One Final Night

by Rush, Scarlett

  I try to picture the room downstairs, try to conjure some of those masked faces. Are those in the know already on their way? Are silent signals going between them to suggest an order to be taken? Are they even aware that others know, or do they think me a treat just for them individually? If he is busy relaying the details to the chosen few, will others sneak out to claim me in the meantime? I can’t wait much more. The anticipation is beginning to agitate. I feel as anxious now as before the bath soothed my doubts away. How long are they going to keep me hanging on like this?

  My stomach lurches. That was definitely a noise. I didn’t hear an approach, but that squeak could only be the door handle. Every cell of my body is tense. I’m waiting for a creak to tell me the door has been swung open, but it doesn’t come. I’m waiting for a breeze, to sense a change in the atmosphere that lets me know I’m not alone, but it’s all enclosed in here, and the air around me remains thick and still. The floorboards are so old and yet they make no sound. The ghosts are here though, of that I am sure. I can make out gentle sounds, those of clothes swishing together through body movement. My ears strain, my head turns toward the noise. So on edge, I almost expect a clashing impact, an explosion. However, when my guest finally does come, the approach is so soft I can barely make it out. The drapes part almost unnoticeably, and then suddenly I feel weight at the edge of this vast bed, someone climbing on near my feet.

  I almost reach out with my foot to touch this new arrival, just to gain even the slightest clue to their identity. However, I can’t imagine it will be a great start to kick someone in the face, so I stay frozen, trying to deduce if the weight pressing at the mattress is enough for a male. It doesn’t seem so, but surely he would want to come to me first? The initial contact is at my ankle and although I’m dying for it I still jump and gasp. Fortunately, I don’t lash out. Fingers are travelling up the inside of my leg. The hand is warm and the touch light. Then it stops, just at the hem of my gown. The material tightens against my parted thighs and a grating sound cuts the quiet.

  I recognise the sound instantly. It is that of scissors cutting cloth. The pull of the gown at my thighs eases at once as the material comes apart under the blades. The scissors continue their slow, remorseless journey and I just lie back and let it happen. I tense as the blades near my crotch, but care is being taken not to hurt me and only a couple of times does the metal touch my skin. I feel cool exhalations on my newly shaved mound; twin gusts from nostrils no more than six inches above me. My belly is exposed, but no hands go on me. The cutting continues, the material springing open where it is tight at my chest. The blades briefly falter at the point of the vee below my neck, but then extra pressure takes them through and the gown has been split from top to bottom.

  I breathe in, knowing my visitor is right above me. I attempt to gain their scent and do; a fragrance I cannot recall smelling before. The adrenaline pours through me. Surely he would be first? Would he change his cologne to trick me? Quite possibly. It smells as classy as he always does. Maybe I just cannot remember this particular one on him. I need to smell more: his skin, his aroma, not one from a bottle. A sudden thought hits me: in the fractions when I hadn’t recognised the scent, I had an extra surge of excitement at the thought that it wasn’t him. It’s not that I don’t want him here, because I do, because he will comfort and ease me. But, on reflection, I have to admit that all evening I have been imagining people coming to me, these unknown friends in their soldier’s uniforms, these well-endowed servants, these beautiful, titled ladies, yet not once in that time did I picture him.

  Suddenly it strikes me that the fragrance might not be a masculine one at all. It seems too sweet, too floral. I try to concentrate but my senses are too jumbled and unsure for definitive answers. Whoever it is I need them, of that I am sure. I realise that since there is no going back I cannot wait for it to begin. I am open now and anticipate hands upon me. My skin is desperate for the touch. I expect urgent hands to grip me, a greedy mouth to suck me in. In reality, the first touch is almost imperceptible: a light, searching tongue-tip flicking across one swollen bud. It nonetheless has me gasping audibly, has every muscle in my body tensing.

