Fifty Shades of Alice at the Hellfire Club by Melinda DuChamp Page A

fun in a score sheet? This is a book of fantasy erotica, not a newspaper sports page.”
    “So what do I do when I like a verse?”
    “You show your appreciation, of course.” And as if Jane’s words were magic, eight small holes slid open along the mirrored walls four on each side. A few feet off the ground, the holes were right at the level of…
    “They’re glory holes!” exclaimed Alice, remembering the other glory hole room she’d seen on her way to the bath. “This is just a fancy set up for glory holes.”
    Jane nodded her approval, and Alice felt the proud flush that came with being a good student.
    “The poets will read, and you will be the judge. You can reward them or not, however you like. It’s all up to you. But in the end, there will be one cock standing.”
    “Lewis’s!”
    “That depends, Alice,” Jane cautioned. “All voices will be disguised. You’ll only have the words and the genitals on which to make your decision.”
    “But won’t I recognize my husband’s member?”
    “If this story were anchored in realism, you probably would. But you just fucked the four musketeers. So you’ll just have to try them all out.”
    “That sounds delightful!” Alice eyed the mirrors. “And they can see me?”
    “They can see everything.”
    Alice took a moment to imagine all those eyes on her body, watching her do all manner of naughty things, and excitement shivered over her skin. She had always been a shy person, modest, a good girl. But being naked in front of strangers, while terrifying, also made her feel desirable, powerful. “So when I like a poem, I can do whatever I want to them?”
    “Yes. But don’t show your appreciation too much.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Well, the publishing industry has a tradition of mistreating most authors, so good treatment tends to confuse them. But in the case of our competition…”
    “The last cock standing wins.” Alice finished.
    “That’s right. Lewis comes, he loses.”
    “And my count starts over.” Alice was at sixty-six—she’d had a tiny one during her second bath—and didn’t want to start over again. The very thought of it exhausted her. “Okay, so the poets I like get a few licks, but I don’t allow them to come.”
    “Right.”
    “And the others?”
    “Do with them what you will.” Jane smiled. “Ready to begin?”
    Alice nodded. She stepped into the mirrored hall and let the silk slide off her body. Her nipples tightened and tingled, protruding so luridly they cast shadows. She could almost feel eight sets of eyes on her, moving over her breasts like eager hands, venturing between her wet folds, wanting her. Movement stirred in the holes, cocks rising, cocks poking through, a regular candy store of cocks, all hungry for her.
    “May the first poet begin!” Jane called.
    Wine comes in at the mouth
    And love leaks out at the prick;
    That’s all we shall know for truth
    Before we grow old and sick.
    I lift the glass to my mouth,
    Now quickly suck my dick.
    “Hmm,” said Alice. She studied the rod that went with the poem. It was nice enough, long and smooth, the ridge prominent enough to make sucking it fun. But there was something missing. She wasn’t sure what. “I really think the word cock is a lot hotter.”
    “Picky, picky, suck my dicky,” came the poet’s answer.
    Alice shook her head. Some writers just couldn’t take constructive criticism. “Sorry. I’m not turned on at all.”
    “Yeats? You’re eliminated!” Jane declared.
    “But she didn’t so much as touch me!” W.B. Yeats declared. “How am I supposed to work on my Second Coming?”
    “You know the rules, Yeats. And that joke was so obscure only lit majors and those who Google it will understand it.”
    “Well, you both can kiss my widening gyre.” The cock withdrew from its hole.
    Alice looked at the remaining seven holes. She hadn’t counted on eliminating a poet so fast, but as soon as he’d brushed off her opinion as if it didn’t