh muscles accentuating the tremulous movements of her genitals, but always within the smooth continuous flow of her overall dance, feinting and teasing her partner, enticing and nearly submitting, but always shifting away at the last moment, following the slowly syncopated rhythms of the music.
As the theremin piece gradually increased in tempo and volume, the male dancer, with his organ now fully erect though still seamlessly clad in its smooth second skin of burgundy silk, removed a small damascene dagger from its inconspicuous sheath and waved it discreetly but dramatically from left to right in front of the audience, causing a ripple of gasps and flutters of hands to ripple through the patrons in the same direction—almost as if a conductor had waved a baton across the members of an orchestra. Now circling, now sweeping close to the still obliviously gliding Marjana, now easing back, he brandished the dagger, more of a stiletto really, its two edges razor sharp, its point capable of cutting flesh as if it were soft butter, glittering like ice as it was picked out in the spotlit fog. His curving slices, now wide and generous, now subtly focused and swift, carved out an unimaginably narrow swath of air just above Marjana’s ever twisting and turning form, seeming to brush so close to her as to shave the delicate fuzz of arms, thighs, calves and ass, were they not still sheathed in the immeasurably thin burgundy silk. Surely, it seemed, he must eventually slice her clear skin, her perfect sculptural curves, always in motion. And he nearly did, as they continued to revolve, clinch, part, and turn, brushing their bodies with a nearly inaudible low squeal of silk caressing silk, in a pantomime of seduction, pursuit, flight, and occasional copulation as his hard, thick, silk-covered organ slid ever so briefly into her gaping, ravenous, but still delicate, silk-lined vagina, and then out again when the fluid Marjana swung away from him.
With the music nearing its haunting, unearthly crescendo, the stiletto caressed ever closer, eventually appearing to shave the burgundy skin from the pear-like curve of Marjana’s left breast, then shaving sculpturally round the perfectly molded arc of her right buttock, then here, and there, and as quickly there, and seemingly everywhere at once, as Marjana spun ever faster, amidst rising gasps of disbelief from the patrons. Scalloped strips of blood-colored burgundy silk backed with what appeared to be her natural skin flew upward from the stiletto and slowly drifted down among the audience. The continuing elegance of the dancers’ movements allayed the fears of some patrons, while the stiletto continued its sweeping arcs, stripping ever more of Marjana’s burgundy skin as she continued her own sweeping arcs of escape and recapture. Other patrons gasped in astonishment, however, or nearly stopped breathing, as Marjana’s movements grew ever slower, even as the blizzard of scarlet strips of skin continued to rain down on them. At the final moment, with the music ending on an abrupt high note, the male slid behind her, wrapped has arms gracefully around her, supporting her as she, with the last dying energy she could muster, bowed her head to the patrons, looked up briefly with a shining hint of transcendence in her face, then fell still, her torso and head falling forward over the male’s arms, the breath of life apparently having left her. The stage plunged into pitch black, the audience heaved a mournful sight at the loss of such a wondrously vibrant, sensuous life, such a perfect specimen of erotic embodiment, and then, miraculously, a cone of light revealed them both alive and laughing, bowing to the audience, and, as the light caressed her glowing curves, she and her companion exultantly tossed their heads back, raised their arms high, and then rushed backstage together. A murmur rose from the audience, whose more alert members were beginning to realize that the strips of skin raining down on them like long curved parings from an apple were actually only strips of silk. The colorants of a water-based temporary dye in the thin fabric had merged with the fine sheen of perspiration suffusing her skin as she danced, and had interacted chemically to create a glistening film of bright scarlet fluid, creating the illusion that she had been flayed alive as she twirled, and that she had expired at the very climax of the music. Some patrons, it must be admitted, felt disappointed, even cheated. But a few were pleased that they would still be able to experience the pleasures of Marjana’s famously thick, long, muscular, agile tongue unfurling from such a wholesome face and attractive body to caress their swollen genitals.
