ass as I fucked harder. I was holding off when I saw Steve grab Paula's head. His ass tensed and I saw him shooting into her mouth. Paula was in the middle of another orgasm as Steve held tight on her head. She had no choice but to swallow and Steve must have saved up as I saw her throat as she swallowed five times before Steve pulled out. Paula had sucked his cock dry and it hung there, limp, two inches long. Steve leaned down and sucked on her tit, rubbed her pussy, as Dee quit moving and just went limp. I laid there, my cock still deep in her cunt.
Paula cried, "God dammit Steve. You told me you wouldn't do that. You promised you wouldn't cum in my mouth." As I pulled my cock out, she turned toward me, sobbing as she nestled her head in my chest. She was crying as I motioned for Steve to get going. He had a big smile on his face as he pulled his shorts up.
Paula was inconsolable as I stroked her hair. I put her on her back and rubbed her head, trying to calm her. I talked softly to her, playing with her tits, rubbing her pussy. I looked down. She was asleep. Her orgasms had worn her out.
I lay back, was just about asleep when I heard another noise. I closed my eyes, my cock was rock hard because I didn't cum when fucking Paula.
I heard a gasp!!
Fucking Slut - I Love You
"Darling."
"Hm?"
"Look."
You glance up see me standing in front of the couch, my arm outstretched. Your eyes widen and your lips part as your eyes focus on the circular metal collar I am dangling from my outstretched hand. "Tonight?"
"Tonight." I nod and sway the collar from side to side. "I got the call a few days ago and didn't want to tell you until I was sure."
Your eyes follow the collar, back and forth, and a radiant smile spreads across your face. You finally look up at me. "I need to take a shower, I need to...wash my hair, and what clothes am I gonna wear? Like, what's even allowed? I have to—"
"Shh." I flash a grin and crawl on top of you. "You'll make all the preparations you need to and I know you will look great, you always do."
You throw your arms around me as we settle into each other in our familiar way. "Somehow," you muse, "I don't think I could wear any clothing that would actually matter for tonight."
"Yeah." I pull you close to me and murmur into your lips. "They are pretty inconsequential, aren't they?" "Can I wear it?"
I pull back and my heart jumps at the excited gleam in your eyes. "Yes, you can, if you're ready to keep it on."
You kiss me deeply and breathe a yes into my lips. I sit us up and hold the collar between us.
It is a finely crafted piece of silver, carefully polished and embossed with the symbols of the organization that commissioned its existence. The largest two are the letters P and S, delicately engraved on opposite sides of the circle. In between those is a hinge, and opposite the hinge is a clasp with a plastic joining piece, keeping the collar from being closed. Below the S is a metal ring.
I pull off the plastic piece and look you in the eyes. Silently, I reach over and clasp the silver collar around your neck. You blink as the lock clicks into place.
Neither of us have the key.
Later
The city glitters beneath us, becoming more and more distant as the elevator rises. Faintly, I can see your reflection in the glass. You're wearing a simple, yet elegant pencil dress that highlights your curves, coupled with heels. Your makeup, as far as I can tell, is subtle but beautifully done, with a little more emphasis on your eyes. Your hair is done in a bun, and you are the most beautiful woman I've ever known.
I can't tell if you're nervous. The dreamy expression on your face belies nothing about what's going through your head. I reach over and squeeze your hand. "Hey."
You look at me. "Hey."
"Ready?"
You smile and squeeze my hand. "Ready."
The elevator slows to a stop and the doors open. I squeeze your hand a final time, and lead you into the Penthouse. We are greeted by a large set of oak double doors and a tall, well-kept man in a suit behind a podium. Before either of us could say anything, he addressed us.
"Welcome to the Penthouse. Do you have a reservation?" I could feel him giving me a once-over. His eyes landed on your collar, and he nodded as if it were all the response he needed. "One moment while I confirm your reservation details." Both of us smile nervously as he types something into his computer.
Finally, he looks up at us again. "May I store your electronic devices?" I hand over my cell phone; we hadn't bothered to bring yours. He takes it, attaches a small sticky note to it, and locks it in a cabinet under his podium. After this, he turns to face us again.
"Everything is in order. Please, come in." He smiled and stepped to the double doors, gesturing us to follow. We walk into a hallway with red carpet and soft yellow light from lamps mounted on the walls.
At the end of the hallway is a large, Victorian-style room, centered with a semicircular, ornate dining table. Other guests are already here, lounging on sofas and talking. You and I can only take this in for a moment before you are approached by an individual dressed in all black, with the word "Handler" stitched in silver on the lapel of their collar.
"Miss? Are you ready?"
I look at you, and your eyes flicker to me for only a moment before you reply, "Yes." The handler wordlessly attaches a cord that seems to be made of golden rope and steel links to the ring in your collar and begins leading you away from the dining room, towards a small door. You look back at me once, just as your hand is pulled from mine.
I can only admire the curve of your ass swaying as you are walked to the door at the end of the hall. As you step inside, I can see the handler saying something, and I see you sink to your knees. You place your hands on the floor, and the door closes.
I stand there for a moment, looking at the door, until I am approached by a man I assume to be a host.
"This way, sir." I follow my guide to the area beside the dining table, where other guests, men and women, are mingling. All the people I see are dressed well and they look to range in age from mid-twenties to early fifties. In terms of demographics, it seems to be a fair mix of races and ethnicities. As I look around, I estimate there are less than 20 people.
The general social atmosphere, however, is very different than any other I've ever encountered. The people in the room, presumably strangers, seem very familiar and relaxed with one another as they chat amicably. The pressure to meet any social standards at all is notably absent, and each personality in the room feels genuine.
I
