What do you mean, how do I know all this? Just shut up and let me tell the story.
OK, I’ll wait while you make a joke about pearl necklaces. Let me know when you’re done.
John, focused on the allure of money plus potential princess pussy, got the brilliant idea to disguise himself as a woman in order to infiltrate the finishing school and get the currently vacant chaperone job. Normally he would cast aspersions, as they say, on a man dressing in such a fashion, but he told himself it was for the money. And the booty.
Luckily he had a swimmer’s build and was blond enough that his body hair wasn’t as obvious. A wig and a dress and falsies and heels, and he was there.
Go ahead, snicker. He was an ass. He deserves it.
So, the princesses. Brianna, the eldest, was the de facto leader of the group. Gabrielle was the youngest, and she tended to kowtow to Brianna even though she was pretty sharp herself.
The rest aren’t crucial to the story, but because I know you’ll ask, their names were Juliana, Simone, Marguerite, Lianne-Marie, Charlotte, Talia, Faris, April, Rosalyn, and Philippa.
Brianna looked at John (who introduced himself as Jonette) and smiled a little smile that would’ve made him hard if he hadn’t tucked his peen back to avoid, er, outing himself.
“I’ll be honest,” John said. “You know I’ve been hired not just to give you comportment lessons, but to find out where you’re off to every night.” He knew saying something that was truthful would disarm them, distract them from his mountain of falsehoods.
“Of course you are,” Brianna said. “And you will.”
So then it was all about a hidden passageway and crossing an underground lake on a boat (like
that
isn’t a metaphor). Gabrielle made sure she was sitting next to Brianna, and she whispered, “Something’s not right about Jonette.”
“You’re a goose,” said Brianna. “She’s just like all the others.”
“Her fashion sense is deplorable, and not in a low-country kind of way,” Gabrielle pointed out. “And I just don’t like the way she looks at me.”
“You won’t have to deal with her after tonight,” Brianna said. “She’ll leave just like all the others.”
Brianna never mistreated servants, but she did kind of think they were all the same, interchangeable. Gabrielle sighed and stopped protesting, although she
was
going to say, “I told you so,” later because she wasn’t perfect and Brianna
was
going to deserve it.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
John had no idea what he was letting himself in for. Now, I should mention that the fact that the princesses came home each night reeking of various fluids wasn’t something the headmaster had shared with
anyone.
If word of
that
got out . . . Yeah. Not so much.
Given the stories of torn clothing, though, John was expecting some kind of rave, maybe. For all his nasty thoughts, he really didn’t have a clue.
They disembarked on a wide, whitewashed dock. Two men came forwards and held the boat as the princesses and John jumped out. He trailed behind them into the room so he could keep an eye on them.
Then he was inside, and saw what the princesses were really up to every night.
“Oh, goody.” Talia clapped her hands together. “Slave Augustus here. I’ve been itching to blister his adorable ass.”
“And he cries so prettily when you do,” Simone said.
“Shall we tag team?”
“Yes, let’s!”
They skipped off together, headed for a buff man wearing not much more than some straps criss-crossed around his chest, a posing pouch and a collar, all made out of burgundy leather.
Swiftly, they tied him down on a spanking bench while another slave gathered implements for them. Because a princess can’t mar her pretty, soft white hands, now can she? Talia was rather fond of paddles herself, but Simone chose a flail, and ran her fingers through the strands while she watched her friend go to work on the slave’s ass, which was indeed quite adorable, and getting hotter by the moment.
Slave Augustus murmured his thanks after every blow.
Charlotte and Faris had also chosen to share a slave, but to more direct benefit. Charlotte reclined on a feather bed full of pillows while the slave licked her and Faris played with her nipples.
Meanwhile, Rosalyn indulged her slightly subby streak with two men, preparing herself (and them) for an exquisite double penetration. She had a cock in each hand and alternated between sucking them – but skilfully not letting them come just yet.
Subby, yet always in control.
“What’s wrong, Jonette?” Brianna asked. “You don’t have to be all dom if you don’t want to. April and Philippa are as vanilla as they come.” She pointed to where each princess was squirming and squealing under the attentive ministrations of an accomplished man whose sole purpose was to give her as many orgasms as possible. “The slaves are just here for our pleasure – you can have them do whatever you want them to do to you.”
