by James Grey
I close my eyes, trying to dull the senses and avoid the sight of her semi-naked form beneath me. Maybe it’ll look like I’m having a quiet, tiny orgasm. Would that be okay?
I sense I can’t hold on much longer. There’s no let-up from her. The rhythm is perfect, and now she’s managed to slip two fingers in. Model student, she is: I am gushing a torrent. I can’t just sit here like this the whole time. I’ve done well, but the girl is going to win if I don’t move away.
So I take the bull by the horns, and do what I’d never do with anyone else at a time like this. I spin off her mouth, away from those delicious licks. I’m buzzing with arousal, so much that even the minute graze of moving almost pushes me over the edge. But I get away with my wits intact.
She’s surprised that I’ve moved. Before she can react, I lay down alongside her. I lean in over her and kiss her, pushing my fingers hard into her pussy. So here I am, inside Petra. Holy hell, that is outrageous…outrageously sexy. But at least it won’t make me come.
I begin to ram my fingers in and out of her, aggressive even in the midst of lust, and listen for any sound of arousal from her. I continue to kiss, but get nothing either. Is she playing my game? I wonder as I drop my mouth and taste her sweet nipples. There’s a hint of perfume about them, and I remember all the times I’ve seen her spray fragrance down her top.
I shudder, because Jesus, they taste good. I’m actually enjoying this. They’re delicious, and she’s beautiful. And no, I won’t come.
Neither will she, by the sounds of it.
But I keep going. For several minutes.
“That will do,” says Miss Jackson, calling time on us. She sounds curt: neither impressed nor concerned. You never do know with Miss Jackson.
But I didn’t come, and that’s all that matters.
Chapter XXXII
That night, our last, we’re back in the ballroom. It’s another formal function, but our invitation left me in no doubt that this affair won’t be as equivocal or as teasing as the last one.
Dress is formal evening wear, but you are requested to bring a selection of outfits for play with your hosts in the lounge after dinner. Prepare yourself physically, as you would for a major client assignment.
Alrighty then. It’s not hard to see what’s happening here. Last night, last chance to prove ourselves. I’m not sure innocent Emma would have understood what was expected of her one week ago, but now I’m clear on where I stand. There’s going to be major group sex in the drawing room…and I’m invited!
We’re given heaps of time to get ready, and I feel nothing but excitement. I follow the advice on the invite, and take a long, hot shower. I clean myself thoroughly with what looks like obscenely expensive coconut and vanilla soap. There’s no audience and no Petra and no distraction. I wash my hair with rich, oozy apple-scented shampoo from the selection in our room. I feel just plain sexy.
I trim my bush, and let Sarah work the hard-to-reach bits before I return the favour. We agree not to get carried away, lest we need another shower, but I can feel my appetite building just a little. Petra certainly started something this afternoon, there’s no denying that.
It’s more awkward than ever with her, at least for me. I have to spend a fair amount of time in my walk-in wardrobe picking out outfits, and there’s just nothing to say. Now that I’m no longer soaring on the delicate breeze of her skilled attentions, I’m mad that she tried to embarrass me in front of the class. Then again…was she just doing her job?
I want to ask her advice on what outfits to choose, but all I do, of course, is watch her out of the corner of my eye. She’s putting some of the more outlandish stuff into a bag. Well, she’d know better than me what you have to bring to a sex party. So I copy her, and in goes the nurse uniform, the backless dress, the long, shapeless black cloak and the tiny pair of denim hot pants.
The skimpy shorts have never felt like they’re my style, but I’m feeling like I can pull it off. I’m tired of being surprised about how well my appearance is received. I’m going to wear them, and wear them well, because I left my job and I’m doing this and I’m living a dream I never knew I had. I’m going to be a woman that men empty their wallets for. Whatever I wear.
Spurring flashes through my thoughts and I remember that tomorrow I’ll be back in communication with the real world. My body fills with apprehension for a moment. I still have no idea whether he placed me or not. Pretty maddening stuff. But I use the skills we’ve learned this week, and shout down the thoughts and feelings that aren’t working for me. They’re no good to Emma Carling right now.