One of those patrons disappointed by Marjana’s unexpected resurrection was a former leading contender for the position of director of the World Bank, now disgraced for his erotic predilections but still unapologetically rampant. Grumbling to himself, Dr. S-K was escorted to the door of Sabrina, an energetic young harlot whose abundant platinum locks suggested early Marilyn Monroe enhanced by Dreamscape’s most talented CGI animators, a breathtaking phenomenon of sheer perfection with flawless alabaster skin, alternately pale or rosy depending on the light. Her firm, gravity-defying breasts possessed a ripe outward cant, there was just a hint of delicious-to-the-touch baby fat around the hips, and she displayed a pouty smile revealing unbelievably whitened teeth (whose touch one could imagine, could groan at nearly feeling, on the taut distended skin of a swollen cock head). Each nipple was a perfect juicy cranberry set in a swollen rosy circle. Dr. S-K, his heart pounding and erection surging as he opened the door, had spent days in secret perusing a packet of truly obscene but by no means vulgar holographic images of Sabrina sent by Madame Solange, along with a podcast of Sabrina’s piercingly innocent but also compellingly world-weary voice. He already knew the young filly’s every curve and crevice, every subtle shift in skin coloring and in textures of inner and outer surfaces, and had worked himself into a nightly frenzy of virtual absorption in her attractions over a long period of anticipation. And here she was, dressed in a simple pink translucent silk teddy, swollen outward by her large, perfectly formed breasts, the milky-rose cranberry nipples visible beneath the fabric, crushed against it really. Starting with the rich curve of her lushly parted lips, their inner surfaces so like that of the plush inner surfaces of a thoroughly wet and aroused vulva, he let his gaze caress and ravish along every curve and plunge, over every subtle shift in tinge, around protuberant nipples and genital bits, her translucent pink thong having been shifted aside as two of her long fingers slid slowly, easily in and out the slick gash of her well lubricated vaginal orifice, and her thumb slowly oscillated round the hard, throbbing, glistening knob of her clitoris, which seemed to swell from and recede back into its lusciously liquid soft hood with each heartbeat.
Nearly losing it after being aroused for so long as he meditated on the rendezvous with Sabrina, Dr. S-K fell on the lubricious young filly, straddling her, laying his thick, heavy, drooling member in the long swelling cleavage between her breasts. Wrapping his hands round the outsides of her perfect tits and diddling his thumbs over her perfect cranberry nipples, he squeezed her firm, pneumatic appendages round his throbbing penis and massaged himself as he worked it forward and back, with each forward thrust plunging his member’s massive head between her large luscious lips, which closed avidly if briefly round it, sucking hard till it popped audibly with his backward pull. This went on for what seemed to him ages but may have been less than a minute (the video would confirm this), but she had had enough of his gray flabby heaviness weighing on her chest and shifted sideways, reversing off him like an agile gymnast, presenting the perfect curve of her ass, arched upward to pull him in. As he grasped her flanks, his throbbing bludgeon cleaved her tight but gaping pussy, then, withdrawing and again heaving forward, violated the tiny dark rosebud of her anal sphincter and plunged all the way into her rectum. Again and again he shifted from one orifice to the other, stretching, distending, disappearing, reappearing.
At this point, as far as can be determined (there are sections of extreme pixilation in the surveillance video’s final minutes), two members of the Velvet Glove staff, masked and costumed in honor of Halloween, glided into the chamber and, seizing Sabrina’s wrists, tied them with a black leather rope to a hook which, after a few deft tugs on a chain, hoisted her into a standing position with her feet dangling above the ground. This enabled the raging Dr. S-K to use her torso, with his engorged member shoved into one hole or the other, as a weightless masturbatory device. Sabrina lapsed into a continuous orgasmic climax, massaging his immensely thick penis in a liquid velvet fist and shrieking with delight in the grip of what would be her terminal ecstasy. Finally, as Dr. S-K rose to full standing height, lifting her seemingly weightless torso even higher, his seminal fluid rising and about to spurt, one of the Velvet Glove staffers sliced the leather rope. As Sabrina began to fall, the other seized her ankles, pulling forward, so she landed on her back, thighs spread, back arched, every curve swollen and muscle locked in orgasmic tension, a rictus of pleasure-pain frozen on succulent lips. The parabolic arc of Dr. S-K’s spurting semen fell over Sabrina’s undulating torso, splattering over face and lips, breasts, heaving belly and torn vulva, landing on her milky rose skin with splats clearly audible on the soundtrack. As Dr. S-K reached the height of climax, with spurts of semen at their highest arc, the staffer in the malevolently grinning Guy Fawkes mask reached across the front of Sabrina’s ecstatic form and with a gesture recorded in the video as a brief flash of bright steel, nearly severed her head, unleashing rhythmic gushers of blood whose deep bright red contrasted compellingly with the rich ivory of Dr. S-K’s thick spunk.
