The Gift

All day you have been anxious.  It was hard to focus on work, knowing there were plans for you tonight, even if you did not know what they were.  You arrive home to find a package at your door with a note from me that simply states “Wear this. 8 p.m.”

Inside the package is a short, shear dress.  It is eggshell white, more of a slave girl tunic from ancient Rome. You slide a hand inside and can see it clearly through the thin fabric.  Also in the box is a pair of small sandals. There are no undergarments, and you are certain it would be a violation to wear anything not in that box.  

Eight o’clock finally arrives as you are pacing in your dress in front of your door. The bell rings and you throw open the door, and find a man standing there in a chauffeur’s outfit.  Before you can speak he raises a finger to his lips to shush you and hands you an envelope.  Inside is another note from me.  It reads “You are on strict silence protocol tonight.  Get in the limousine.”
The driver steps aside to let you out and you see the long stretch limo in the street.  You step outside in your outfit, thankful it is dark because in daylight your dress would be completely transparent.  As it is your nakedness is silhouetted beneath the fabric, and the driver eyes you appreciatively as he opens the limo door.

You ride in silence as the driver heads downtown, finally pulling up to large hotel called Fairmont Place, a five-star hotel that caters to the very affluent.  The doorman opens the car door for you and you exit the limo to find me waiting for you.  I am in a suit and tie, smiling at you as you approach, then I turn and walk through the revolving glass door, with you close behind.  I lead you through the hotel lobby, lit by large chandeliers, and you quickly draw attention from the hotel’s patrons as you cross the room in your scant outfit.  But you carry yourself regally, never looking anywhere but at my back.

We enter an ornate elevator with several other guests.  In the lights of the lift your dress no longer offers any concealment at all, the dark circles of your nipples press against the fabric scandalously and the others on the elevator gasp, but you keep your eyes locked on mine, and I smile back at you as we ascend.  The others all get off on their floors, and we are alone when we finally reach the roof.

We step out of the lift into a luxurious patio and garden.  The rooftop terrace is huge.  There is a large swimming pool to the left, manicured hedges with blooming flowers surround the area which is lit by ten foot tall lights designed to look like gas streetlamps of old London.  Servers scurry back and forth adding the final touches to the many white-clothed tables.  Between two of the streetlamps hangs a large sign that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY in large, ornate, silver lettering.
Between the eating area and the pool is a wide pedestal.  About two feet high and perhaps six feet square, it sits almost in the center of the terrace.  I lead you toward it.  As we approach you can see that it has thin padding to give it some cushion. In the center there is a thin silver circlet attached to a chain that is secured to one side of the pedestal.

As we reach the pedestal I turn to look at you, taking your hands in mine.

“As you can see, tonight is a very big night,” I tell you.  “Soon, this place will be filled with many influential people. And you are the entertainment.”

I step around behind you and run my fingers through your hair, then grip it and pull your head back.

“I expect you to please all who wish to it. Follow your training. You will not know which of these people you are here for, so I expect you to give them all your upmost enthusiasm. Am I understood?”

You nod your head in reply and I indicate you should get on the pedestal. You move to the center, and drop to your knees, hands resting on your knees, palms up and looking ahead.  I pick up the silver metal collar and fasten it around your neck.  Next, I reach into my vest pocket and pull out a length of material the same color and fabric as your dress.  This I tie around your head as a blindfold.  The fabric is so shear it does not block your vision, but it does obscure the surreal scene into basic shapes and colors.  

A few minutes later the guests begin to arrive. You cannot make out faces, but you can tell suits from ball gowns so know male from female. Waiters carry around trays of drinks as the guests hob knob about all sorts of inane subjects. All take a moment to come by and look at you, a sensual piece of art, at least for now.  The summer breeze keeps blowing your dress just enough that the friction makes your nipples harden and ache pleasantly.

A woman in a red gown approaches and walks around you, admiring you. You keep your eyes locked straight ahead and don’t move. Finally, she reaches forward and runs a long red fingernail gently down your neck, down the side of your breast, trailing away at your hip.  Then she speaks.
“Oh, my. You have really out done yourself this time. She is absolutely stunning,” she says.