There are no dates or partners for this banquet, and unlike last time, we’re all at one long table, adorned with silver-plated candlesticks and little bouquets of irises. The mentors are nowhere to be seen, only the dozen or so men who’ve been having the time of their lives all week. Oh, and there’s the guy I fucked after the blow-job training. Amazingly, I still don’t know everyone’s name. And I never thought to look up his.
The cute waitresses are back, and even Miss Honeywell and Wilfred keep away from proceedings. There’s the pianist in the corner, playing slightly repetitive tunes that serve only to build a certain expectation. The melodies keep gathering pace and then slowing, fraying your nerves and making you think something is about to happen.
The only really curious thing is the table for one in the opposite corner. It’s our waker man, who still religiously does his thing each morning. I can see him well from where I’m sitting in the middle of the table. He’s dining alone, apparently taking very little interest in us. He doesn’t talk to anyone, and only occasionally does he let his eye rove across our number.
Conversation is civil and casual. It’s difficult to really warm things up, though the champagne is flowing once again and that does start to help after a while. When it comes to chat, I notice that the men lead all the way. I’m actually dying to ask them some questions, but – and I can tell it’s the same for all the girls around me – I get almost no answers. Instead, the men keep steering the topic back to ourselves.
I’m seated near Robert, Geoffrey and a portly, shortish but confident-looking man named Sebastian. Nothing much to look at, but like the rest he has a certain air about him. Like the rest, I can tell he’s used to getting what he wants. I’m curious to know what these people get up to when they’re not here. What makes them who they are.
Even with Alyssia and Simone seated near me, even with their evident curiosity there to support mine, we just can’t make much headway. These men just don’t want to talk about who they are. I’m not even convinced they’re using their real names. I notice Robert make a slip-up and almost call Sebastian something else.
I suppose I can understand why they might want to be secretive. I can only imagine they’re rather important in the world of commerce, maybe politics. Maybe they’re even artists. I wish I was a little more news-aware – I probably wouldn’t even know it if they were famous.
Of course, they won’t be drawn. And then I blurt out something: “But none of you boys are married, right?”
I deliberately make eye contact with each of them, because this is one thing I want the truth on. The idea of being a husband-stealer is one thing that still plays on my mind, despite the assurances from that agent woman in London.
Sebastian takes on a stern look, and, for once, I get a clear answer from someone. “That’s a shocking question to ask, you know,” he says, not entirely jokingly. “You know what we’ve all been up to with you trainees this week. What kind of people do you think we are?”
I blush more furiously than at any time in this whole stay. More than for any of the naked humiliation, the public sex, anything. I can feel the temperature in my cheeks.
“I – I’m sorry, I just didn’t know if…well, I mean…this is all really new to me. I’m sorry.”
“Accepted,” chimes in Geoffrey. “Though I will make you pay for that insolence after dinner.”
A twinkle in his ey
e. Butterflies. Dancing.
His friends laugh, but I am almost certain it’s no joke.
“No agency or institution worth its salt will accept a married man as a client,” he adds. “And believe me, they do check. And when it is claimed, as is the case with the lucky Rupert, that a man is married to a highly liberated woman happy to let him play, then these things are checked out with the woman in question.”
Rupert. Taken. But his lady gives him permission to fuck the likes of me. It makes my head spin. Well…okay.
And then we go back to fielding questions about us. And we must tell them all about our lives, our families, our work. And then, when the pavlova arrives, some of our fantasies and experiences.
I’m as red as the dessert strawberries at some of the questions I have to answer. Even the unflappable Alyssia seems a little coy. It seems unfair that we must share so much, but they seem to be enjoying it as a part of the build-up to whatever is coming. And what’s coming is in no doubt.
I just wish I knew something about them. Because these men – all of them – fascinate me more and more.
Then again, I can’t deny that a little mystery thrills me.
