Stories of the Order of Dionysus - Jack Stratton - ebook

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.

Ebooka przeczytasz w aplikacjach Legimi lub dowolnej aplikacji obsługującej format:


Liczba stron: 137


Copyright Information


The Ex

The Pass

The Rabbit

The Guilded Library

The Hole

The Mark

The Shop

The Exhibit

The Lead

About the Author

Copyright Information

Copyright © 2017 by Jack Stratton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

For more dirty stories, go to


Gentle reader,

I give you nine tales to amuse and titillate. I feel a bit silly having to state this, but since there has been some confusion, let me reiterate, there is no Order of Dionysus. What a absurd thing to think. There are no obscene orgies taking place behind innocuous red doors. No cages holding nude acolytes. No gilded libraries of secrets and sins. There are no sacred and profane rites being performed in grottos nor are there pins that grant entrance to hidden worlds of pleasure.

Search not for these things! I promise you will be disappointed. Enjoy your life as it is and enjoy these erotic and completely fictional tales.


Jack Stratton

The Ex

Henry was making bacon again. There was something both charming and annoying about his enjoyment of elaborate breakfasts. Beth had grown up on cold cereal, with bacon and eggs reserved for the weekends when there was time to eat unrushed.  Henry made bacon almost every morning, though not always eggs. Most of the time it was just four strips of bacon and some toast, which was hand cut sourdough spread thick with butter and jam.

He would roll up the sleeves of his fine dress shirts up and slip on a simple white apron. He looked somewhat absurd, but sort of dashing too, with his salt and pepper hair and its perfect part. His gray or black suit trousers always holding a distinguished pleat. His attention fixed on firmly on his cast iron skillet.

Beth had indulged for a while, when they were first dating and there was still novelty to waking up in his bed. Six months into living with him she had went back to her Grape Nuts with banana. She would often steal one strip of bacon from his plate, but would never ask for her own.

They both liked that. The intimacy of her little morning theft. The hurt furrow of his brow at her crime. Her smirk and inevitable kiss on his cheek as penitence.

They had dated for less than a year before trying out cohabitation. As it happened sometimes in New York it was partly for love and partly from necessity. Her lease was up, his apartment had plenty of room.

He had lived with another woman before he had met Beth. The mysterious Nora. There were still little reminders of her around the apartment that sometimes bothered Beth, and an undeniable feminine quality to the sheets, pillows, and drapes that Henry wouldn't have picked himself. It often made her aware she was still the new girl.

Perusing the archives of Henry's Facebook one day after he posted some pictures of one of their fabulous dinner party, Beth was confronted by a picture of Nora. She knew it was her without any tags or labels.

Nora was much more beautiful than Beth had imagined. Striking really, with olive skin and high cheek bones. Something wild in her eyes and flashy in the way she dressed. Her eyes thickly rimmed in black and her dark hair a wild mane, lustrous and elegant.

It set off her jealousy and in some strange way made her even more attracted to Henry.

Henry had an intense and time consuming job that Beth only partially understood. Something having to do with cellphone apps. It made him a lot of money, but it often took him to San Francisco or Seattle or occasionally London for weeks at a time.

She found the box when he was on one of his long business trips.

She didn't really get lonely when he was away, in fact, she liked having the place to herself. She would often plan spring cleaning or other large projects to keep herself busy.

It was in her building of the California closet that she came across the black box labeled Nora.

In it were perhaps three dozen envelopes, many the same size, one or two that were obviously birthday cards. Some of the envelopes were from a personalized stationary set and were fat with thick letters. As well, there were glassine envelopes, all filled with stacks of photographs.

Though later she might have convinced herself that she paused to consider privacy and respect, in actuality she immediately plucked an envelope from the box and pulled out a letter.

"Sir," it started, "As always, I am in mourning when you travel. I wear only black and I sip the tea you brought me from Paris and sit in the window seat and pine for you."

The first paragraph and Beth was nearly in tears. The handwriting was perfect, looking almost like a computer print-out save the imprint of the pen on the delicate white laid paper.

The tone was so romantic, perhaps even silly sounding, but in the context of a private note it was gut wrenchingly intimate.

