June 2, 2012

Conditions of Anonymity (Pt 2)

There was a man stationed just inside the entryway to the ballroom where the guests were gathered.  He wore a mask, but it was a flat, uninteresting gray, and he was garbed in a red suit that seemed to indicate he was staff, not guest.  He greeted me with a nod and extended a hand for mine—I let him take it, and we glided into the room, he leading me through a warm crowd of party-goers.  They were all in masks all the same style and design, but in a myriad of colors.  I saw silver, green, royal blue, all glittering and sparkling in the dim golden light shed from the chandeliers overhead.  My mask was the only one with detail and accessory, and the same went for my outfit: all of the men wore simple, rich red fraternal robes, like monks.

Sometimes the pomp and circumstance of these boy’s clubs just makes me laugh.  Not tonight, though.  There was a heady, decadent pleasure in this, a promise I couldn’t quite find words for but wanted so very much.  Among these masked, robed figures I really did feel the part I was meant to be playing, the wide-eyed, naïve little lamb, about to be offered to their hungers.  I loved it so much that I walked through them on tip-toe, like a dancer, striding delicately and purposefully among them, letting them appraise my body from behind those stoic masks, as they swirled dark liquors in the glass sifters they held in their hands.  The ballroom was suffuse with a comfortable, intimate heat that ran across my shimmering skin like slow, fondling hands, and I smiled obligingly at each anonymous face as I passed, knowing soon it would be their hands stroking my naked flesh. 
There were many, many more men here than I’d expected—at least fifty.  I felt certain, though, that there was a hierarchy and order to their number, and there was no way all of them would have a part to play with me.  I realized that most of them, more than half, were wearing white masks and lingering towards the outer edges of the gathering.  After that there were the green masks, and then the frequency of different colors dropped off significantly.
Ah-hah, I thought to myself.  Perhaps to confirm my theory, the gathering moved in closer as the servant drew me towards the center of the room, those in green and white staying towards the back while those in the other colors drifted closer.
In the very middle of it all, there was a large, round seat—almost like an oversized ottoman—of gleaming black leather.
Oh, I couldn’t help but think with a giggle.  That’s going to be ruined
A little ways back from the cushion, I saw the man in the black mask.  He was already aware of me, like a predator scenting prey.  Behind the glittering black mask he had gray eyes, full of dark, hungry interest, and he stood half-turned, as if my entrance had caught him in the middle of conversation with the two men beside him.  These two were the only ones in the room wearing gold masks.
All three men held wide goblets of wine in one hand.  As the servant led me to them, they each returned their glasses to a tray held by another servant in a flat gray mask.  This one was a woman in a red pencil skirt and leather open-front corset, displaying her naked, chocolate-brown breasts.  I noticed her nipples were pierced and a black chain hung between the gold rings.  It sent a shiver through me.
When the men deposited their glasses and turned fully towards me instead, she melted away into the rest of the crowd without a sound.
The servant leading me gave the man in the black mask a little bow, presenting my hand to him.  The Black Mask took it and then the servant in the suit disappeared as well, fading into the crowd, leaving me alone in a sea of glittering gleaming masks.
I could feel their eyes eating me up on every side.  Though no one said a word it was like some low murmur still rippled through them, a sound of approval, of desire.  I shivered, genuinely titillated… but I couldn’t take my eyes off of the Black Mask.
His gaze was piercing, full of intense, captive heat.  Those eyes plunged into me, stripping me naked and devouring my body.  All his.  It was so clear in those eyes:  I was all his.  The very thought sent a flutter of pleasure right to my loins, and my pussy instantly grew wetter, slickness cool on my thighs as I pressed them tightly together.
As if in defiance of that very notion, though, he lifted my hand over my head and made me turn in a slow pirouette, taking in the sight of all of me, sharing the sight of all of me with his gathered brothers.  This is all mine, the gesture said, but then he handed me to the gold mask on his right, and that was the first man to put his hands on me. 
Big strong palms roamed down the contours of my body, and wound around to cup my ass through the flimsy layers of the skirt.  Gold mask pulled me against him, mouth coming down on mine, tongue sliding in over mine as he grasped me close.  I could feel the adamant shape of his rod under the heavy folds of his robe, and one hand slid under my skirt to caress my bare ass cheek before he passed me to a second stranger, a man in a silver mask beside him.  Silver Mask kissed me too, deep and heavy, his tongue tasting of bourbon as his hand tugged down the neckline of the dress to palm the firm round warmth of my breast.