“Uh, Brianna?” Gabrielle said, because she was starting to figure things out. “I think maybe he—”
“Ohhh!” Brianna said. “Are you a lesbian? There are female slaves here, too.” She beckoned to one of the men, who stepped forwards, hands clasped behind his back. He was naked except for a short gold chain around his neck.
“No, I . . .” John panicked.
Then he felt his skirt being pulled up and, before he could react, delicate hands plunged between his legs.
“I
thought
so!” Gabrielle cried. “She’s a
man!”
Something clattered to the floor, and she snatched it up. “And he has a camera,” she said. “Spying on us. Probably planning to blackmail our parents.”
And then it was too late for John.
The princesses (the ones who hadn’t already gotten distracted, that is) pinned him down and, with the help of some of the slaves, had his clothing off, his wrists cuffed to a belt around his waist, and a spreader bar keeping his ankles apart faster than you could say your safe word. He would’ve protested, except for the ring gag they slipped into his mouth.
“I think we should let the slaves have some fun for once, don’t you?” Brianna asked.
“Excellent idea,” Gabrielle agreed, having already thought of it anyway.
Because you know, don’t you, that John was very much the type of man to not just be heterosexual and leave it at that? He had an abhorrence of anything that might remotely involve the faintest whiff of homosexuality. (Unless it came to girl-on-girl action, of course. That was entirely different. Charlotte and Faris over there, kissing and fondling each other while Charlotte bounced on the slave’s cock and Faris ground herself against his mouth? Hot. Very hot.)
The only thing worse than that? Having anyone he knew suspect
him
of such perversion. Which is why that camera of his came in so damn handy.
They got pictures of him being enthusiastically screwed up the ass by a lucky slave. They got pictures of him wearing a penis gag with an anonymous princess (it was Lianne-Marie, but for obvious reasons her features weren’t visible) bouncing up and down on him – because, of course, the princesses weren’t going to let the slaves have
all
the fun. They got pictures of him crying as he was whipped on an X-frame, having his face splashed with come from a circle of slaves, being forced to suck a whole line of men.
Worst of all, they got pictures of him achingly aroused by all of it. His penis straining erect, his balls shaved and bulging around a cock ring. Slaves licking his cock and balls and ass while he writhed and struggled.
A lovely video of him pumping his hips futilely against empty air, ungagged so he could beg to be allowed to come. That was the
pièce de résistance,
the ultimate piece of blackmail.
They debated leaving a vibrating butt plug shoved up his sorry ass, but in the end agreed that permanent damage wasn’t really necessary. They
did
lock him into a chastity belt and toss the key into the lake on the way back, so he’d have that special added humiliation of asking someone for help removing it.
John slunk off in shame in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again.
And the princesses? Well, let’s just say they all went home, got married and became the power behind the thrones.
Except for Gabrielle. She runs a porn empire. She always did have a head for business.
Those Daaaaaancing Feeeeeeet!
Nick Mamatas
Reg found it extremely difficult to choreograph an orgy in these days of Mannerist decadence and increasing ticket prices. There was the challenge, of course, of avoiding heteronormative slot-tab type things: a girl on all fours, a cock in her mouth, one in her ass, a guy under her slacking while she ground her pussy down on him. Even the formulation – one cock, two cock, fill all the holes – tended to dehumanize everyone. Then there were the “show-time”-style stunts: handstands and toes tucked into assholes, streams of semen shooting in fine arcs like an Italian fountain. Clever stuff, hard to pull off, but about as sexy as the cramped interior of a circus clown car. Well, that was probably somebody’s kink . . . but Reg digressed, as he often did when amidst a forest of limbs, some hard with muscle, others flabby and warm.
“From the top,” he called out after he lost his own erection, and the twists of arms and legs and tits came undone. There were ten in all, seven men and three women, including Reg. Daniela smiled at him and walked over on her tiptoes, her back arched and little lemon tits sticking out.