"I have already read the book you laid out for me, but I will save my thoughts on it until you return and we can go over it properly. I will only say I loved it and it made me very angry. Both reactions I'm sure you planned."

Beth remembered being both happy and confused when Henry had very simply said "read this," and handed her a book. It had happened a few times and although she often bucked at being told things instead of asked, there was something charming in his way and she read them.

As she held the letter she wondered if some of them were the same books.

"Each evening you are away I dress in the nightgown you left for me. It is so delicate and pretty. Its slight weight on my body reminds me of you. The way you keep your hand on my hip when we sleep together."

Beth stopped reading there, putting aside the letter and browsing the other items in the box. She took the first bundle of photographs. Her heart was racing. Looking at the first photo, she found the same women from Facebook, though she was nearly naked. She wore a nearly transparent chemise, sitting with her face turned down, looking artful, dramatic, and sexual. Beth was filled with equal parts jealousy and lust.

The swath of pictures was heavy and she could only imagine what sorts of things she would find.

The next photo was even more of boudoir picture, with the beautiful Nora laid out on a bed, the same bed Beth slept on every night.

The next was more revealing, Nora sitting on the bed, facing the camera, legs open, breasts spilling out of a corset, eyes glazed with lust.

Beth's eyes stung and her heart raced.

It was a dozen or so photos in when the pictures started to become strange. Nora standing in her corset, in a crowded room wearing a mask with the ears of a rabbit. The background was artfully blurred but Beth saw that everyone at the party wore masks.

She tried to make out where it was taken. It wasn't their apartment, but it looked familiar somehow.

The next photo was taken at the same party, the image was that reddish yellow tone of a picture taken without enough light. Nora looked at the camera, her mouth open, bent forward with her large pretty breasts in the blur of swaying. A man, who was not Henry, was behind her, fucking her, a woman kissing her neck, in the background was someone wearing what looked like antlers.

On the back of the photo, in ballpoint pen, was written "March 2008, OoD Initiation."

That was the first time Beth saw those three letters. O. O. D. Somehow even that first time she knew that there was something significant about them. She knew they meant something.

The inscription placed it seven years in the past. Before Henry broke up with Nora and before he met Beth.

The picture illuminated many things. Henry had been to sex parties of some kind. He was part of something that had "initiations." Nora had been fucked by other men and perhaps women during their relationship.

In her time with Henry, she had known of his kinks. It was one of the things that most attracted her to him. On their second date, sitting on his couch making out, he very calmly and confidently asked her if she would like to lay across his lap and get spanked. She blushed at how quickly she agreed.

"That's a good girl," he whispered as he pet her hair and took down her panties.

Still, spankings and occasional bondage were one thing, orgies were quite another.

The next few pictures were more of the same. Nora with a pretty blonde woman's head between her legs. Nora, in a spotlight, with four pairs of hands coming from the shadows around her, touching her breasts, between her legs, pulling her hair, fingers in her mouth.

Beth bit her lip and clenched her thighs.

One of the last pictures was not of Nora, but of Henry. She knew it was him from the crooked grin and Roman nose, though he wore a mask. The mask was a dark red and covered the top of his face and then came up to form two pointed ears tipped in white.

He wore a black suit, no tie, the white shirt open exposing his chest, which sported a few red marks that looked like they might be nail scratches or bites. In his hand was a whip. On the back of the photo was written "Dec. 2008, OoD, Henry as Renard."

She remembered high school French. That meant a fox, which now that she looked at the mask again, the design eluded to.

For a few hours she went through the photos and the letters. There weren't many more scandalous ones, she seemed to have found dirtiest first. The others were just as painful though; picnics in the park, a vacation in Paris, Nora looking breathtaking on a beach.

The letters were sweet, kinky, sad, dirty. It seemed they played games. Henry would have her write out fantasies, withhold her orgasms, once even loaning her out to a friend and her husband for the weekend.

It wasn't until one of the last letters that Beth got the next clue about Henry and Nora's relationship.

Inside one of the white envelopes was a small card of thick red paper with Nora's sweeping black script on it.

"Sir, I'm sorry for the things I said, though we both know they needed saying. This wild adventure we have been on has been fantastic, but doesn't seem to fit with your new career, your new plans. I wonder if I still fit in your new life. I wonder if this might be the last letter I begin with ‘Sir.' That breaks my heart."

