Morton’s Island Ch. 01

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It was not his fault that Mr and Mrs Stanley landed their firstborn with the handle ‘Morton Henry’. ‘Henry Morton’ possibly seemed to them pretentious, suggestive that the famous explorer was an ancestor. On the other hand, they could not resist the allusion. They did not think ahead, to schooldays and the viciousness his fellows could have wrought on one with the handle ‘Morton’. Whoever was called that?

As it turned out, Morton’s handle caused him no grief. He could not care less what he was called. At boarding school, he excelled in every respect except in sports, and this was the reason he was set apart from his fellows. They mocked him, of course, as a swot, not one of the crowd, but Morton did not care. He also did not care that half his teachers were morons. He learned anyway, and by the time he was sixteen decided that his school had nothing more to teach him — nothing at least that he was interested in learning.

Morton Henry ran away. He just disappeared one day, and that was the last his school or his family ever heard of him. His mother, naturally, was distraught, but had her hands full with the twins and gradually accommodated to the mysterious disappearance of her son. They registered Morton as a ‘missing person’ with the police, placed ads in the local papers. But this was to no avail since Morton was not in the vicinity. He went to London.

How he acquired his first job at the famous investment house Peachman- Lowell is not recorded. Also not recorded is his departure at age 18, and the founding of his own investment company, Morton and Associates, though the curious will search in vain for any record of the company, or, indeed, any Associates. Morton’s company was run from a flat in South London which, while unpretentious, was spacious, kitted out with the latest technology and very well connected to the stock markets of the world.

By the age of 22, Morton Henry, already a multi-millionaire, did acquire an Associate of sorts, one Russell Draper, an expert in all things electronic, but lacking the entrepreneurial talent of Morton himself. They were a perfect combination. As the company’s assets grew to gargantuan proportions, Russell became bound to Morton at the hip. The man was a financial genius. Russell worked regular hours, but Morton did not. In fact, Russell had never caught him asleep, or even daydreaming, lest this be about an investment that was not doing as well as expected. Morton rarely left the modest accommodations and, curiously, his motivation seemed to have little to do with the vast fortune he had accumulated. His work was art, and this he lived for. The fortune he accumulated was a mere by-product.

When Morton was approaching 40, Morton and Associates’ tentacles stretched across the globe and occasionally, though never with a good grace, he was moved to leave his lair and visit one or other of the recipients of his largesse. Motivate them to do better, or call them to task if they’d failed to meet financial projections.

One day in late summer, Morton made such a visit, to a capital in Eastern Europe, where he had, pretty much, a stranglehold on the entire economy. It would be a visit that changed his life.

Naturally, his business partners received Morton with the greatest respect and with much pomp, though no ceremony, which Morton expressly forbad. He detested the limelight and the faintest hint of a reporter or a camera in his vicinity sent him scuttling for cover. His business partners knew this, and sought innovative ways to impress, if not ingratiate. This was especially important if the balance sheet was less impressive than they would have wished and it seemed vital to maintain Morton’s ongoing approval by other means.

After a hard day’s work poring over the books, businessmen are not unknown to enjoy a night on the town, and while Morton was certainly no ordinary businessman, neither was a visit to ‘Club Venus’ an ‘ordinary night on the town’.


Chapter 1

‘Club Venus’ was as exclusive as it was reclusive. Money alone was not enough, money and influence a pre-requisite, but still not enough. Entry to the Club, whose existence was known only to the staff, the employees, and the members — all of whom were required to sign an oath of secrecy so sacred no-one had dared ever breach it — was strictly ‘invitation only’. Members were allowed to join only after a thorough background check by the Elders, a select group whose longevity of membership gave them leverage. In short, Club Venus was more exclusive than any golf club, any country club and if there were other clubs of equal exclusivity around the world, how would one know about them?

When Esterhazy proposed an evening’s entertainment, Morton declined. He wanted just to be left alone with his laptop and a hard-wired, secure link so he could check what had happened to the markets while he had been busy grilling Esterhazy and his team. The Eastern European market had performed very well, but Morton was suspicious. It seemed fragile. çukurambar escort This Esterhazy knew, which is why he persisted, impressing on Morton the exclusiveness of the venue, the presence of persons of much influence. The markets were indeed fragile. Ergo, a vital investor should be provided with an incentive to remain invested — so he could visit and re-visit the region. Club Venus had never failed. So far.

