“I could never do such a thing,” she insisted, clutching her cold, slippery glass.
“Miranda, you’re a free woman. You can do anything you want. And I can guarantee you’ll find plenty to warm you in my humble party room.”
That’s when he took her hand. His flesh was indeed warm and faintly moist. The sensation was a bit…dirty…and yet her fingers immediately relaxed into the heat.
As if they’d finally found a place to rest.
That’s how she came to be here in this strange room, splayed out on his bukkake bed for the fourth time in a month. Sam had scheduled a series of Thursday sessions just for her. Each week the number of guests grew.
Miranda heard more male voices passing below the window—Are you sure they have “events” here? This looks like my mother-in-law’s place….
From the chuckles, Miranda guessed it was a group of four, maybe five. Which meant they would soon be ready to begin.
She positioned her arms at her sides, suppressing a shiver. She would feel nothing for now. She was an object. A fresh canvas. Pure and clean.
And the men, her therapists—Sam was right to call this her “treatment”—they were pure, too. For when is a man ever more honestly himself than the moment when his hot seed shoots out through his cock to find its home?
The voices were inside the house now, moving closer. The guest room door opened.
She heard a soft “Whoa, nice,” and a “Pretty tonight.”
Miranda’s cunt tensed in a spasm so intense she wondered if they could see her muscles jerk through the negligee. She curled her hands around her thighs to steady herself.
The air around the bed grew thick with the rasp of breathing, the mineral scent of trousers, hints of cumin sweat, crotch musk and palpable excitement.
Under the blindfold, the room began to spin.
She sensed a familiar fragrance of woodsy soap moving toward the head of the bed. It was Sam, of course, presiding over the feast like a patriarch at Thanksgiving.
“I’ll explain the rules again for the benefit of the newcomers,” he began cordially. “No touching unless she requests it, but she likes it when you talk, so say whatever comes into your dirty minds. Don’t expect an answer though. She only speaks to command. There are some bottles of lube over there with the tissues if you want it. Oh, and last but not least, we have a big crowd tonight, so watch your aim. I’ve already gotten this carpet cleaned twice this month.”
The air above her crackled with laughter.
“How close can I get?” This voice sounded young, nervous.
“Need practice with that chip shot?”
More laughter.
“Make room for the boy,” a deeper voice called and there was shuffling around the bed, then the purr of zippers, the rustle of cloth.
In spite of herself—she was just an object after all—Miranda tilted her head back and sighed.
“She looks good tonight.”
“Yeah, nice nightgown. A shame to ruin it.”
Ruin. The very sound of the word made her juice up down there like a drooling baby.
“Her tits look bigger today.” This voice was Brooklyn. A regular.
“You must have had too many Manhattans. Or maybe you need your reading glasses?”
“Fuck off. Tonight I’m gonna come right in that pretty pink valley.”
“But she’s already got a pearl necklace,” said another, the jocular fellow who was the first to arrive.
“Women always want more jewelry,” added a smooth voice. Miranda imagined a silk ascot, an overpriced watch.
That’s right. Talk. Talk dirty to me.
Miranda felt the sweat rise on her skin. Blank canvas she might be, but her chest was tingling, aching for touch. She cupped her own breasts and flicked the nipples with her thumbs.
“Fuck, I love to watch them masturbate.” That was Brooklyn again, but the words had a tug-tug rhythm, as if his own hand were busy with a similar task.
“That’s not masturbation. She’s not fingering her cunt.”
“She’s turning herself on, asshole, that’s jerking off.”
“This is jerking off,” grunted an unfamiliar voice, and before she could brace herself, a burning hot volley of spunk sprayed Miranda’s chest from the left, coating her fingers in thick goo.
For a moment the room was completely still.
Miranda almost giggled. This happened every time, the breathless pause after the first man shot his load. What did they expect? Indignation? Surprise? How ungentlemanly of you to ejaculate on my breasts, sir?
Surely the veterans knew what came next. That instead of protesting she would lift her dripping hand to her nose and inhale deeply of the very mystery that brought her here—the intoxicating elixir of summer sunshine and new-mown hay. Miranda drew another deep breath, resisting the urge to taste it. With her clean hand, she grabbed the dental dam at her side and waved it in the general direction of the man who’d baptized her.