After Dr. S-K had been wrapped in a thick robe and led off to a side room for a soak with two curvaceous nymphets in a steaming hot tub, each in turn offering him a breast to suck while the other stroked and sucked clean his rubbery subsiding member, Guy Fawkes carefully hoisted Sabrina’s still writhing and jerking, now headless body onto a red plush-lined gurney and wheeled her into a small Victorian-themed surgeon’s operatory in another side chamber. Gaslights cast rising and falling shadows around the rich, scarlet-hued room as he set to work with a scalpel, removing her skin in large, flawless sheets, sprinkling it with preservative powders before carefully rolling it into a hollow rod for transmission by means of an underground pneumatic tube to the sub-basement of Rare Leathers, a boutique located across the street from the Velvet Glove. As for Sabrina’s fine, glistening, gory carcass, he skillfully carved artificial vaginas beneath each of her breasts and into each of her sides, carefully parting ribs to make way for these extra channels, and also into the fatty muscle of each of her buttocks. She, still recognizable as Sabrina, owing to the fine bones of her face and the incomparable curve of her glistening scarlet breasts, was then hoisted up by joined wrists to hang from a solid cast iron post on wheels and then trundled into a nearby room where celebrants clustered around her, their rampant organs at the ready to violate her orifices, the natural and the artificial, their lips sucking at her raw bloody flesh, tearing off tiny pieces to chew delicately, like sashimi, their hands, faces, and tuxedos, however, quickly smeared with blood and gore as they satisfied themselves in a scene of utterly decadent abandon.
The last to leave the theater after Marjana’s performance was a corpulent Russian oligarch who had sat, ruminating and meditating on a moment he had long anticipated. Viktor Tereshchenko was rumored among the upper echelons of western intelligence to be the supreme power behind Vladimir Putin. But neither the finest quality of woolen suiting, nor the finest accents of mink and ermine, the smoothest gloves and hand-sewn shoes of human skin, nor the most scintillating diamonds, not even the most astute of plastic surgeons, orthodontists, nutritionists, and trainers could disguise his troglodytic brutality. His face was a slab of flushed, eroded meat at the top of a refrigerator of hard muscle. He was feared, loathed, and pandered to wherever he moved. After several years of investigations costing millions of euros, Tereshchenko had finally located that consummate whore Natasha, whom he intended to crush from the face of the earth as he might reduce a cockroach to a grease stain on a pure white carpet—one of his minions having informed him of her presence at the Velvet Glove, where she was the courtesan most desired among the city’s erotic cognoscenti. By far the most exotic of the social club’s Caucasian courtesans, Natasha had been orphaned at the tender age of three after the murder of her Russian parents by partisans on the Asian steppes. She had been adopted by a nomadic band of Kyrgyz herders who smothered her with love, protected her milk-white skin from the damaging sun by keeping her swaddled in warm, caressing furs, and taught her many infamous Silk Road sexual techniques—developed over centuries of months-long hibernation during brutal winters. It was in one of the more extreme brothels of Bangkok that Tereshchenko’s brother Boris had encountered Natasha, and he had arrived back in Moscow with his cock sewn into his rectum and his artificially stuffed scrotum protruding from his mouth like an apple from a roast pig. Natasha, with her milk-white skin, her swollen but well-proportioned breasts, her high Slavic cheekbones and nose just fleshy enough to hint at a sensuality few could imagine, might have looked to Boris like just another compliant slut, a body without a brain, another clueless gash, but she had proved more than he, a man of many accomplishments, could handle. She had left Bangkok with a suitcase full of the most powerful Golden Triangle heroin and a flash drive containing everything anyone anywhere would want to know about Tereshchenko business dealings. Her presence now at the Velvet Glove had nothing to do with filthy lucre and everything to do with aggrandizing the network of informers she had already established. And she was unaware that Tereshchenko had finally managed to locate her, nor even that anyone was tracking her for a routine brothel murder she had long since forgotten among so many others.
After catching the eye of one of the theater attendants with a raised finger and a folded five hundred euro note, Tereshchenko was escorted through plush, obscurely lit corridors lined with erotic paintings, prints, and drawings by artists most visitors would not have expected capable of such visions—Gauguin’s three reclining Polynesian nudes, each with lips glued to the pussy of one of the others, Norman Rockwell’s realistic portrayal of a 50s mother clad in pearls and heels—and nothing else--busily vacuuming an immaculate rug with one hand while working a vibrator with the other, and Picasso’s close-up Cubist piece rendering from all angles simultaneously a medieval pike impaling a dripping cunt. The oligarch paid no attention to these distractions, his thoughts being fixated on the revenge he was about to visit on the infamous blonde Kyrgyz courtesan. He was ushered into a long flowing corridor, its gently rounded walls upholstered in a deep scarlet plush fabric, dimly lit to suggest entry into a vaginal canal. Framed at the end of this vista he could see the form of the voluptuous Natasha, reclining on a couch of equally deep scarlet, her long, wavy platinum blonde hair and milk-white skin tinged a garish pink from the light, her heavy pear-shaped breasts projecting firm and high from her slender but voluptuously curved frame. The unsuspecting courtesan beckoned to him with a slow forward wave or gesture that ended in an evocative caress of her mound of Venus, gashed with her open, succulent, glistening vulva, with deep purple labia furled back from it like extravagant petals on a rare orchid. Standing over Natasha, glaring at her with a triumphant smirk that she unwisely interpreted as the ignorant expression of just another punter to be milked to the depth of his bottomless wallet, Tereshchenko unbuttoned his fly and released a thick, rock-hard, club-like penis unlike any she had ever seen. To her experienced, even jaded eyes, his organ seemed to begin like the trunk of a small tree but to grow wider as it extended out, ending in a broad purple head as large as her own closed fist. With each beat of his heart, this massive shillelagh bobbed up and down, ejaculating profuse drools of precum. As the head slapped heavily on her breasts, jiggling them and covering them with clear glistening fluid, she noticed the bright stainless steel piercings ringing the thick rim of his organ, flashing in the scarlet light. At that point, the oligarch pressed the orifice of his engorged penis, so gaping she might have inserted her little finger into it, to her compliant lips, which she fit tightly round the opening, sucking hard as she twirled the tip of her tongue into it, while her right hand slipped into his fly to juggle his heavy, apparently baseball-sized testicles.
