There is no formal beginning to the afternoon’s event, the real work of the board. No one says, “Let’s start.” Instead it’s a slow dance of casual gestures. Chaz asks everyone what more they want to drink. Jameson stands as he talks about his staff problems there at the mansion. Richard ambles to the far corner and puts on some soft music, classical piano, Chopin.
I excuse myself to the restroom. There I change into a different outfit, freshen myself, re-apply my lipstick, and do what I can with my hair.
I return. All the men have changed too — now in bed pants or boxers, some in smoking jackets. They stand with drinks in hand. Jameson is chatting off to the side with Gonzales, presumably to fill him in on how things are done.
As they see me stride in, they stop their conversations and turn to me.
It is one of my joys each time to find an outfit for the men that is distinctive, something that wows in a fashionable way. I love seeing their staring wonder and feeling their lust. Today, I’m wearing a crisp retro shirtdress in royal blue, with a wide white belt around my waist, and five-inch heels in matching blue with an ankle strap. I know my blonde hair, pooling over my shoulders in waves and broad curls, sets off the blue of my dress.
Chaz winks at me with his Glencairn in hand and comes close. “This is glorious,” he says, and I smile in his approval. He kisses me on the lips, slow and lingering, and I remember his kiss from times before, firm and smoky.
To the left of the seating area of leather chairs is now a circular platform, six feet in diameter, actually a bed, padded and sheeted in white. Chaz ushers me toward it, and the other men come around me close.
Richard begins to unbutton the top of my dress.
Jameson and the visitor Gonzales, for now, watch.
The ritual is for the men to undress me. They want to be in control, for me to submit. They unwrap the package themselves.
Richard is behind me, reaching around to my front buttons as the other men watch. “Love the dress,” he says.
“A little retro,” I say. “Thought you might like it. It’s a pretty shade of blue, I think. Like how sometimes the sky is still blue at midnight.”
“It’s lovely, Anna,” Jameson says. He then turns to Gonzales and says some things I cannot hear. I presume these are explanations of what we do and how it works.
It was Jameson’s idea to bring a visitor in. He thought having “a new guy” would keep it interesting to the group, to me. Personally, I never felt there was any danger of this getting stale, considering all that’s done to me, but I don’t get to vote on what the group decides. And in the execution, I don’t deny having a new man there each time makes it unpredictable to me, maybe a little more uncertain and often surprising.
Richard has finished my top buttons. He pulls the panels of my bodice open slightly, revealing underneath a glimpse of my bra in ecru-and-black lace. My breasts fill it and then some, spilling out over the top lace scallop of the décolletage.
Chaz now squats in front of me so he is level with my waist. He unbuckles my white belt, then undoes the bottom buttons, from my waist to the hem. My dress parts, revealing my stockinged legs and ecru-lace panties.
He helps slide my arms from the sleeves and pulls my dress over my shoulders.
The ritual is for the guest to “do the honors,” which is my final unwrapping.
Anthony Gonzales stands in front of me and does what he has been tutored to do. He wears a cologne of smoky spice, and has a shock of dark hair that is attractively unruly. He may be new, but he is confident.
“Hello again, Anna,” he says, his voice husky. “Pleased, very pleased, to make your acquaintance.”
“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Gonzales,” I say with a smile.
He leans down close to my face and kisses me, a long, lingering kiss between strangers. His hands reach around me and find my bra clasp in back. I extend my arms around his shoulders to the back of his neck, as if he is my long-lost lover. We kiss again.
In a short second he has my bra undone.
“I think you’ve done this before,” I whisper to him.
Gonzales steps back and loops my bra straps over my shoulders and down my arms. He pulls my bra forward, peeling it from my breasts. “Oh, my,” he says in a hushed voice.
Chaz, standing with the other men, says in a half-whisper, “Every time I forget how full she is.”
“Impressive, yes?” Jameson says to Gonzales. “Go ahead and get a feel of these.”
Gonzales takes my right breast in his hand and palms it, lifting it as if weighing it, then letting it bounce.“Indeed,” he replies. “Beautiful.” He leans in to kiss me as he cups my other breast. I give him my lips. His hand is warm.
“You have more to do, Anthony,” Jameson advises.
Gonzales nods and then steps back, looking down. He kneels before me and slides his thumbs under the waistband of each side of my panties. He slips them over my hips, and carefully eases them over the clasps of my garter belt and stockings. They slide to the floor. Gonzales helps me step from them, guiding them over my heels.