“Reg,” she said, “maybe if—”
“—the genders were even, yes, I understand. But
everyone
does that.”
“Or more women than men!” José called out. He was wiping himself down, a towel under the crease of his belly.
“It’ll work fine,” Reg said. “We just need to loosen up.” He waved his arms. “Qigong, everyone.” And the players lined up and lifted their arms and began their deep breathing exercises. There was just enough room on the cramped stage for everyone, especially with arms outstretched and eyes closed, but Reg kept his eyes open. On the skin of his cast – pink and brown and dark – he could see the traces of his handiwork. Impressions of limbs and hand in the flesh. Then he had an idea.
Here is how it went. José on all fours, Jeanette squatted on to his back, her ass plump and back curved. Her face was buried in Lindsey’s shockingly hairy bush – shocking as Brazilians were in season; hair was the new “ethnic” and ethnic was in, Reg supposed – and her hands pressed against Lindsey’s fat breasts. José had Don’s odd brown cock in his mouth, and worked his throat till his nose was buried on Don’s pubic hair. Don held on to the back of José’s head for a moment to balance himself. He spread his feet, sunk his weight on to his heels and then bent over backwards. Little Daniela straddled Don’s gymnast torso. Reg waved his arms and the Wong twins, Lee and Henry, took up position on either side of Daniela. She grabbed their dicks and started pumping them, then turned to kiss Lee hungrily, then Henry. Reg himself slipped behind Henry and stuck his tongue up Henry’s ass, lubing it for the cock to come. Only when satisfied did the last two men – the burly bear Kenneth, all blond fuzz and beer belly, and a stocky fire hydrant of a man named Russ, take their places. They grabbed Reg’s ankles and wrists and held the choreographer up and on his side. It took a few long moments for Reg to penetrate Henry, and he nearly lost his erection, but sucking the sweat from Kenneth’s big balls helped with that, and soon enough he was in. Finally, they were all in position. Reg hummed, giving Kenneth the signal. Kenneth blinked twice.
That was the cue. Lindsey slid to the left, Jeanette still attached to her cunt. Under Jeanette, José grunted but his strong arms and thighs were up to the task of holding her weight. He moved from Don’s cock to his outer thigh, licking it all over and hunting for ass. Daniela put her arms around Henry and Lee and lifted herself up to spread her legs. Russ shifted Reg’s legs to his own shoulders and bent over to suck on Lindsey’s toes. The Wongs reached between that mass of bent bodies and jerked one another off. Freed from Daniela’s cunt, Don’s cock glistened with slick syrup. He lay down for a moment, but Kenneth reached down and lifted the other man up by the cock. Still on his side, wedged between several men, Reg wondered if this was still all too Hollywood, but he would only know at the final bow.
The sad fact, Reg thought to himself during his smoke break, is that people don’t come to see Broadway fuck shows for the choreography or even for the musky smell of the sex. They like the fog pouring out of the smoke machines and the beams of light arcing overhead, ones that look so solid you could reach up and touch it, hang off it. Older women enjoy the songs and the first act teases – that first flex of bicep or expense of abs. The legs or the flick of a hip. They even dig the improbable show tune rhymes: “Oh when will Mister Lee So Yung/ decide to finally have some fun/ and put my pudenda/ on his agendaaaaa!” Reg often found himself fuming by the stage door as the audience members wandered by humming that crap.
The other problem is that orgy choreography is just like driving a car or running the United States – everyone thinks they can do it, but most people who actually try are friggin’ morons. Reg liked to tell his cast, “And everyone is half right.” That would get a laugh. Competition was keen, and nobody wanted to take it up the ass any more. Prima donnas, all of ’em. Reg stubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and went back to the dressing rooms to tell Donald to go easy on the mahogany tonight. Speaking of prima donnas.
“Are you
kidding
?” Don asked.
“Nope. I want everyone pale.”
“Under those lights? I’ll look like a fish fillet.” Don sucked in his little belly. He was an older guy – late forties but looked maybe a decade younger. Only he wanted to look two decades younger. “What’s this all about? Are you going to tell the Wong brothers to ‘lighten up’ too, or are you just looking to make sure I don’t get any more callbacks?”