  Before I can recover, the same bud is engulfed by warm, soft lips. They suck hard, just once, the tongue-tip flicks over me again just fleetingly, then I am released, left with the little chill of wetness upon my skin. It was too quick to guess the gender of my visitor. It felt soft, but then who has hard lips? I have it in my head now that the fragrance might well be a feminine one, so my mind might be playing tricks on me. It might only be wishful thinking that I’m about to have another female make love to me for the first time. The next contact will give it away. I have another aching teat that will surely get its due. To my desperate disappointment, the touch doesn’t come. Instead, the pressure on the mattress recedes as my visitor retreats back down the bed. I nearly cry out for them to stay. I don’t understand why they won’t finish what they’ve started.

  They have dismounted, but I still feel their presence at the side of the bed. Then they are back, although this time I’m sure their weight is greater. The dip in the mattress seems more pronounced. They come the same way, from the bottom up. I can hear the sound of them bumping and sliding against the footboard of the frame. The bed is so huge there is ample gap between my toes and the posts to take them. They snake in by the end panel and find my feet with fingertips, then guide themselves upward. I can feel the shift of their weight as more of their body comes onto the bed. They definitely seem heavier this time, which is confusing.

  Up they come, fingers stroking the insides of my legs as before. The touch is firmer this time, and the hands seem big enough to be masculine. The same gusts of breath are there, letting me know how close their face is to me. My legs are being parted. This time, my visitor is not going up with knees astride me but sliding on their chest so that I must open to accommodate them. I can hear my heart. I can feel the rush of blood because the twin gusts are at my inner thighs, so close they are warm now, not cold. The tongue is tracing lines over my delicate skin there. The tease is supreme. I could happily feel this for the rest of my days, and yet I cannot wait for it to stop so that more pressing matters can be addressed. Then the tongue is travelling up, up to where I am wettest.

  The hands are now holding me and I can feel their size, feel them spreading me. The twin gusts have turned to one long, cool breeze, direct at my entrance. He is gently blowing upon me. I know it is a he now, after all. It must be him. Only he would be patient enough to give me this tantalizing treat. Others would be in me by now. The back of one forefinger strokes down over my new smoothness, the knuckle just bumping the swell that protects me there. Even that light contact is enough to have me pushing my head hard back into the pillow.

  The fingers are not finished: sliding down the insides of my thighs, they stay either side of my entrance. They apply just a little pressure and I hear the rude, sticky-slick sound as my lips part. The warm trickle from within is immediate, a dam threatening to burst. The little breeze is getting warmer, and that means he is closing in. Any second will see his lips in contact with mine. If my hands were free I would press his head to me, but for now all I can do is absorb the desperation and wait.

  Just before he kisses me there, just as I can feel the open mouth and the warm breath only millimetres away, a new sensation overwhelms me. The big toe of my right foot is suddenly engulfed by a warm, soft mouth.

  This is so unexpected I let out a whimper. How had I not put two and two together? Why hadn’t I guessed he was not alone? I have to describe the feeling as shock, because every nerve-ending in my body shoots messages to my brain. I have no time to ponder this further, except to register that it is massively erotic. Then his mouth is upon me. I get a fleeting vision of him biting into soft fruit, although I do not feel his teeth. He draws my flesh into his mouth and I can feel the pulse of my blood as he sucks me. Then his tongue pushes its way into me and I am writhing and panting.
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  With me so far gone I would have expected the tongue to be too great a tease, but somehow the simultaneous attention at my toes offsets this. Already I can see the brilliance of the ménage à trois. This dual pleasure alone is enough to make my night. Both suck, and briefly I have fingers inside me, curling upward to my inner wall, as is his wont. But this is new: the fingers come out and pinch the skin around my hood, squeezing hard to trap my little bud. I gasp, but the pressure only increases. The fingers roll the skin, so that although my bouton du plaisir is hidden from direct contact, the friction from the very flesh supposed to protect it sends the warm current surging through. Worse, the butterflies are loose again as I doubt once more that it’s him at all.