I stand now fully naked in the Great Room before the gazes of the four men. My garter belt of ecru lace and lace-topped stockings frame my pussy, shaved bare, my labia puffy and pale pink. I never feel uncomfortable before the men, but always a little self-conscious, as if this time as I’m naked before them, they will find fault. They never do.
I feel the drafty air of the Great Room between my legs.
Someone has changed the music, putting on soft jazz in the background.
Gonzales has stepped back now, joining the others who gaze at my naked flesh.
“She looks ready,” Anthony remarks.
“She always is,” Chaz says.
Richard slips out of his bed pants and crawls onto the bed, situating himself behind me. His legs, hairy and muscled, straddle me, and I can feel his cock slowly harden into the small of my back. He reaches around me, cups my breasts and starts to knead them softly. I close my eyes, moan, and turn my head into his chest.
Chaz comes to the edge of the circle bed and spreads my legs. My knees bend and my heels hook along the edge. He finds my eyes and I smile back at him in my condition of quiet bliss. I feel drugged even though I’m not, my ether the whiffs of masculinity now surrounding me. Chaz’s eyes move down, and it’s as if I feel his eyelashes dancing upon my labia, now wet and gaping.
Jameson slips out of his boxers and crawls up to where Richard cradles my head. He kneels there inches from my head, his cock throbbing close to my lips. “sir Jameson,” I say, my voice throaty, “you know how I love you this way.” He nods, with a wide grin.
Richard steps back from between my legs and says to Anthony, “You take the helm.” Anthony strips off his lounge wear and wedges in between my legs, his penis long and becoming hard. I watch him as he guides his cock head, mushroom-smooth, right at the ridges of my pussy lips. I feel him there, probing, pushing, yet waiting.
“Again, Mr. Gonzales, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance,” I say.
They are all my lovers, separately and together, as one at the same time. Yet each is my paramour in a special way. Beyond their teeming masculinity — Jameson’s smooth and luscious balls, Richard’s thick manhood, Chaz’s magic fingers — beyond it all, each man possesses my heart as well, our romances developing over months of my regular fuckings, in the spaces between, the interstices of our drinks and chat, wrought in the cracking of jokes and the sharing of sins.
To them, I am all kinds of things. Most of all, I know, I am to each one the other man’s daughter, though no one will say it. I am perhaps a fantasy with one of their C-suite female colleagues, spread ingloriously on a board room table made of cherry. I am certainly the submissive woman who will do anything on command in this Great Room, yet who maintains dignity and poise and strong will in a public life they will never know me in. I am to each man their classic image of any blonde with big tits and long legs, their adolescent fantasy of Marilyn, albeit with a different beauty, a more angular face, and perhaps a healthier psyche.
I thrill to all of their visions of me, being used in the private harbor of their minds. Yet, I know they each also fuck me as Anna Jackson, a woman who loves them and loves being loved by them. I see it in their eyes during their intercourses of me, and I swell to hear them, in the throes of their spasms, call my name, “Oh, Anna!”
Gonzales pushes into me now, his manhood filling me. He is not familiar like the others, of course, a new presence inside me, yet so very welcome and invited. I sigh, my juices thickly coating him. His hips pull back, and he slides out of my vagina to the precise point his cock head is all that’s inside. Then he pushes in once again, a slow and slippery fuck of me.
Richard replaces himself with a pillow to support my head, then comes alongside me, still fondling my breasts and flicking my hardened nipples. I take his cock in my hand, fondly remembering its fleshy girth, and I start to stroke him.
Jameson has leaned himself closer to my face, rising up on his haunches so that his balls descend right onto my lips. They are, despite his age, unwrinkled, though not taut in their sacs, and he shaves himself (I like to think for me), so they are smooth and soft and succulent. I take one into my mouth and coat him, sucking and swirling my warm, wet tongue around it. Jameson is my pacifier, and I close my eyes in his oral comfort.
These are moments when I cannot imagine feeling more pleasure, when every part of me is throbbing and tingling and about to explode. But I don’t, not yet, and the men enjoy themselves with me on and on, a beautiful torture.
How this came to be is another story, a circumstance of a random encounter and the timing of my personal discontent.
