So I’ve told you about him before, my boyfriend (boyfriend? play partner? master? just him), the big-time rock star, the one I signed a contract for, swearing I won’t tell who he is, but I can walk away from him and his kinky fetishes anytime I want.
I just haven’t wanted to yet. Not hardly.
He’s spanked me backstage, kept me bound with a teasing vibrator between my legs on the tour bus, shared me with his even more inventive wife. But until now, he’s only threatened to share me with the rest of the band.
It’s him I crave, but I’m willing to be shared if he’s the end result. Still, the idea of the whole group is . . . daunting. Little did I know just how much he’d planned.
First, there was the outfit. We had to try it out ahead of time, you see, to make sure it worked properly. He and his wife had a delightful time with the remote controls, seeing how far they could push me before I came, and then how many times they could make me come, watching me the entire time.
The party was a small one, just the band members and the manager and the publicist and various wives and girlfriends. Drinks, hors d’oeuvres. A caterer had prepared everything, but I was to keep the drinks refreshed and the canapes circulated.
Sounds simple, right? Not with what I was wearing . . . and what the party game was tonight.
He and his wife brought me into the living room after everyone had arrived. The murmurs of appreciation at my outfit (and how I looked in it) were nothing compared to the approval in his eyes.
Red leather, all carefully constructed just for me. Tight, low-cut top that zipped up the front, with a bit of stiffening at the tips of the breasts, reminiscent of Madonna’s famed bra. Short flared skirt. White lace collar around my throat, and a scrap of apron around my waist.
“She’ll be serving tonight,” he said. People smiled, laughed. “Well, I was talking about drinks and food, but you’re right about that too,” he went on. And he went on to explain the game.
He held up the evil little controller.
“Her outfit is fitted with a number of vibrators,” he explained. “Very quiet ones. Listen.” He twisted the controls, one at a time, and I quaked, but I knew the rules of the game already and did everything in my power to stand still, despite the delicious torment.
He turned them off. I knew it was going to be a long night.
“One set of vibrators are clamped to her nipples,” he said. “There’s one on her clit, and one vibrating dildo each in her pussy and her ass.” He had me bend over, hands clasped to my ankles and legs spread, so he could flip up my skirt and show them the harnesses.
One of the wives oohed, and everyone laughed.
“Here’s how it works. Throughout the evening, I’ll turn on one of the vibrators. The first person who figures out that one is buzzing, and announces it, gets to guess which one is on. If they guess correctly, they win a prize.”
“What’s the prize?” the drummer asked.
He smiled. “Why, she is, of course. You can do something to her, or have her do something to you. The only rule is that you can’t make her come. She can only come when I say so.”
And so the party started. Even without the vibrators going, I was constantly aroused by the clamps on my tender nipples and the dildos stuffed inside me, sliding against me whenever I moved. I did my best to walk normally, smile pleasantly. I wasn’t unknown—I was a familiar presence backstage—and everyone was friendly.
That is, until he set the vibrator on my clit abuzzing.
I’d thought I was prepared, but he’d waited long enough that I’d let my guard down. I had three drinks on a tray, and the glasses jingled together.
“Now!” shouted the bassist, who tended to be exuberant under any circumstances.
“Good job,” he said. “Now, which one?”
The bassist pursed his lips, staring at me. I stood as still as I could, giving away, I hoped, nothing.
He guessed right anyway, and chose to spank me.
I was positioned over the arm of the sofa, my skirt flipped up. The various straps that kept everything in place crisscrossed around my thighs and waist, leaving my ass exposed.
He used his hand and was granted ten strokes.
Musicians, be they guitarists or keyboardists or drummers, have strong hands. These weren’t light birthday slaps on my flesh, oh no—they were hard, and they fell true.
I hadn’t known how well I responded to spanking until I met him. It had been just playing before that, but with him, I’d learned how the pain could mutate into pleasure. It didn’t help that he didn’t turn off the vibrator while the bassist was heating my ass. By the tenth slap, I was squirming and already on the edge, the dildos slipping inside me as I got wetter.
The buzzing on my clit stopped abruptly, just in time.
I rose shakily, and his murmured “Well done” gave my weak thighs strength.
The bassist tried again fifteen minutes later—damn his alert ears!—when my nipple clamps went off, but he guessed wrong. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
A short while later, the dildo in my ass sent tremors up my spine.
“A vibrator’s going off,” someone said immediately. “The one between those rosy cheeks of hers.”
It was the woman who’d oohed and ahhed at my harness. I’d had a suspicion she was anal, and not in the retentive way. I, on the other hand, had something of a love/hate relationship about anal play. I mentally recoiled from it, but I couldn’t deny how my body responded, no matter how much I wanted to.
He clapped. “And your prize.”
She smiled coyly and stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. He cocked a sardonic brow (you’ve seen that expression in his videos, you know) and turned to speak quietly to his wife. She laughed and nodded, and the other woman took me by the wrist and led me off to one of the bedrooms.
She shimmied out of her jeans and turquoise La Perla thong and stretched across the bed. My role was obvious. I knelt at the edge of the bed, parted her thighs, and breathed in her spicy scent before setting to work with my lips and tongue.
I’d grown to love doing this, although at the same time, it frustrated me beyond belief, because I was usually doing it while being denied my own pleasure. Usually my release was dependent on how well I performed on his wife.
I had no doubt that my skills tonight would determine my reward or punishment.
The entire time I worked on her, coaxing her closer and closer to orgasm, the vibrator purred in my ass, reminding me who really called the shots.
My juices oozed around the leather harness even as her juices flowed, allowing my fingers and, soon, most of my hand inside her. I turned my palm upward, crooking my fingers. I sucked her fat clit into my mouth and hung on as she writhed and clenched and came.
My cunt clenched in empathy around the vibrator there.
After she recovered, she slid on her jeans and thong and fluffed out her hair. Then she surprised me by taking my face in her hands.
The tenderness in her kiss, her lips soft and her tongue pointed as she licked her own juices off my skin, was almost enough to make me come right there.
But I knew better.
It was harder a while later, when the manager and publicist simultaneously made the right guess. He opted for a blow job, while she chose to administer another spanking at the same time.
The game continued on late into the night. Sometimes the guests didn’t notice that one of the insidious vibrators had started humming; other times someone clued in but didn’t guess the right one. But often enough, both criteria were met—after all, they had a 25 percent chance of pegging the right vibrator.
Math was pretty much the only thing keeping me from pitching over the edge by that point. So it was with both fear and trepidation that I put down the drinks tray and came over to him when he called for me. My hands were bound together and then looped over a convenient hook in the ceiling.
The guests formed a circle around me, most crowding in front so they could see my face. He and his wife were right in front of me, of course.
He handed her the remote control.
“Whenever you want,” he said, and I knew he was talking to both of us.
She didn’t let me come right away, oh no. She toyed with me, taunted me. One vibrator at a time, just for a brief moment. All of them, but on the lowest setting. Gradually increasing until I was almost there, then suddenly turned off. On high and immediately decreasing.
I had no doubt it was for the guests’ pleasure and not mine that she finally took pity on my predicament.
Awash in sensation, I didn’t care who watched, who applauded, who heard my cries. I cared only that the agonizing arousal was building inside me, a crimson spark burning behind my eyes until it ignited and flamed and roared, consuming me in its head.
They released me after that, sent me off to peel out of my leather garments, remove and release all of the vibrators, take a long soak in the hot tub.
“You did very well,” he said, his breath ruffling my hair before he sent me away. “I’ll reward you later.”
The night wasn’t over yet. Not hardly.