by Gabi Moore
“Yes, and what a lady,” I said, smiling mischievously and closing the door behind her. The driver slowly pulled off and we stood and surveyed the entranceway. These are the mansions and villas that no ordinary person ever gets to see. They’re the private pleasure resorts of the ultra-wealthy. The palatial playgrounds of the people even the celebrities envy. What’s sexy about an event like this is not the sex …it’s the exclusivity.
Far from prying eyes, the bankers and entrepreneurs and big names of this world gather here and pay tribute to all things carnal. It’s hard work orchestrating the vast economic and political mechanisms the rest of the species is forced to live inside, but when such a person wants to relax, they do it with the same zeal and attention to luxury that every other area of their life receives. Lesser minds have called this, “work hard, play hard.”
The massive home was lit from within and glowed golden out into the darkness of the courtyard. A few other people, all in pairs, made their way up the stairs, as we did. I offered her my arm and she took it. I was never more proud of her than I was at that moment. When I married her, I swore that whatever she needed, I was there to give it to her. I make money because it’s just what I know how to do. But she was my why. She’s what the money was for.
I am in control of so much, and I know how to earn, and to command and inspire and lead. But all the suits were for her. All the money, all the cars and jewelry, all the meals and wine and diamonds and vacations. They existed for only one reason: her happiness. I looked over at her and again admired her tight, high ass and her beautiful round breasts. She was the queen of my heart, and looked like it.
And we were here for her, too. She wanted to cheat? Let her cheat. In fact, I would help her. I had given her the best of everything. Let her take it all. What was my heart for, except to give it away to her so she could use it as she saw fit?
She was chattering excitedly as we scaled the steps, and I swear I felt her heart beating through her moist little palm and she squeezed my hand.
“Oh look! They have peacocks! How do you think they get them to stay put? Do you know what a peacock even eats? Oh my god is that whatsisname? This is amazing. Oh you can see, there’s a big central hall in the middle… are our names on a list? Will they know it’s us? Look at those peacocks, they’re sitting on the statues!”
And on and on. I smiled. Her chatter warmed me somewhere deep and long forgotten inside. The other women walking into the glorious house were as well dressed, and yes, as beautiful, but none of them had what she had: that light, shining through her. That joy. My Natty, as she was when I met her all those years ago.
At the entrance our coats were taken from us and we were ushered into a hall of unimaginable glamor. High ceilings, glittering chandeliers and a crowd equally plush and glittered mingling inside, drinks in hand. The theme was dark and velveted, and the Persians on the floor were the most remarkable I’d ever seen: instead of geometrics and flowers, the rugs were woven with intricate friezes of mythical bodies, wrapped in poses of pleasure and abandon, Gods and mythical beings, knotted like a kind of wooly Kama Sutra underfoot.
With amusement, I noticed the furniture had similar touches of the carnal: the corners and legs of the tables were carved with phalluses and tiny dancing nymphs. The mirrors were ringed with the unmistakable shapes of gilded vaginas linked in a wreath. Natasha laughed and chattered on about them, pointing as she moved excitedly around the room.
The next few hours were spent in a kind of dreamy daze. The other guests were charming, the food was elegant, and everywhere was a tightening sense of anticipation, like the air was being pulled taut. I watched on fondly as Natasha grew a little tipsy. Why had I always been so hard on her? Who cared if she didn’t always follow the protocols properly – wasn’t that why I loved her? In any case, if there was one place in the world were her gloriously irreverent childishness could run free, it was here and now.
Wait staff threaded swiftly between the guests, taking away empty plates and bringing more alcohol, and slowly the night wore on and the drapes were closed and the many candelabras lit. Most people ambled off into separate rooms. There was no question of all the things that would happen that evening, but nevertheless people took their time, flirting and laughing together.
Natasha was enjoying herself. She always had a knack for telling stories, like she was doing when I slinked up behind her and listened in on a tall tale she was telling a small crowd of people. She was so expressive, so adorably goofy and truly funny, that she had the small group of five eating out of her hand, laughing at all the right places and hanging on to every word. I’d forgotten how good she was at socializing.
I linked my arms round her waist and she touched my hands, and carried on with the story.
“And then the nurses – both of them, right at the same time – looked at him and said, who said anything about chickens?”
The crowd burst into laughter. She beamed.
“Beckford, where have you been hiding your wife all this time? Shame on you for never bringing her out to these little gatherings” said a tall, husky looking man in his mid-thirties. Arnold Pitt, a man from old European money, he made his living on all the fluffy offshoots of the various royal family trees he belonged to. We were briefly acquainted but during the last week or so, I had become more keenly aware of another side of him – he and several of his other well-heeled friends threw extravagant parties like this several times a year, where an invite was non-negotiable and those who violated the unspoken laws of secrecy were reprimanded swiftly and permanently.
He took as much pride in arranging these evenings as a classical composer, with a keen eye for hitting just the right key: lavish luxury balanced with a delightful coarseness. Or so it was explained to me. I had discussed with him several potential ways the evening could unfold, but all of that was just the pulleys and levers off stage: I wanted Natasha to see and know about none of it. I wanted to watch the wonder and surprise on her face. I wanted to see her shock. And yes, maybe a little discomfort. Or a lot, depending on how things played out.