It was at a conference that I first met Jameson, leading to a dinner with him and subsequent dates, flickers of romance though not sex. He was careful not to reveal too much of himself nor to probe too deeply into me. It was as if we knew what might be proposed and how anonymity would be important. I was later introduced to his friends Richard and Chaz, just hand-shaking and smiles, though each pursued me in his own way, and over time I dated them one by one, enjoying the company of all three, older, confident, maturely appealing. There was something about all three that just felt right.
In my law career, I’d vowed not to get involved with anyone at the firm — a good policy, for sure, but one that left me without a social life, cultivating for me a reputation for being aloof and unapproachable. Even so, the men there kept trying, as if bedding the ice queen would verify their masculine prowess. In fact, my sexuality is ardent and deep and insatiable, but sadly, they will never know.
It was Jameson who first intimated something vaguely sexual, notable to me because of its subtle implication. It was more than his telling me he wanted me that way, though it was that too. But it was more inclusive than that, an inference that all men in his position would desire to have me, and, by the way, specifically his good friends, Richard and Chaz.
Whatever he meant, the truth was I had my own ideas. While I’d come to love each of the men in his own way, I was drawn to the three of them somehow collectively. I’d had my fantasies, not of the generic “woman with a group of men” variety, but specifically the act of making love to the three of them together. In my dating life with them, this fantasy started taking shape in my mind as a real possibility. It became part of my larger plan.
So, when Jameson’s vague intimation opened the door, I walked through it. I said, “We are a foursome, are we not? Maybe the three of you should have me together.”
In turn, the men wedge between my legs. They seem to have a silent count: an unspoken sense of male timing, a precise knowing when to hand me off to the next, a gentlemen’s agreement about sharing the space inside me. It makes the collective feel to me as one.
But it is individual as well, each man finding his own unique intercourse with me.
For a time, Jameson has me, his balls slapping against my now gooey flesh, his hands caressing the inside of my thighs as he pumps me. He is steady and faithful, the father-figure I never had, strong and silent, yet with an inner warmth toward me. He reaches his hand to mine, takes and holds it, a special tenderness.
Jameson soon hands me off, pulling out of me, returning to my side, to my mouth and tongue, where he prefers to have me. I beckon him close, my hand behind his neck and whisper, “I love you.” He smiles, then guiding his manhood down to my lips once again.
Richard has taken his place between my legs, splaying me open and stuffing me full. The girth of his cock, pushes and pulls my whole body more than the others, rolling my breasts like ripples in a pond. He has from the beginning been my show date, my debonair gentleman caller, my “Mr. Darcy” a generation older. I am thinking this as he does me, and in a brief moment when Jameson’s balls are not in my mouth, I look up to Richard and say, “You’d be perfect with a drink in your hand.” He laughs, but Chaz makes this very thing happen, going to the wet bar, returning, and handing Richard a scotch. Everyone laughs, Richard too, as he continues to push himself further into my vagina and my heart.
Chaz is by my other side, his cock erect. He guides me free hand to his manhood, and I fondle him, cupping his balls, and eventually stroking his shaft. He has a more pronounced ridge around the head of his cock, making this an interesting landscape for my hand to travel. Chaz and I are famous for our playful sarcasm and teasing repartee, almost as if we are best college friends, although this, of course, is far beyond Platonic.
I feel a different presence. It’s the stranger, Gonzales, now lodged between my thighs. It is with him I have my first orgasm. I look up at him, my eyes dreamy from the haze of lust. “I remember you,” I say with a smile. Gonzales grins back at me and does me again. His signature is his slow rhythm, an unhurried in-and-out with a pause at the moment he is fully impaled inside my vagina.
As he pulls back, there’s a sucking sound, my thick juices falling into the vacuum of my cunt. I become dizzy, my blood rushing toward my sex, and my breathing becomes short staccato gasps. I tense, my hands grabbing sheets, and my flesh shudders. The men watch as I squeal, then climax.
Jameson, by my side, leans over and kisses me, my lips, where his balls have just been. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. I smile, still glazed in my wooze and soaring come.
There is always the visitor, like Gonzales, who is a stranger, but all the men are strangers to me. I don’t know them anywhere else but in the Great Room with drinks and cigars, and on this circle bed where they use me. Yet I know them more personally and intimately than any other in their lives, as they each reveal themselves in this primal, feral way. Likewise, they know me as no one else in my life knows me: as the wanton, sexually driven woman I, here, allow myself to be. It is in this sexual elementalism we are who we really are to each other as strangers. It is in this rawness of unspeakable urges that we find intimacy. And a kind of love.
