So: your boyfriend who has family connections to your MBA supervisor invites you to an anonymous orgy. You want to go, because you like to fuck, so much that you agree, despite the fact that you will know probably half of the people there. But you try on the expensive mask he had made which really does cover your face well, a tight fitting cap of blood-red leather that extends to the base of your nose and conceals your hair. You look, in the mask and nothing else, totally gorgeous, a fact he tells you continually as he fucks you from behind, watching himself in the mirror over your shoulder. He is not wrong, and thinking of all the other men who will fuck this gorgeous masked woman, you come, shaking so hard he pulls out, thinking he’s hurt you somehow.
Idiot, you think again.
Yet you go to the party. The orgy. You wear the mask and a garter belt and stockings and heels and a long coat and nothing else. He has waxed not just his pubes but his chest, striding about in leather pants with a tear-away crotch. You spend very little time together, because the pants make you laugh, and as a designated sub that’s the kind of disrespect that earns you a shift in the stocks.
You like getting spanked. You do not like humiliation, being hung out for anyone to torment. Too many of the older men who dominate this scene fall back on that trope, one more reason why you are sitting alone in the back corner of the mansion’s front parlor, wondering if it’s possible to ghost on an orgy.
“Is this seat taken?” Before you answer the man sits down anyway on the other end of the little couch. “I just gotta relax for a bit.” He flops back, breathing hard, his half-hard cock laying against his thigh.
You check him out, because it’s that kind of party. A black beaked mask, Dread Pirate Roberts with a hint of Plague Doctor. The fit body of a dedicated college athlete keeping his shit together. No gray hair in the pubes. Who is he?
“Is the master enjoying his evening?”
“Don’t do that master stuff. You can just talk to me. And I don’t know. Yes and no. I’m thinking about going home.”
Ask me. You blush, because no matter how many dicks your boyfriend lets you have here and now, he will not lend his subs. He has told you so himself, because so many in his clique have asked to fuck you. Asked him, not you.
“Me too,” you say. The plague pirate turns to look directly at you, and you shiver, because the mask is only half of his menace, the rest in his dark eyes that seem to swallow you.
“I want your number,” he says.
“Okay. How—”
“I’ll remember it. And if I don’t, it’s my fault, right?”
“Okay.” You tell him your number. He says it back to you. “You got it.”
“Does your boyfriend, sorry, master, read your messages?”
“God, no.”
“Good.” He stands up and stretches. Like the slut you are, you stare at his erection.
“Are you leaving?” you ask.
“Yep.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to—”
He turns to you, and you shiver again under his dark gaze. “Not here. I want you paying attention.”
“Oh.”
He winks and walks away. His ass is amazing.
“Who was that?” your boyfriend asks as he approaches.
“I don’t know.”
“What did he want?” He is fiddling with his detachable crotch again. You do not love him. Now you know that you do not like him either.
“Nothing.”
“Really?”
“I’m getting one of those headaches. Do you have any idea where my coat is?”
(2020)
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