  The grip releases and the tongue slips back inside me. I am way too slick to stop him pushing it deep. His lips crush to mine and his nose presses the same spot he has just been pinching. I’m searching for any clues, even trying to gauge the size of the nose from its press against me. It feels big, but how can I reasonably make such an assumption from this contact? Patrick’s nose is big – bigger than his master’s, anyway. He has seen his master make love too, so he might be copying some techniques to fool me. But why should he care to do this? I can’t think straight. Fingernails lightly rake my calves, and all my toes in turn are being warmly bathed and teased. Again, the dual attention at different erogenous zones puts my head in a spin. This feeling is most definitely not the same as one person trying to stimulate you in two areas: the concentration here is precise, as attention is not required elsewhere. It is two jobs being done perfectly, not two half-jobs being muddled through.

  He is on his way up. His tongue has done its work and now I’m to find out if it is master or servant. I’m almost crying with need. I can hear the buttons of the fly coming undone. It will be out. It will be in his hand, ready to plunge into me, either huge and possibly unmanageable, or the lovely one I’ve come to know so well. I open as wide as I can, just in case. This means my toes lose their attention but then I’m not sure I could take the bliss of him inside me without kicking out. He is taking ages. His weight isn’t even down upon my chest. I’m going to scream. Give me that big, fat cock! I can’t believe I’m thinking such dirty thoughts, but I simply cannot help it.

  I feel her coming up the bed too, her slighter weight depressing the mattress alongside me. Then his tip is at my entrance, being guided there, slipping up and down the slit to spread the wetness. He pushes it in just a little, just to open me up. I don’t think it can be Patrick, after all. The stretch doesn’t seem enough. He is steadying himself, and I know it will come in one long plunge. I have never wanted anything so badly in my whole life. He waits and waits, hears my sobs of desperation escape. Then, suddenly, he drives it all the way inside me and my head feels like it might burst. I would scream, but as he drove in, her soft mouth came down onto mine and she kissed me, her tongue feeling as beautifully penetrative as his sword.

  He holds it deep inside me. I can feel the rough of his breeches against my smooth, bare lips. He hasn’t pulled them down. He must have hauled it out through the fly. Normally I would want the feel of him naked against me, but here the thrill is greater. He is reminding me of his uniform. He is giving me the fantasy of being ravished by a handsome officer of La Grande Armée. I am nothing more than a Russian peasant girl caught in their swift advance, used for fun by him and his pretty mistress, given my first ever climax by his deep, penetrating thrust. He will pummel and abuse me, paying no heed to my cries, and when he is finished his men will take their turn.

  He settles into a rhythm, driving the pleasure to my centre with each stroke. His pace is confusing – neither the slow build of our apartment sex nor the frantic slaps of our public displays. It is somewhere in between and again I’m wondering if it is him or not. I thought I would know instantly but the darkness has stripped away any assurance. She is all I can smell, the same sweet fragrance I first detected. It was her who cut my gown. She is soft and loving with her kisses, occasionally showing the same passion with her tongue as he does with his thrusts. Again, the differing attention is supreme.

  His pace does not let up and, sure enough, I realise that he is soon to reach his finish. I feel like I am glowing, like the electricity is all through me. I can’t wait to have his spray inside, and as he lets out a gasp I know it is soon to follow. But then I am empty. She is off me, perhaps pulled away by him. I already have the image in my head: the clasped prick being held like a hose, going away from me toward another. His sighs come again, a series of stifled gasps. She moans in response; I can tell her mouth is full of him. I should be jealous, but the sounds are just too evocative not to have my heart pounding again. I even want to kiss her once more to share their rudeness.

  The chance does not come. Their weight slips from the bed; I hear the swish of clothes as they make themselves decent and move away. Before I can call out for them to stay, I hear the click of the door. I assume one or both of them have left. If he is still there he gives no clue. I lie still, not knowing how to feel – ecstatic, mainly, like a whirlwind has caught me up and only just placed me back down. I feel complete yet expectant. If this was all it is to be then he has indeed given me a night to remember, but imagine the memories if it isn’t quite over.