“Mr. Beckford tells us that you’re a very adventurous girl,” said a woman in the group, taking a suggestive sip of her champagne. Natasha thought for a moment, and then answered sweetly, “Oh, I’m willing to do whatever Todd thinks I’d enjoy…” and the group murmured.
“Natasha has a very free spirit, when it comes to matters of the flesh,” I said, being deliberately dramatic. “Sometimes I need to reign her in, as she often finds herself in trouble.”
The group laughed.
“Trouble?” Pitt said. “Well, in that case, I think I have a suggestion for you.” The group watched him as he handed his empty champagne glass to a passing waiter and rubbed his hands together.
“There are some brand new items, new from France and some I’ve commissioned locally, that you might be interested in Mrs. Beckford…” he said, and as he did, some of the bow-tied waiters appeared and unlocked a large, grand door and opened it to reveal another vast room on the other side. The guests oohed and aahed – through the candlelight we all beheld a room kitted out in the most fanciful frames, dangling chairs, suspended chains, cages and cuffs that I had ever seen. A dungeon.
The ceiling was draped with heavy brocade gathered in the center, giving the feeling of being inside a giant, heavy tent, and everyone slowly trickled into the room. People spread out and examined the gleaming black tools of torture and pleasure. A woman laughed and found a whip, and playfully cracked it at the hind of her partner, who nearly spilled his champagne jumping out the way.
Natasha went quiet but her eyes were wide, and her hand clasped mine tightly as we walked around leisurely, and she examined the objects, trying to imagine what each was for.
“What do you think Mrs. Beckford? Any of these capture your interest?” said Pitt.
She colored heavily and looked to me. I smiled, and nudged her to take a closer look. She trailed her fingers over the black bars.
“What’s this one for?” she asked quietly, and gestured towards a tall, black steel frame. On the floor was a large, steel X and from each of its corners rose a sturdy steel pillar. From these pillars came thick linked chains, which were suspended between the pillars and a black, leather seat that vaguely resembled a hammock. I watched as she tried to figure it out. I didn’t need to have it explained to me - it was me, after all, who had requested it in the first place.
Various links and cuffs hung down from two of the pillars, and these she held up in her hands with a quizzical expression.
“Are these to tie up your hands?” she asked, and Pitt laughed.
“Those, my dear, are for your feet,” he said.
I watched as it dawned on her: on this wicked object, a person might lay flat on their backs in the hammock seat, have their hands tied up and away from them on either of the strong chains and then have their feet locked into place on the stirrups on the other two pillars, effectively holding them in a flat spread eagle position, legs and arms wide, exposed and hovering off the floor.
She giggled, probably imagining how perfectly wide-open and exposed a person strapped into such a sling would be.
“That’s …that’s quite something!” she said. “Let’s see what else they have…”
I wrapped my fingers round her upper arm.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
She threw me a questioning gaze at me.
“We didn’t just come here to look,” I said.
Her eyes fluttered nervously to the frame and back at me.
“Ok,” she said eventually. “What should I do?”
‘There’s a good girl,” I said, and slapped her ass.
The tone of the room was rapidly changing, and though the top hats and tiaras remained, out the corner of my eye I caught the sight of naked limbs. Naked bodies. These people were long time visitors to these parties. They knew exactly what to do.
“First, take those ridiculous heels off.”
She obediently stepped out of them, reaching out to grab my forearm to balance herself, and then kicked them off to the side.
“Now, take that little hat off as well.”
“It’s called a fascinator,” she said, and I wanted to laugh, but I gave her a stern look instead, and her shaking fingers went up to unpin the thing and gently place it to the side.
The dark party unfolded around us. The room was darkly lit, but my imagination filled in everything that was missing. Everyone was here to do one thing. And Natasha, too, was here for one reason only. A small crowd gathered around us, curious.
“Now, pull your dress up high, to your hips. Show me what you’re wearing underneath.”
She swallowed hard.
“Now? In front of …everyone?”
The gathering crowd tittered. This was perfect.
“Yes, in front of everyone. And if you talk back again I’ll make you take it all off.”
She hesitatingly pulled up the hem of her dress, revealing smooth, toned legs and a flimsy g-string underneath.
“Higher,” I barked, and she shimmied it up further.
“Good. Now, since everyone is watching, you might as well make it worth their while. Get up into the sling.”
She tiptoed over to it and steadied her hands on either of the steel chains, but I quickly grabbed her round her waist, swung her over with ease and plonked her ass down into the leather seat.
“Spread them,” I said, and pulled her legs away from her little body.
“Further” I demanded, and yanked them down more roughly, spreading them apart.
I looked out into the small crowd that had gathered and made eye contact with Pitt, who stepped up, bringing a man at his side, and they both helped me buckle her in. We stood back and admired our work. Except for the smallest bit of black fabric, her pussy was bare and exposed, facing the crowd. Once she was tied in, I leaned over and gave her a long, sweet kiss, and then unceremoniously tore the front of her dress open, releasing two pert breasts. She gasped and squirmed, but couldn’t move more than an inch from where we three had bound her.