Beth felt some little dam inside of her break. Tears came as she read on.

"You have been a patient teacher. You have been an amazing lover. You have been a good friend. You have been a divine Master. I am off on a long trip and when I get back we can discuss what comes next. I have been given a great opportunity to apprentice at the Order's retreat on Prince Edward Island. We have a breathtaking castle there. I hope you see it one day. It feels like Dionysus's eyes are on me when I am on the grounds. I will always love you. I hope your recent choices bring you the life you want and need, even if they may not include me."

The three letters suddenly made sense. "The Order," and "Dionysus's eyes." An Order of Dionysus.

The next few days were a battle. Beth tried to put the black box out of her head. She felt guilty for breaking Henry's trust, but at the same time, she felt the weight of his secrets.

The internet was no help. "Order of Dionysus" brought only vague returns about some historical "mystery cults" around Europe that didn't seem to have anything to do with New York or Prince Edward island. Still, she searched on.

She found an odd used copy of a book from the 60s on eBay that mentioned "the history of sex cults, from its roots in ancient Rome to London high society, to the New York underground. From the Hellfire Club to the Orders of Dionysos and Bacchanal Cults of the Old and New Worlds"

It was only available used and at a steep price, but she was desperate for any other information, so she paid for the book and expedited shipping.

Henry wouldn't be home for another ten days. She had gone back to the black box and took one of the photos of Nora and put it on the table next to their bed.

Looking through some papers she found in another closet, Beth found an old bill for Nora Voros. Finally having her last name she searched Facebook and the internet at large but found little about the woman, other than some pictures of her on beaches, boats, and museum openings.

The book, when it arrived, had a soft worn cover the color of blood. The inside cover was a beautiful paisley design, with little naked nymphs and satyrs in gold on black.

The text was dense and mostly incomprehensible historical details of various Roman cults that sprang up in London and Paris in the 19th century and then again in America in the early 20th century.

There was very little about the Order of Dionysus or Dionysos as it was spelled in the book. There were a few paragraphs about "hedonist body worshipers" who "donned masks and performed pagan rituals and orgies."

Then another entry that stirred a memory: "in New Amsterdam, wealthy merchants gathered with entertainers of the day as well as women of ill repute for imbroglios and opium fueled orgies that lasted days. The cult went to great lengths to hide their name and membership and was only known as the fellowship of ‘Rode Deur' or the Red Door, for the distinctive doorways of their headquarters.

She rushed to the box and returned to the pictures of the sex party. She knew she recognized the home. It was Henry's friend's apartment. The apartment with the red door down on Delancey! She just knew it.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember his name. Jacob something. Jacob Lansky. A wealthy jeweler who had built a fortune before he was thirty. Beth remembered the beautiful apartment, with walls covered in interesting contemporary art pieces. She saw parts of those very paintings and sculptures in the pictures.

It all made sense suddenly. The tension she had felt when Henry had brought her to the Lansky's house. His beautiful wife flirting with Henry, hell, flirting with Beth! And Jacob's remark that he missed the old days when they "had such lovely soirees."

Beth had been in the very room where the pictures were taken.

Shock and anger filled her veins. She imagined herself there, in those extravagant lacy clothes.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She was beautiful. Perhaps not like Nora. Her skin was a soft tan, not as dark as Nora's Mediterranean complexion. Her eyes were sharper in the corners, her nose was small, her cheeks peppered with freckles.

She opened her robe. She felt pride in the swell of her breasts, how they stood high, pert, topped with sensitive nipples that hardened before her eyes as she traced them with her fingers.

The light triangle of hair between her legs was soft and grew sparsely. She looked into the reflection of her own eyes. She was beautiful. She could be at one of those parties. She could wear a mask and a corset and-

Beth blushed at the thought and the images that appeared in her mind. She could bury her face between Nora's thighs and taste her, please her, make her scream in pleasure.

Her hands moved from her breasts to between her legs, fingers slipping across wet skin. She kept eyes on her body. She held one breast. She remembered the photographs, all those men, all those hands and cocks, all those pretty women and their red lips.