You hear me reply, from somewhere close behind you. “Thank you. She has been training very hard for this night, though she did not know it at the time.  I think our guest of honor will find this a night to remember.”

For about forty-five minutes the guests chat and drink, with you holding perfectly still all the while. Finally, they move to the tables and eat, and you listen to clinking of glasses and pieces of conversation as you concentrate on remaining still.

When the dinner ends and the guests begin to mill about again you begin to grow anxious. You know the moment is coming.  Finally, you hear someone say, “Let’s open the present!” and with a murmur of agreement a crowd surrounds you.  
The lady in the red gown, at least you think it is the same woman from before, says, “That dress simply has to go!”
She comes forward, produces a small pair of safety shears, and grabbing your dress at your collar bone she quickly runs it down your front, cutting the dress free.  You kneel there, naked, as the crowd voices its appreciation. Hands reach out to stroke your hair, your skin, and your breasts as they take you in.

A man steps forward, saying, “Such a pretty thing.  Let’s start things off, shall we?”

He grabs you at the waist and turns you around.  Following your training you drop your face to the mat, you r backside raised for his easy access.  He runs a finger between your lips and finds you wet and ready.  You hear the sound of a zipper, and feel the vibration as he gets on the pedestal with you.  His hands grab your hips firmly. He brings his cock in contact with you, holding there a moment, and you bite your lip, waiting to be taken by this stranger.  He enters you slowly, and then finds a rhythm as he slides in and out of you.  Your training takes over and you begin to push back against him, adjusting height and angle for the maximum connection, squeezing him with well practiced muscles.  This is what you do. And you are very good.  He moans and his thrusts quicken.  The woman in the red dress crawls on to the pedestal in front of you.

“I just have to have you my dear,” she purrs as she sits before you, legs spread and scoots toward you.  She pulls up the hem of her dress, revealing her lack of panties and grabbing your hair she pulls your face toward her. You lean down to her, finding her pussy with your lips and kissing her, then tasting her, then working enthusiastically to please her.  She leans back on one elbow, still sipping her champagne in her other hand as she learns that this too is a skill at which you are expert.

The man inside you finally moans and thrusts as deep as he can as his orgasm takes him, before collapsing his weight on your back. You can feel his panting breath on your shoulders as you continue to please Ms. Red Dress, who starts to cum herself as he withdraws from you. You feel another pair of hands on your backside and you feel a tongue on you, gently exploring you before retreating and being replaced by another cock.

Things become a blur. You are moved from position to position.  You eagerly please any body part that comes near your hands or mouth, and there are many.  Several more men have their way with you, and any could be the guest of honor, so you work hard give them all the best they ever had.  Finally, the last of them is inside you.  You are on your back as he thrusts madly, hands on your breasts, which he squeezes tightly as he reaches his climax, holding himself deep inside you as he spends himself, before pulling away.

You collapse like that, arms splayed, hair a mess, wet with sweat and slick from sex in the warm night air.  You work to catch your breath, your skin hums, your pussy throbs and you long for your own release, but alas, you are here to please the others, not the other way round.

Suddenly you feel a hand on your inner thigh. It slides upwards till it finds your wet and swollen pussy, vibrating with frustration and need.  You look and can tell it is a man in a suit.  His fingers stroke you gently, and then probe your well used pussy, first one, then two fingers inside you.  He begins to work his fingers inside you, his thumb matching the motion on the outside, rubbing your clitoris.

Your orgasm begins to build. You need this. It feels so good with him inside you. Your hips rise from the matt as you thrust yourself against his hand. Like a wanton harlot you grind against that hand, clamping down on those fingers and trying to increase the friction on your clit until finally your orgasm is unstoppable, irreversible and mighty.  You moan loudly as all of the muscles in your body spasm around his hand, tears roll down your cheeks, your hair sticking to your face in their tracks.

You lay there, shuttering, your thighs clasped together on his arm.  You look at him, and he reaches forward and pulls the blindfold from your eyes.  You blink and look and see me, my arm still trapped between your legs.  I reach down with my other hand and take you behind the head and pull you to me and I kiss you deeply.

Then I move my lips to your ear and whisper…

“Happy birthday, baby.”