“Going somewhere?” I laughed, and the other two laughed with me.
Men are dogs. Pack animals. They sense weakness and strike. All they need is to get the whiff of blood, to see the tiniest tear in the fabric of decency, and they attack. Tasting that hint of first violence in a fleeting moment is all the encouragement they need, and then they’ll join in on the carnage. For now, though, the men in the group were only lurking, waiting for my cue, waiting for that moment of no return. We would all gang up on her. But not just yet.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.
And sweet fuck did she look like the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid my eyes on. At that moment, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to completely annihilate her or wrap her in a little bundle and protect her forever.
“Me? I’m not going to do anything to you, my dear,” I said, and smiled sweetly at her. Her little eyebrows quivered.
“But I’m not so sure about everyone else here…” I said, and leaned in for another kiss. Her lips were tentative and quivering, and when I pulled back again they remained wet and parted, lingering where I’d left them.
“Be a good whore for me and spread your legs. There are a lot of men here tonight…” I said, and then straightened, standing tall over her. I saw her swallow again. Saw the fear and excitement racing in her eyes. I had to breath deep to calm my own excitement.
I stepped away from the frame and out towards the crowd, which had since grown a little larger. People had clumped themselves throughout this dungeon, but by far my little whore-wife Natasha and her flimsy panties were garnering the most attention.
“Everyone, this is my wife Natasha. Her body is yours for the evening, and nothing, I repeat nothing is off limits. I hand her over to you. Do as you will with her.”
And stepped away from the frame.
Chapter Sixteen - Natasha
I guess that sometimes, you only know what you want when it’s forced on you.
A million things raced through my mind. Was I an idiot for agreeing to any of this? When was my real punishment going to occur? Or had this been the punishment all along, to sit and wait and dread the moment when I would finally get what I deserved? But what did I deserve? To have the humiliation of knowing that no matter how much he dominated me, I still wanted it all, and accepted it gladly?
And I thought about where the exits were in this place, and tried to remember the series of doors and corridors I had gone through to get here, and kicked myself for having so much champagne and muddying my thoughts. And I thought about the twisted, red, awful looking women I had seen only in pixels, but which now lived in my mind more vividly than anything, something terrifying because it might happen to me, and scary because, maybe, it wasn’t so bad that maybe I wanted it to.
And I looked at all the other beautiful women around me, and the good looking men and the way they stood arrogantly regarding everything in this wicked room, and I thought about how much this all must have cost, and how much the waiters were paid.
But as I pulled against the restraints and wriggled my exposed crotch to try and minimize just how much was on display, I quickly realized something: none of my thoughts mattered. Not one bit. After all, what could I do now? There was no getting out of these restraints. And if what was going to happen was going to happen no matter what, what would be the use of fighting?
I felt my own limbs go soft and loose inside the leather bands round my arms and legs, and as I did, my body opened up and made way for something else that had been waiting: pleasure. Sometimes, you only know what you want when it’s forced on you.
The chaotic thoughts dribbled away out of consciousness and soon all I could focus on was the sensation of being bound. Helpless. At the mercy of others’ will. Without wondering what I wanted and how I should get it, my mind emptied and allowed the flooding in of a new, dark surrender. His will. His de
sire for me. Todd took care of everything, and all that was left for me was to float back into some dark place in my mind, and forget, and feel.
And though nothing had touched me yet but the cool surface of the leather, my skin was already alive with the thrill of just feeling. As though each tiny little cell of my body was popping, each swelling in a little orgasm of its own, exploding, one microscopic suicide after another. I squeezed my eyes shut and zoomed in on the sensation of the air on my bare legs. Of the beauty of being vulnerable. I could dance on this knife edge for as long as I liked, and no matter how far I fell, Todd would be there, to catch me. To envelope me.
His voice was dry and controlled and rough: “Everyone, this is my wife Natasha. Her body is yours for the evening, and nothing, I repeat nothing is off limits. I hand her over to you. Do as you will with her.”
Big, loose shudders went through me. Nothing off limits? Nothing at all? A spark of fear was embraced and melted into excitement. Let them. Let them do exactly what they wanted with me.
I lifted my head to see two men approaching, men I hadn’t seen before. One was shirtless, muscled and well built, with a web of complicated tattoos on his shoulders and pecs. The other still had on his tailored white shirt, but the sleeves were rolled up to reveal toned, veined forearms and strong hands. I gulped and let my head fall back down again. Did it matter who exactly came for me? I would fuck every person in this room, if Todd wanted it.
Two pairs of warm, manly hands stroked my inner thighs. I moaned. Eyes closed, they were all the same hand, all the hands of one multi-armed, blue-skinned God. All Todd’s hands. They stroked teasing circles around my tightening pussy, then the puffy folds were pried aside to allow their fingers to sink into me there, almost frictionless from how wet I already was.
“Fuck, she’s so wet,” said a voice.
“God yes. Look at that little pussy,” said another.
They were the voice of everyone and no one. Men’s voices. And behind them all, Todd’s voice.