Coffee and cheese. And then the music stops. Harry stands up at the head of the table and speaks in his sexy Scottish drawl. I could listen all night.
“We’ll move to the drawing room now. Convene there in five minutes, in outfits of your choice. Ladies, you are in charge of our after-dinner entertainment. You should leave no man unattended.”
I’m actually more comfortable once we get away from the dinner-party bit and get ready for the public sex part. I’m amazed that this is so, but I feel like whatever happens in the lounge is going to be less ambiguous and more exciting.
I’m nervous, too, as I drag on my nurse uniform, which seems as good a starting point as any, in the classroom where we’re told to get changed. I look around at my classmates and feel proud of all of us. Maybe even…well, okay, most of us. We’re half naked for the umpteenth time in the last ten days, and everyone’s pretty much just getting on with it. Jane still looks a bit like someone who found Brussels sprouts in her porridge, and appears to feel dirty as she changes into a belly dancer outfit that actually suits her rather well.
Oh well, her guilt is her problem. The rest of us…look how far we’ve come! I feel something like solidarity with this group of women as we prepare to entertain a roomful of horny men. This must be what it feels like to join an elite army division, maybe. There’s a sense of mission, and it draws me to them.
I know that whatever we come up with will be well-received. But I’m not exactly sure how to get the ball rolling. I don’t want to walk in there and have the others looking to me for inspiration. Who is meant to take charge? I decide to follow the experienced ones as we file into the room. Petra and Lilia. And they’re happy to lead the way.
The air is already thick with smoke and whisky when we arrive. It is as manly as anything in life gets. They’re indulging in putrid cigars, and all looking very pleased to be where they are. And why not? I’m feeling pretty excited too. My stomach is dancing itself into knots. Is this going to be a full-on orgy?
I hang back and watch Petra, who sports heels, a tiny grey miniskirt and a blouse tied up beneath her breasts. Lilia is in something like a catsuit, which I don’t find all that sexy. But I know some men like it, and she does have experience on her side. Anyway, my outfit is pretty silly too.
Petra goes to the far end of the room and kneels in front of Sebastian. Odd that she’d choose him, when there are so many better-looking guys. Lilia takes the next one, and, per our instructions, no man is left unattended. I look up to find myself kneeling before Harry, feeling more submissive and ready to please than I could ever have imagined.
I don’t know what to do next. He’s wearing a kilt, for a start. If something happens, that’s going to be a first for me. A Highland fantasy that may just have crossed my mind once or twice before. Harry is undressing me with his eyes, but rather than anything outrageous, he pours me a glass of white wine and begins to stroke my head. Am I supposed to show initiative now, or do as I’m told?
It occurs to me that no instructions were given because this is all meant to happen in a natural way. Twenty-two highly-sexed adults, reasonably fuelled on alcohol, in a warm, safe and comfortable room together. The men lavishly dressed, the women in attire than can mean only one thing.
Yes, any thinking now is nothing but over-thinking.
I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me, and turn to see Latifa straddling Rupert as he leans back in the middle of a broad sofa in front of the fireplace, which glows with romantic warmth. She sports a burqa, something that definitely wasn’t in my closet, but I know it’s her in there. Who else could you count on to get things going like that? I can see why it would be a turn-on to anyone who knows her background, though. The repressive garment is climbing up her body now, its black hem nestling in the crook of her kneeling knees.
I feel nothing but horny, and I take a swig of my wine. Then I put it down and make a move towards some fun of my own. Still kneeling, I push my head under Harry’s kilt, and suck on his cock. It’s cosy and dark in here, and I like it. I hear him gasp and wheeze as I take him in. I remember his taste from the poolside, and, yes, it’s the best dessert I could ever ask for.
Harry says nothing, but leans back and lets me have my way with him. I don’t let him come, because I think everyone wants to make a long night of it. There are no more classes. We’re done. Mmm.