  I wait, but this time I’m relaxed; the glow within won’t let me be otherwise. I don’t count the seconds, I let them wash over me, giving me time to recoup.

  My nerves jolt as I hear the squeeze of the door handle depressing. I feel the fizz in my blood. I close my eyes and smile. It is the soldiers coming to find me. It is the soldiers coming to fuck me. The drapes are pulled apart roughly and the first is upon me before I can even begin to tell how many there may be in the room. He is on the bed and between my legs. There is no mistaking the gender in this case. I hear the fly coming unbuttoned and this time the breeches are pulled down. He uses his fingers on me, not to see if I’m ready, more to help his aim. Then his weight is down upon me and he is shoving himself home. The plunge goes unhindered, a glide within that takes my breath away. It is fatter than the last and feels gnarly, venous. My insides are so sensitive I can pick out these differences. He has me behind the legs to raise my hips and he starts to pump, an urgent pace as if he might lose me if not quick about it.

  I know his face is just above mine. To kiss now would be to take away some of the impersonality and I’m rather glad he doesn’t try – maybe later, with other visitors, but not now. Now I want to see him in my mind’s eye: the unshaven brute straight from the front line with the powder marks, filth, and blood still upon his shirt. I want to be his victory prize. He grunts as he thrusts but it can’t hide the lewd slap of his crotch against mine. It seems extra noisy within the confines of this bed. I am able to sigh out loud too, suddenly less reserved now that I’m caught up in the wantonness of it.

  He doesn’t miss a stroke. On and on he goes, pumping harder to take himself to the swiftest climax. I still want it in me but again I am thwarted at the last. Out he comes and I hear his sucked-in breath as he rushes to finish himself. Then the spatters come, warm across my belly. It makes my muscles jump. It would be so rude to see but in the darkness it seems strangely benign, such a light impact after all that thrusting passion.

  He goes, but I am barely able to readjust before I am joined again. This one also hooks his arms behind my knees – it must be this regiment’s calling card.

  His entry is much more measured. It is the slower slide of a thinner but longer weapon. It pierces me completely, too long to fit all the way inside. I am thankful for his gentle entry, since anything rougher might have sent me into panic. He holds me open as he finds his rhythm. He withdraws nearly completely before sliding all the way back in, delighting in showing me just how long he is. When he is in as far as he can go, he grinds his groin to mine to crush against my sweet spot. He is so much less hurried than the last, so much more disciplined. This must be an officer, lean and tall, just like David. I knew he would be wond
erful. The gentler pace allows my frantic heart to slow just a little, but the crush of his groin draws the joy from my throbbing bud and gives me the second climax of the night.

  His finish is the same as the last. Suddenly his pace increases, then he is out and the splashes are landing on my chest, thin and warm. It feels so dirty to be lying here with the trickles going down the sides of my body, but no one can see how filthy I look so I make no effort to free my hands and wipe myself clean. Anyway, number three wants his turn. I remain incredibly sensitive inside. My bliss keeps me so well lubricated, and the joy of each new penetration keeps the threat of climax ever close to the surface.

  I take five of them before there is a break, and each one conjures a different image in my head. Number four has me on my side, then forces me onto my front, twisting the straps that hold my hands. He finishes on my back, and that feels very rude indeed. I right myself for number five and he gorges on me first, slurping loudly and lasciviously, even spitting inside me. He drives in and proves to be the smallest, but he pounds me at incredible speed and even puts a finger up into my other hole. I have been leaching so much that I am slippery everywhere and his digit glides in with embarrassing ease. His manic pace cannot last and he explodes, scurrying up the bed to shoot as close to my chest as he can. His first shot splats against one aching teat, then six or seven more blasts follow before he is done. He leaves me shaking.