In this way, I was shared with the men forming the innermost circle around Black Mask, all the men whose masks were not white or green.  Their hands were deliciously hot and greedy, pawing at my curves, groping shamelessly at my breasts, running curiously down to test my wet, open pussy and teasing it with a possessive little tickle.  Their lips and tongues overtook me, tasting my mouth, my neck, the breasts they helped themselves to under the dress.  Everybody sampled a bit, had his turn to appraise me.  Every robe was tented by the hungry erections prodding at my ass and thighs underneath.
When I made it back to Black Mask—the only one who had not sampled my body for himself—he looked me over again.  My skin gleamed with the wet impressions of other lips, other mouths.  He had watched them put their fingers down to my cunt and bring them back wet and sticky, taste my come on their own fingertips as they passed me from man to man.  My dress was light enough, flimsy enough, to only look a little rumpled, but my hair was certainly mussed from their hot, stroking hands.
His eyes, oh, god, his eyes.  I felt my heart speed up as they roamed freely over me, surveying me as a man surveys his property.  I stood before him in my pretty ballerina’s dress and mask, the picture of young, tender innocence, but inside my skin I was hot and so ready, so turned on by the mass of hands and tongues and still-hidden erections closing in all around me, and so, so taken by his eyes.
He didn’t kiss me.  His fingers traipsed to the bow I’d made of the silk leash at the back of my neck, andtugged it loose, wrapping a few lengths around his palm and pulling so that the silver ring linking it to the choker was in the front, and he had full control of me. 
Black Mask backed me towards the leather cushion, and firmly closed one hand on my shoulder, pushing me down onto it.  He ran that hand down under my thigh and raised up my knee, hiking up the skirt so that the white lace of the garter belt and the soft pink folds of my pussy were properly displayed.  Black Mask leaned on one knee on the edge of the cushion, bending close.  It’s warm palm ran slowly, tenderly up and down my smooth leg.
I watched him, intent.  Those stony, piercing eyes were on my open cunt, looking at it, admiring it.  I don’t think I’d ever had a john really look at my pussy before.  The expression on his face made me swell with need.
He ran the hand that held the leash gently up and down the folds of my inner lips, opened like petals for him in my heady arousal.  Two knuckles, brushing up and down my labia as he stared intently at the glistening pink flesh, the pretty, rosy peak of my clitoris, full and throbbing from the clamp of the jewelry piece.  His thumb came up to press against it, and I couldn’t help it: I rolled back my head with a little sigh of joy.  I was dripping.
He tested me, prodding oh-so-wonderfully, making himself familiar with the pussy that belonged to him.  He rubbed the pads of two fingers firmly along the valley of my inner lips up to the wet little peak, and I rocked my hips up in want for more, finding a steady rhythm against his leisurely curiosity, the flush bloom of climax tempting me with each little movement.
“Look at me, cunt,” he ordered.  His voice was gruff and low, so quiet I would be surprised if any of his brothers heard.  I did look, and the instant our gazes met he slid two long, big fingers deep inside of me, filling my cunt in a single hard, thrilling thrust.
I couldn’t talk, but I let out a happy whimper of pleasure and rocked my body up in satisfaction.  His grip on the leash tightened and he held me there, in spread-legged, sitting position, skirt hiked up so that everyone could see him invading my pussy.  He slid his fingers in and out a few times, his rhythm hard and commanding, almost painful but only in a perfect, deliciously satisfying way.  I was so wet that sticky come ran down between his fingers, the beautiful sounds of his rhythm in the lush wetness of my cunt mingling with my lusty little squeaks of pleasure.  Before I could climb my way to the peak, though, he stopped, and drew his fingers out of me, leaving my pussy quivering for more.
“She’s ready,” he murmured to the gold masks, and as they came forward he stepped away, handing off the leash to the man on his left.
The gold masks began to strip off their robes.  As they did, two of the men on either side of the cushion came forward and knelt beside me, fiddling with a set of leather straps I hadn’t noticed there before.  Each strap ended with a smooth metal link, and these connected to the rings on my wrist and ankle restraints.  I was tied down, though there was some give to the straps—enough for me to wriggle and squirm on the sleek black cushion as they had their fun.
Robes slid to the floor all around the circle.  There is something about powerful men: something that is evident even in their cocks.  Not a one of them in the circle was stubby, or fat, or ugly; they all had the long, hard, strong look of beautiful virility, a bunch of tanned, golden erections begging to be tasted, to plunge inside, to burst in a hot gush of wonderful, sticky come.  A less generous person would suspect that they’d all had work done, and they probably had—I was sure not a single man here was less than a decade older than me and they all had the bodies of athletes.  But it didn’t matter to me: they were a dozen raging, gorgeous hardons ready to claim every piece of me, flood me with come, and I was so ready for it.

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