The party was a bit bigger than she’d anticipated.  She walked among them barefoot, her simple shrift hugging her curves and clinging to her.  It was one thing to ban the bra, a sentiment with which she was in full accord, but the … dress for lack of a better word, was almost worse than being naked.  Maybe not.  She’d know soon enough.

She was forbidden to wear anything other than the thin dress.  No underwear, no shoes, no jewelry.  She was to be an elegant hostess and to be sure that each guest was served and no glass was ever empty.  The rest of her instructions were much more frightening.

People they’d known for years, people they’d only recently met all pooled around the living room, some remarking on the oddity of a bed in the middle of the room.  Still, it was an era to challenge preconceived ideas, flower children were all gone and polyester rose in their stead.  Yuppies and disco music and furniture made of plastic and walls painted in orderly pastels dominated even the stogy pages of the Sears catalogue, so a bed in the living room was a statement, a bold choice and her guests congratulated each other on having the good taste to recognize it for what it was.

They were wrong, of course.

She was forbidden to tell anyone her orders.  She was allowed to chicken out, he was her Master, not her Monster, but she was determined to rise above her fears and push that envelope.

Besides, looking at their faces, she just kept getting wetter.  The fear was fueling her arousal.  He knew it would too, damn him.

Every time the next record fell onto the turntable, her heart lurched.  Elton John sang about Benny and Jets and she filled up three glasses with scotch, neat.  Paul McCartney warbled about a band escaping prison and she refilled a snack tray assuring one of her friends that yes it was strange to see a Beatle by himself.

When the commodores sang about a brick house, it was her time.  Her heart stopped,  her mouth went dry.  It was her time.  She looked across the bar to her Master.  He stood quietly, someone she didn’t know still yammering away at him as he caught her eye.  He dared her to call her safe word.  The challenge was in the set of his face, the angle of his head.  It was the challenge she needed.

She thought again of the guests that wandered in and out of the house on a warm summer night: artists, poets, thinkers and dreamers all.  She looked back at her Master and smiled a deep, defiant smile and locking her eyes on his, not looking at anyone else, her hand slipped of its own accord to the tie at her neck.  With a gesture, the tie parted and the thin dress pooled to the ground at her feet.

A gasp, a few others, but she only picked the dress up off the floor and folded it neatly before walking naked through the stunned crowd and handing it to her Master.  The look she gave him was one of triumph.

He smiled at her and lay a single dollar bill on the bar. He’d bet against her.  He’d bet she would call her safe word, that she wouldn’t get this far.  He’d bet a dollar.

He’d also bet against her following the next queue.  That was ten dollars.

She took up a tray and walked among the guests.  Yes, the clinging dress was worse that nothing.  Naked, she felt the warm air caress her skin, felt the eyes of her guests following the breeze.  The men who had surreptitiously stolen glances at her hard nipples through the fabric now openly gawked as she moved among them with the tray, making sure no glass was empty.

Sometimes as she walked around the bed, a hand would brush against her, the back of the hand at first, then fingertips, soon her ass was palmed and her sex was probed tenuously, like so many little boys that are just sure what they are doing will get them scolded.  The same people that praised each other for having taste enough to put a bed in a living room, now applauded each other for being enlightened enough to have a naked hostess.

She allowed herself to stand still a moment, after having made her rounds.  She was indeed the center of attraction.  All the men and most of the women now touched her as she went by.  They openly cupped her breasts, a few suckled her nipples, mostly women, and more than a few parted her soft folds and played as they desired with her sex.  Fingers slid in and out of her, her wetness was consumed along with the alcohol – a chaser to the rum.

They slipped into her and pulled out  glistening fingers. They l drank vodka and whisky while they slipped back inside her.

She was on the edge of orgasm in no time, but this was forbidden.  She pulled away when the edge was too close and went to the next groping.

Of the gathering of their friends, none left.  None were offended. None left without touching, caressing, arousing her.

Her knees grew weaker.  Her breath came in gasps, almost sobbing with the need to finish the soft torture her friends had begun.  When the second queue came she was too relieved to be self-conscious.

Mac Davis stated in no uncertain terms that she was “One Hell of a Woman” and she nearly ran to the bed in the middle of the room.

She flung herself on the mattress and spread her legs wide.  She thrust two fingers in her slit and pressed them to last knuckle.  She pulled back out, her free hand grasping at a breast, her legs twitching with need and pressure built from agonizing hours of being groped.


Unknown Origin

Her hips lifted and fell, lifted and fell, waiting another agonizing era for permission to finish.  The guests gathered around her, watching, the men straining at corduroy crotches and women radiating sex like waves of heat.

She waited for her Master, but no permission came.  It was too close, too hard, too much need. She called out “MASTER, PLEASE!”

Her edge was painful, consuming, but the crowd felt her need, knew her desire, they felt it too and they rode the wave with her, some touching themselves, some touching each other.  They looked from her to her Master and back again, begging him to release her, to release them all. They begged him to make her last just another moment longer.  Just another moment.  And one more.

“COME” her master ordered and she screamed.

Her cry rose from the mattress like triumph and primal release.  It gathered their need, it took them in a grip of iron and steel and made them feel her orgasm, made them feel the lightning running through her body, made them know what it was like to masterbate in front of a crowd .

Someone groaned.  Another whimpered.  Some dissipated into the background to explore each other.  Some applauded.

She lay there replete, legs spread, wet sex puckering and opening.

She smiled when her master placed $11.00 on her breast and kisses her tenderly.

“Double or nothing?” he whispered.

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