It becomes a random round-robin of comes and climaxes.
Chaz takes over from Gonzales, his deep-ridged cock flicking my clit as he pumps me. I look into Chaz’s eyes and moan, “God, I love you,” my words ambiguously expressing either my romantic ardor or my current, impaled, sexual high.
Chaz gets my meanings and, never stopping, says, “You’re only saying that because I’m fucking you like this,” he says.
Through gasping breaths, I manage to say, “Yes, that’s the only reason…”
He grins, then pulls himself back, just to my opening, pulling and pushing his cock head in and out, a bare inch each way, repeatedly. His ridge is catching my clit each time. “You love me because I do this to you,” he says.
I squeal, and in an unholy voice, say, “I do,” words sounding almost like a wedding vow. I shiver like I am cold, even though I’m hot in my lust. I come now, a second time, dizzy again, and shuddering.
Jameson groans, his balls ever-suckled by my lips. His cock, resting across my face, twitches, then releases, his white juice oozing in cascades across my nose and cheeks, dripping back to my ear and into my hair.
Chaz tenses, thrusts deep into my pussy, and catches his breath. There he ejaculates his semen, coating my vagina with his seed.
I turn from Jameson to my other side. Gonzales is standing there, his cock primed and ready for me. I take him in my mouth, a slow such at first, then faster.
Richard steps between my legs.
Jameson fondles my breasts. Chaz, done, sits at the side of the bed and strokes my legs.
I come again, this one softer and more tingly.
It’s a slower rhythm now, a metronome winding down, the explosions less frantic, now inevitable.
Gonzales jerks and groans, his cock bursting forth with shooting streams of cum across my lips into my mouth, along my tongue, and onto my face.
Richard finishes the symphony, the fourth movement erupting just as his cock has fallen out of me. He ejaculates onto my pussy and thighs, a final fanfare.
There is an “after meeting.”
The men leave me on the bed. I am, as usual, exhausted, and fall asleep for a few minutes. They clean themselves up, and get dressed, re-assembling in the conversation area of leather chairs and couches with one last drink and cigar.
I rouse, coated in cum, knowing this is what they wish to see. So striped and splashed, I stand, still in my high heels, finding my legs, a bit wobbly, under me. In a moment I walk, naked, over to the men sitting in the conversation pit, drinking and smoking.
“You guys,” I say, “sure know how to paint a girl.”
They laugh and make jokes that would be offensive but for the fact that they are true.
Richard, ever the gentleman, offers to fetch me a drink. “White wine,” he asks. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Jameson invites me to sit down.
“I’m a mess,” I say.
“You’re beautiful.”
“I’ll ruin the chair.”
“The leather can handle it,” he says.
“The leather will be grateful,” Chaz joked.
I grinned, shook my head at him, finally sitting down, my legs together and angled, as if now is the time to adopt propriety.
They talk and drink. I fall silent, content to be the image of their handiwork. They look at me for time to time, framing me in their memories, pictures to be recalled during this next month until we meet again.
There is a lull in the conversation. It is time for me to clean myself up, for the evening to end.
I stand and walk to each man’s chair. I extend my hand and whisper to him, personal thoughts and feelings and thank you’s. Richard, of course, lifts my hand to his lips for a kiss. I come to Gonzales, and say, “It was a pleasure to meet you. You were wonderful.” He nods and tells me I am amazing.
I walk off to the bathroom.
As they leave, each places hundred-dollar bills on an occasional table near the door to the great room. It’s always hundreds in crisp new bills. This is the group’s fee, which they just voted to increase.
No one calls it a payment.
Naked and drip-drying in man-cum, I roll my case behind me to put myself back together. There is no shower, so I do my best to clean myself at the sink. It’s in my hair, though, and I rinse my hair in the sink, brushing it out, and blowing a hair dryer at it till it’s just damp not dripping.
Even so, the men’s cum has found secret places and some public ones I will overlook, and I know my sin is marking me.
I make this quick, slipping into a pair of jeans and a tunic top. I have more to do tonight.
I return to the Great Room. The men have left. I collect my things packing them in my rollaboard, then stop at the occasional table.
I reach into the jar and take the wads of hundred-dollar bills, left for me, stuffing it all in an envelope.
I tell myself I would do this anyway.
It’s just once a month.
It’s complicated.
slave shae 