As an Elder himself, Esterhazy had the right to one guest, and he used all means of persuasion to ensure that his guest that night would be Morton.

In the end, Morton gave way. He’d left Russell with precise instructions. What was the point of having an Associate if one did not allow him from time to time to take care of business? Morton had no wish to accept Esterhazy’s invitation, but the man was so persistent, it was not easy to refuse. Morton Henry Stanley was a courteous man.

The limousine drew up at the door to what appeared to be a derelict building. Esterhazy threw Morton a glance of reassurance. The building appeared still derelict when they gained entry. Esterhazy had muttered something into a hidden intercom. When they passed through the second door, though, they entered a world so far removed from the outward appearances of the building it took Morton a while to adjust. Damask covered the walls, elegant items of furniture threw shadows cast by candles in alcoves. It was like entering the Casino in Monte Carlo from a barren warehouse.

Two young girls appeared, scantily clad. One girl took Esterhazy’s coat, the other Morton’s. They disappeared. A woman stood before them. She wore a black dress that more than adequately emphasized her contours, and her hair up, which gave her a slightly severe appearance. She said something to Esterhazy, obviously a greeting. Her manner was regal, but just slightly deferential. Esterhazy, evidently, was a valued personage. The woman nodded at Morton, pleasantly. A brief conversation took place in a tongue Morton did not understand. The woman nodded.

“Welcome to our club,” she said to Morton, in accented English, extending an elegant hand. Which Morton took.

“Morton,” he said.

“Sharapova,” the woman replied, bowing her head slightly. “I hope you will enjoy yourself.”

“We’ll take the mezzanine,” Esterhazy whispered to Morton. “Maximum privacy. Please remember, you are my guest. Everything is on the house. And I do mean ‘everything’.”

He nodded significantly. Why, Morton had no idea. He just followed along, more than a tad bewildered, as they mounted a thickly carpeted stairwell and entered a corridor that curved around. On one side of the corridor were doors with names on them and at one of these, the apex of the curve, they paused.

“This is the ‘Scheherazade Suite’,” Esterhazy said. “Nothing but the very best for our distinguished guest.”

Esterhazy knocked gently. The door opened, seemingly of its own accord.

Esterhazy gestured, Morton hesitated.

“I’m right next door”, he said, indicating. “Here.”

“You mean….?”

“In case you need me,” Esterhazy said. “Though I don’t think you will. Maybe later.”

“You mean…?” Morton stammered, indicating the door that had opened.

“Your suite. Absolutely private. You’ll find the service here exemplary. Only the finest — of everything.”

Morton was way out of his element, but he saw little alternative than to comply. His inclination — to turn his back and retreat the way they’d come — seemed too inappropriate. He entered the booth, his eyes adjusting gradually to the dim light from the candles. In front of him was a small sofa, of extraordinary elegance, opulently upholstered. The sofa faced out on a picture window that encompassed the entire frontage of the booth. As he advanced towards the sofa, Morton became aware that the window looked down on a stage. And on that stage were — girls?

Oh my goodness!

At that moment he also became aware that he was not alone in the booth. Who was this? A waitress? That she was extraordinarily beautiful Morton did not immediately realize. His exposure to members of a sex other than his own had been restricted to the odd female executive, whose body language was quite different from that of the apparition, who now suggested with a slight movement of her arm that Morton may wish to occupy the sofa. Which Morton did.

“May I bring you a drink, Mr Morton,” ‘Scheherazade’ said, standing at his side. Morton noticed, not without alarm, that beneath her thin blouse, low cut, the contours of her breasts were clearly visible. Firm nipples strained against the cotton. He noticed also, that her legs not only went all the way to the ground, but almost all the way up as well. Only the briefest of skirts, slung elegantly from her hips, hid their fulcrum.

Morton was confused. Where could he look? He fought for utterance.

“How d’you know my name?” he said, suspiciously, not looking.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” ‘Scheherazade’ demetevler escort said, in a soft, gentle tone, accented only slightly. “Would you prefer another mode of address?”

Since Morton said nothing, the apparition continued,

“We are very discrete here. I’m sure the Count has told you of this.”

“The Count?”

“Count Esterhazy. The gentleman who introduced you.”