After she had sucked what seemed a pint of thick salty precum from his massive organ, gagging and swallowing all the while, he pulled away and contemplated the intended victim of his revenge. She, meanwhile, misinterpreting his intention, cupped and lifted her left breast upward, inclining her face downward to smear her tongue, glistening with his precum, over the taut hard nipple. She looked up with a self-satisfied expression and spread the engorged purple petals of her labia, long, swollen, and puckered, their interior membranes veined and enflamed as she spread and caressed them sideways, leaving her vaginal opening fully exposed, gaping so wide that the interior canal was clearly visible. Into this she inserted three fingers, working them languidly in and out as she twisted them, before bringing them dripping to her lips and sucking slowly, mingling her own secretions with his heavy precum. So compelling was her undulating torso, so smooth her curving protuberances and abrupt hollows, so gorgeous her milk-white skin in the garish scarlet light, that these otherwise vulgar gestures seemed charged with an erotic frisson that would have brought most men—and women—whimpering to her in naked need and abject submission. And so it was, to her brief but unutterable dismay, that Natasha misread Tereshchenko’s intentions as he finally lowered himself between her parted thighs, his brute slab of a face moving close enough to hers that she felt its radiating heat even before his long panting breaths, as full of superheated air as a stallion’s. Her first and final thought, as she felt the massive taut knob’s first touch against her widely spread labia, was of the pain this unprecedented stretching would bring her, and a fleeting and vagrant prayer that he would not choose as well to split her anus with this monstrous organ.
Such thoughts vanished in the mute agony of a million nerve endings firing simultaneously as his engorged and throbbing member penetrated her vagina, with the pain caused by the size of the unnaturally large organ entirely overridden by that of its razor-sharp piercings, cunningly designed and implanted so as to face ever outward no matter which way the massive penis turned, pressed, or moved. As the oligarch thrust into her, his thick organ, lined with razor-sharp rings, bored into her flesh as easily as a core-sample drill bit, melting through her flesh, reaming out her vagina, tearing through her anus and rectum, obliterating her guts, and finally whirring through the base of her spine. An observer coming upon them at that immediate first moment would have thought they were locked tight in extreme copulation but would have found nothing amiss. But as Tereshchenko withdrew with a slow twisting motion, a to-and fro-ing, he was sprayed with a bath of blood and tissue spewing outward from what had once been her groin. Paying no heed to it, the Russian continued working deeper and wider into the shuddering mass of flesh that had formerly been Natasha, reaming so deeply and widely that within a minute or two he had severed her body in two, after which, with an exultant expression on his brute face, he rose and heaved forward, shoving his lethal weapon into her mouth and obliterating the face that so many others had found so utterly compelling, often to their profound regret. I would like to be able to report that after sating his lusts and ejaculating into the void where her lungs had formerly been, Tereshchenko did not fall upon her, tearing and devouring her flesh as an enraged grizzly bear would have done, but that is exactly what he did—leaving only bits of skin, bone, gristle, fat, muscle, entrails, and hair scattered round the room, hanging from the ceiling, coating the walls and floor, to be found later by the police, along with scattered teeth the monster had spat out and bits of jawbone from which dangled two or three teeth.
Unfortunately the surveillance cameras were deactivated before Tereshchenko avenged his brother’s murder. Given the extent of Russian influence, the matter was hushed up. The Velvet Glove was shuttered. Madame Solange was rumored to have escaped with most of her staff in a private jet with no registered flight plan and uncertain destination, but it is assumed this could not have occurred without clearance from the highest authorities. That I am able to report the matter this fully is for reasons that must remain obscure, as I am sure you will understand.