The depravity takes a natural course from there, and in a matter of minutes I can’t believe I gave a moment’s thought to who was going to do what to whom. Yes, it’s an orgy, plain and simple. Everyone is at it. After the icebreaker of the initial attentions from each girl to each guy, the sex just begins to flow.
Sometimes the impetus comes from the girls, sometimes from the men. The notion that one side is paying and the other paid gets completely lost in lust. I think I might have paid for this myself! The idea that we might be being graded quickly vanishes from my thoughts too. The mentors are nowhere to be seen, and if they are watching on camera, well, they have much to envy.
At times there are men left unattended, but only once the party is really swinging, and not without good reason. Like when one of us ducks out to try a new outfit, which is super fun. Or the time when Latifa, Alyssia, Sarah and I indulge each other to distraction on the soft, fur rug in the middle of the floor. Most of the men gather to watch, and the rest of the girls rush to stimulate them – by hand, mouth or both - whilst the boys enjoy our show.
When expressly told to do something, of course, we do it. In the case where Rupert asks Carrie to strip off my hotpants and t-shirt, and bind me to the equally naked Sarah, I oblige with my own moisture almost running down my legs. I’m pressed breast-to-breast and face-to-face with my special girl, expertly trussed up with ropes around our knees, waists and under our arms.
It’s hot. And it gets infinitely hotter when the guy who fucked me on blowjob day comes up behind me, and Rupert presses up against Sarah’s back. They borrow the Jane’s unwilling fingers to lube us up, then push rudely inside our asses. They almost lift us as they begin to thrust from behind, squashing us even tighter together as we kiss. It is the single most sexy thing that happens to me all week, and I come just as I feel the guy shoot his own load into my needy backside.
I change into my cape, and get fucked in a more natural way by Robert, and then it all becomes too much trouble, and our clothes just stay shed, and I lose track. My ass gets taken again as George bends myself and three others over the back of the sofa and sodomises us one by one. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a dark thrill in it.
I lose count of the cocks I suck, the seed that lands on me, in me, the asses I lick, the tongues that probe my pussy. It’s thirsty work, and I keep drinking wine that seems to magically refill. The men nibble my breasts and spank my bottom. I am taken every which way, thrown over chai
rs in all sorts of positions, and I gobble it all up.
The hours fly by, and I can’t believe it when I hear the grandfather clock strike three. We’ve been fucking since eleven. Four hours! No wonder I’m beginning to flag. Just one thing. I’ve come thrice, and there’s a need building once more. What’s in this wine? Do I seriously need another release? I’ve become insatiable.
There’s a little lapse after Rupert unleashes inside me for only the second time on my stay here. I look around, breathing heavily, as he nods in Petra’s direction.
“I want to see you finish Miss Carling,” he says to the gorgeous blonde. And in my drunken state, all I can see is her gorgeousness. I’m tipsy enough to be everyone’s friend now. I know she tends not to drink, but she looks happy to take up the challenge. I think I insulted her pride when I held on against her magic tongue this afternoon.
She pushes me into an armchair, her perspiring body glistening gold in the firelight. I let her place a cushion under my hips and I’m vaguely aware of Rupert nestling into a nearby chair with a good view. And I don’t mind looking down. Aah. You can finish what you started now.
There’s a determination to her lapping, and it’s as amazing as it was before. I think she wants to finish what she started earlier. This time, I’m not going to fight it. It’s our last night in the school, and I’m drunk, and she is insanely attractive. I want her licking me there. We’ll never want to talk, but her head between my thighs? Yes please.
Maybe this is the naughtiest thing I’ve done all week, I think to myself, as I watch Petra’s pretty little head bobbing down there, tap-tap-tapping away on my clit, while Sarah sits on Rupert’s lap and fondles his flagging manhood whilst he watches Petra tongue-fuck me.
Oh yes, it’s bad. And that makes me come hard and fast, crying out without a care. For a minute it crosses my mind that she might be spiteful and stop at the crucial moment. But no, she lets me explode. I don’t think teasing is Petra’s game.