Esterhazy? A Count? They had aristocracts in this part of the world?

Through the picture window, the girls on what appeared to be a round stage were beginning to discard the few items of clothing they had on. Naked breasts appeared, each pair beautifully formed, firm, succulent, bobbing just slightly as their owners moved gracefully around the stage, presenting themselves to each point of the compass.

Morton felt sweat break out on his forehead. What on earth did Esterhazy think he was doing? He must leave immediately, Morton told himself, and he half-rose so to do. But something held his feet in place. They seemed not to want to move, and gradually their resolve transmitted itself to the rest of his body, in particular his eyes, which riveted themselves to the stage just a bit lower down than where he sat. A perfect viewing angle. The girls had begun to finger the ties of exceedingly brief bikini bottoms, which hid so little, but at the same time much that was of rather significant interest.

“A drink perhaps, Sir?”

Her voice floated into Morton’s ears. He had fallen back onto the sofa.

“Er, perhaps, a cognac?” he heard himself say. Yes, a cognac would be most appropriate. Morton drank alcohol only when it was forced upon him. He’d asked for cognac because this was the only alcoholic beverage whose name he could recall. Not a great drinker, then, but something inside Morton told him right now might not be a bad time to gain experience.

“Certainly, Sir.”

Morton heard the door behind him open and close, presumably on the elegant back of ‘Scheherazade’. He was alone.


Morton had never before beheld the nude body of a live woman. Now, unfolding on the stage were four. His eyes, all but popping out of his head, fastened on each gleaming mound of Venus as its owner paused, and posed in front of his booth at just the right orientation. Something inside him was thumping.

He’d not given the matter any thought, of course, but merely assumed that women, like men, had pubic hair. These girls did not. Of hair there was no trace, just a sheer sheen between silken thighs, and hip bones that protruded just a little bit over taut velvet skin.

Morton’s eyes did not know where to point. Wherever they did, a rising sense of excitement overcame him, the like of which he’d never before experienced. The girls turned, flexed perfectly formed backbones, ripples of succulent muscle on each side. They could have been cloned except for their hair, one blonde and long, another brunette and short, a third red and braided, the fourth blonde with a red streak down the center.

It took a while for each to round the stage. Morton’s eyes drank in one gorgeous torso after the other. Then they squatted on the stage and eased effortlessly into a sitting position. Gradually, tantalizingly, their thighs parted, wider and wider. Clefts displaying a delicious shade of pink titillated his retina.

‘Oh my dearie me! Oh Lord!’ He was thinking. ‘What is happening to me?’

‘Scheherazade’ reappeared. She moved with such grace, Morton hardly noticed. She laid a silver tablet on the side table next to where he sat. On the tablet were two crystal cognac glasses of massive proportions and a bottle. On the side of the bottle was imprinted, simply, ‘Louis XIII’, unbeknown to Morton one of the finest cognacs mere money can buy. Morton’s eyes remained riveted on the vulvas displayed before him, full, ripe petals that opened out as thighs spread wide apart.

‘Scheherazade’ poured from the bottle and held out the glass.

“Your cognac, Sir.”

“Oh! Er.. Thank you. Thank you.”

The glass was pleasantly warm.

“May I, perhaps?”

“Er…?” Morton looked up. An inquiring glance.

“Yes, of course. Of course,” he said, hastily.

“My name’s Elektra,” ‘Scheherazade’ said, seating herself on the sofa next to Morton and swirling her cognac expertly around in the glass, its stem held between elegant fingers, long with tastefully polished nails.

“What may I call you?”

Morton truly did not know where to put himself, ogling like a schoolboy with such an elegant lady seated next to him.

“Please do call me Morton,” he said.

“Not Mr Morton?” she replied, in a seductive tone.

“No! Morton. It’s what I like to be called.”

“Ok, Morton,” said Elektra. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

“Er… Not at all, er. No! Not at all.”

Now his eye was seriously challenged. On the stage, the girls had paired up and were stroking each other, breasts, stomach, thighs. They did this very dikmen escort slowly, looking each other deep in the eyes, kissing sometimes. Yet next to him sat a creature no less delectable, and so much closer. So very much closer….. He noticed she had shed her shoes. Such fine-boned feet, just a touch of polish on the toe-nails.

