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“Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.”
― Mae West
Tina
“We’re going to explore your deepest fantasies,” Max says, after we packed a change of clothes and headed for André’s private club in Las Vegas. We’re on the highway now, so he brings up the subject.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this, Max. You have the whole possessive thing going on. Cavemen don’t like the idea of sharing,” I tease, but his jaw is clenched too tightly to smile.
“André is different.”
“He sure is. But have you really agreed to have other Doms there?”
“I did. They’ll be discussing you and what they’d like to do with you.”
“Wow.” Shivers of excitement and nerves run through me. Fantasizing is a harmless indulgence, but when it comes down to it, I’m not sure I should take the risk. I don’t want anything to screw up Max and my relationship.
What a concept, though. Numerous men with hard-ons watching me, spellbound by my body as two other men fuck me. The spectators turned on. Talking dirty. Lusting after me while stroking themselves. Clapping and excitedly calling out as I climax.
The idea arouses, fascinates... and frankly, it also scares me. Fear gets the adrenaline going, and often kinky fantasies don’t live up to expectations. Imagination is sometimes better than reality.
Sensing my doubts, or maybe just being hopeful, he asks, “Do you want the other men around, or do you want to just stick with me and André?”
A threesome with André is more than enough, but dammit, if I’m going there, why not go all the way? I say, “If you really think can deal with it, I want the full fantasy. Exhibitionism, objectification, and two men. It’s my chance to scratch an itch I’ve always wanted to scratch.” Grinning, I add in a teasing tone, “I’ll be safe with you guys while I get my freak on.”
Max doesn’t smile. “We’ll see how the scene goes.” Hesitating, he grits his teeth. “Don’t worry, I’ll check with you often. I may agree to let some of them touch you if you want that, but there’s no way I’ll let anyone else except André fuck you.”
“You and André.”
“Of course.” He nods. “It’s a threesome.”
“Good, André’s perfect. I don’t want to be intimate with anyone else. Seriously. Not unless you want to, and you direct every action. That way, by extension, it’s like you’re doing the fucking. From what I understand, that’s how other Dom’s do multiples when they share their subs.”
His expression severe, he nods.
I stare at him then, stunned by what he’s agreed to do. I’m so excited, but Max? Well, Max isn’t. On display during a threesome is my kink, not his. Yet Max told me he would do anything for me. Today’s present is proof.
“I can’t believe you’re OK with this.”
“I’m not OK,” he admits, “but I will be.” Managing a somewhat wooden smile, he adds, “I love you. Even though you like men lusting after you like a bitch in heat, you’re the only woman for me.”
“Sorry! It’s my crazy fantasy, but who knows? You might like that others want me. Maybe it’s a primal thing, great big male animal that you are,” I tease.
“I doubt it.” Max shakes his head, but his lips quirk into a small smile.
“I’m yours. No one will touch me unless I want it, and you allow it.”
“You got that right.”
~~~
Now here I am with two of André’s club submissives being prepared to experience a lifelong fantasy. I’m in my birthday suit on my birthday, which seems appropriate for the occasion. They’re wearing slightly more than what I am, which is to say nothing except thongs. I can barely see the tiny scrap of material that “covers” their sex.
“This centerpiece looks amazing,” a tall, pixie-faced sub observes, standing between my legs.
“It does, doesn’t it?” The other girl giggles as she arranges my hair across the glass like a fan, making it fall just right. “Those lucky Dom’s are in for a treat.”
Completely naked, I’m lying on a see-through table like a human buffet. I still can’t tell if it’s made of glass or Perspex. Hip height, I’m at the perfect level for a man’s cock to reach my pussy, mouth, or anus. The table follows my womanly contours like a chalk outline. Nothing to do with murder, though. It’s about being fucked to death.
Other than three see-through stools, there’s no other furniture. Just me in the center of the room, looking like I’m floating in the air. I’m on display as the main attraction, the crème de la crème.
Exhibitionism! My secret desire. I want to be watched!
My heart pounds, shivers run down my spine, and goose bumps rise on my chest and forearms, but not because I’m cold. The temperature is comfortable. It’s embarrassment, excitement, and anticipation that cause this reaction.
The play area is totally free of trappings except for red mood lighting with soft yellow spotlights shining on my breasts and between my legs. The room isn’t large, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. Nearly the entire surface of three of the walls are full length mirrors. Two-way mirrors, of course, giving space for spectators to move to wherever the action is. As these two gorgeous submissives prepare my body, I’m certain Max and André have front row seats. I bet they’re talking about me, discussing what they intend to do.
I wish I could hear what they’re saying.
An uncomfortable and alarming idea strikes me as I remember my erotic daydreams. Are just Max and André watching? After discussing it with Max, somehow, I doubt it. For all I know, there could be fifty men pressing against those mirrors, salivating over my body. All of them hoping to get their cocks in one or more of my holes.
I suck in my stomach, and thrust out my tits, surreptitiously putting on an erotic show.
My core pulses and a gush of liquid drips from my pussy. God, I’m shameless, but being the entertainment does it for me. I even get hot at the idea of someone secretly videotaping Max and André using my willing body and fucking me senseless. Tempting a shitload of horny men with hot, rock-hard cocks.
It’s interesting how these submissives conduct themselves. I’ve been degraded to the status of an inanimate thing—yet a highly valuable thing. Hell, I’m the focus on this non-table table.
Objectified. Displayed. I’m a decoration or a conversation piece. Something interesting to look at. I was born to be used for a man’s pleasure. An object that only matters because I have empty holes to fill. Gaps available, explicitly meant for milking cocks.
Not a Dom in sight, but already I feel desperate, needy, and helpless. With my sexually submissive nature, being an inanimate work of art comes naturally to me. Already overcome by a wholly subservient state of mind, I’m more than ready for my secret fantasy.
Burning with need, I lick my lips.
Modeling was the perfect job for someone like me. Being watched, having my body admired and lusted after has always been my thing. Making a man hard is empowering, but it goes hand in hand with being submissive. It’s elemental, an essential part of my nature. I crave being a fuck toy and a receptacle for cum.
In the real world, I firmly believe that treating men or women as a sexual object instead of a person is degrading, rude, and disrespectful. Is it the social taboo that does it for me? Heady spikes of arousal get my nipples and sex throbbing. Here I am, waiting to be used as a sex toy. Used, used, used. Not for my pleasure, for theirs.
Whew! Why does being naked, flaunted, and objectified turn me on so much? Who knows? Who cares? It just does.