The word ‘erotic’ was not in Morton’s vocabulary, so it was without assigning verbal meaning that he felt intense arousal at the sight of such perfect proportions.

“I hope the cognac is to your taste?” Elektra said, in a sultry tone.

“Oh .. er .. Yes! Indeed. Yes.”

“Perhaps I could refresh your glass,” she said.

“Er … Oh! Yes, indeed. That would be most nice of you.”

Cognac should be sipped reverently, not swigged down. Morton knew this, but he swigged anyway. Truly, he was at that moment not in full command of all his faculties.

As she replenished his glass, Elektra bent over ever so slightly. Just enough for Morton’s eye to register, and his brain to process, that underneath the short skirt, she wore nothing.

‘Oh my goodness!’

Of course, by now Morton was very seriously aroused. But he did not know what the feeling was that had engulfed him because he had never experienced its like before. Elektra settled back on the sofa, though not quite in the same way as before. Her thighs were parted, one leg extended in his direction.

“You like the show?” she said.

“Er.. Yes. Indeed, Yes. They are lovely ladies.”

“And they love being stroked, you know. Like they’re doing now, to each other.”

“Yes. They do seem to enjoy it,” Morton managed to mutter.

“I like being stroked, too,” Elektra said, extending her leg just that little bit further. “Would you like to stroke my legs?”

Oh my holy Jesus!

His hand strayed. She helped it.

“Just there. Gently. Then higher up, and higher up still…”

Elektra arranged her position to aid access. In the process, her skirt rode up, just enough to reveal the hint of a cleft, violet of hue. It gleamed out at Morton in the dim light of the booth.

“Mmmm! That’s so nice,” Elektra said, as Morton’s hand inched further and further up her thigh. “Keep on doing that.”

The skin of her thigh was so soft — the softer, it seemed, the higher up his fingers explored — its mere touch sent thrills of yet new dimension through Morton’s body. What on earth was happening to him?

On the stage, the lights went out. A short while later they sprang on again. The girls returned, still naked, but now each had in tow a smaller, slighter, younger girl, covered from neck to foot in a long white gown. Around each girl’s neck was some kind of band, studded, to which was affixed a chain, by which she was led and paraded around the stage, once, twice, thrice.

Even as his hand continued to explore Elektra’s inner thigh, Morton’s eyes were glued once more on the stage. The parade had ended. One pair stood directly in front of Morton. He watched in a trance as the tie holding the gown in place was loosened. The gown fell to the floor, revealing a lithe body of the purest white. The girl had small breasts with prominent nipples, long legs and her rib-cage showed through the taut skin of her upper body. Her pubis was disproportionately prominent. He eyes were down, almost as though she was drawing attention to other attributes.

“Mistresses and Slaves,” Elektra whispered, in that sultry tone of hers.

“Mistresses? Slaves?”

“Just a game. Watch. It’s fun.”

To Morton, fun was the wrong word. It was entirely the wrong word. He was transported into a world he had never known existed, one in which he was not comfortable, but could not leave. Such feelings as now suffused his being he had not conceived could be possible.

But watch he did. The Mistresses stood beside their slaves and began to tweak their nipples, which stood out even more prominently. First one side, then across, to stand on the other side and give the second nipple the same treatment. The Slaves kept their eyes down and their heads still, but nevertheless appeared to wince slightly as the tweaking continued.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Morton found himself saying.

“OhYes!” Elektra said, her eyes sparkling. “But it’s a nice hurt. Would you like to do it for me?”

Glancing across, Morton saw that the blouse had disappeared, in its place two perfect pear-shaped breasts. Elektra ran a slim forefinger across her nipples and looked at Morton expectantly. She moved close.

“I do so love it,” she said, seductively.

Tentatively, he reached out and took one of Elektra’s nipples between finger and thumb.

“Squeeze, and roll,” she said.

Morton obeyed.


Again, he obeyed.

“Harder, much harder. And pull, too.”

“OhYes! Oooh! That’s better. Keep on doing that.”

Morton did, keeping half an eye on the stage, where the Mistresses had swapped Slaves, but continued to work on their nipples. The stark white body in front of him was beginning to show slight signs of strain, a rib here and there showing just a bit more prominently, as though breathing had been interrupted.

“Now the other one,” Elektra said. It seemed like a command. “Even harder. And stroke my thighs with your other hand.”

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