tagNovels and NovellasVirtual Slavery Ch. 15

Virtual Slavery Ch. 15

bywltedford©

15

Brad

Of course I did not do as she asked. Not immediately anyway. I gave a dinner party in her honor instead. Actually two.

The first was held at my Manhattan apartment.

I told Lynn that it would be formal, so she should dress accordingly, except of course that she was to be naked beneath her dress. I also told her that the guest list would include several people of sufficient celebrity that she would know them, though not personally. In any event the dinner was, I said, simply a way of reciprocating previous invitations.

The table seats twenty.

Looking like the Goodyear blimp in a tuxedo, I was at the head of the table. Looking as pure as Botticelli's Venus Rising From the Sea, wearing a peach colored silk Versace sheath, which left her lovely shoulders bare, Lynn sat at the other end.

On her immediate left was a National Book Award winning female novelist; to her right was one of the better known major network Washington correspondents, who had let a rival cover a Presidential visit to the Middle East rather than miss one of my dinners.

Other guests included the ambassador to the United Nations from an important European nation; two movie directors; several members, both male and female, of families which have had money long enough to qualify as 'old' by New York standards; this year's sensation at the Metropolitan Opera (female); and a recently elected member of the NBA Hall of Fame. All the others were equally accomplished in their own fields, but did not share public fame. Obviously I cannot identify any of them more specifically.

Only with difficulty had I resisted the persistent entreaties of various society reporters to cover the event once the guest list leaked out.

Bernard, my chef, exceeded even his usual incomparable standard,

and the meal--from the caviar through the medallion of pheasant heart sauteed over a nest of Balinese lemon grass--was exquisite, if I say so myself. I do, but so did the guests.

The conversation was a rare blend of intelligence and wit as fine as the wines.

Although we were too far apart to speak together, from time to time, Lynn's eyes met mine. She seemed to be enjoying herself exceedingly.

A slight lull came over the table as the servants--I never use that odious neologism 'servers'--cleared away the last dishes.

My comment, "I trust that all of you are ready for dessert," received a murmur of general and eager agreement.

Raising my hand toward her in what I hoped was a gallant gesture, I said, "Perhaps, Lynn, you will be so kind as to come here to assist me."

A quizzical look crossed her face, but when the other guests began to applaud lightly, someone actually uttering "Here. Here." and the Washington correspondent leapt to his feet to pull back her chair, she rose and walked majestically toward me.

For a moment she stood at my side. I let her become aware of all eyes on her, before I gestured for her to lower her head. Smiling uncertainly, she bent. When her ear was at the level of my mouth, I whispered, "You are dessert. Crawl under the table and give everyone head. Start with Elaine," the 'old money' seated to my right, "and end with me. After all, guests should be served first."

Straightening she looked at me as though I had gone insane, but when she glanced around the table she realized that I was serious and her body gave a single involuntary shudder. She steadied herself, her face blank after a fleeting rictus, pulled the tight sheath high enough to knell, and disappeared beneath the tablecloth.

I pressed a buzzer.

The servants entered with bottles of one hundred year old port, calvados, champagne, cognac, and various liquors, as well as cheese and fruit, which we sampled as the wave of orgasm slowly circumnavigated the table.

Although we had all done this before, it is always entertaining to observe how various people take their pleasure. Though most tried to be silent and seem indifferent, a few, mostly men but one woman, the famous novelist, let themselves go, leaned back and screamed as the hidden mouth caressed them. At the other extreme, two of us gave no sign whatsoever--one of the movie directors being the one in addition to myself--and came without a twitch while continuing uninterrupted conversations. Years of practice.

I think she wanted to hide after completing the circuit. Simply to remain beneath the table until everyone had gone. But I was not having that. I wanted her to face them, now not as an equal, but with the come splattered face of a slave reduced to a mere instrument of their pleasure.

Groping beneath the cloth until I felt her hair, I pulled her out and to her feet, standing myself and folding her arm in mine.

Her makeup was in ruins, lipstick replaced by smears of male semen and female ejaculation. Drops of come clung to her hair and hung suspended from her chin.

Acting as though everything was quite normal, I said, "Let us see our guests to the door, dear, and thank them all for coming."

The second party took place a few weeks later in California and was quite different. The guests were mostly Hollywood. The dress was casual. Lynn was staying at my estate between business meetings. I told her to be bathed and have on her makeup an hour before the guests were to arrive, at which point I would provide her with her attire for the evening.

I was reclining beside the pool, wearing a garish Hawaiian print shirt and linen slacks and Gucci loafers, when she came out to me naked. I was impressed by how naturally she now took her nudity. She moved beautifully, proudly, her broad shoulders back, her full breasts thrust up and forward, accentuating the narrowness of her waist and the lushness of her hips. "A few other women might be your equal," I said, "though off hand I do not know any, but no one could be more beautiful. It simply is not possible."

She seemed pleased to please me and smiled. "What are you reading," she asked, glancing at the book I had set aside at her approach.

"A biography of Timur Lenk, known to the West as Tamerlane or Tamburlaine, 1336-1405. By whatever name one of the greatest conquerors the world has known, and inadvertently responsible for your costume this evening. Sit down, while I call Jefferson."

She sat on a recliner beneath an adjacent sun umbrella and I pretended to resume reading, until a rattling of chains announced Jefferson's arrival.

"Ah, very good, " I said. "Will you put them on her, Jefferson."

"Glad too."

She sat quietly while he locked solid steel cuffs, padded on the inside with leather inserts to avoid chaff, to each ankle and each wrist; then locked a length of chain sufficient to permit walking between her ankles and another sufficient to permit use of her hands and arms between her wrists. A three inch wide steel collar was locked around her neck.

All she said was, "They're heavy."

"They're meant to be," I replied.

"Is this all?" she asked.

"Yes."

She simply nodded.

I was secretly impressed.

"There is one thing more."

She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You will not be attending the dinner. You will be serving it."

I waited until all the guests had arrived and were seated before I had her come out. Even to this blase and jaded group, her beauty was exceptional. And in chains literally breathtaking. I heard a collective intake when she appeared.

Standing, I addressed the table, though all eyes flickered back and forth between where Lynn stood, her eyes fixed on the far wall, and me. "As I was telling our beautiful slave girl, I am reading a biography of Tamerlane, who generally gave his opponents the opportunity to surrender. If they did so, they were well treated. But those who persisted in opposing him were treated with extreme cruelty after their inevitable defeat. A few days ago I came across a passage about a captured king who was kept locked in a small cage which Tamerlane used as a footstool while the king's naked wife served meals to him and his guests.

"Hold out your hands, Lynn."

Chains clanked as she did.

"You will notice that the lady is married. Although we don't have her husband to use as a footstool--at least not yet--I don't think any of you will be disappointed to be served by his naked wife.

"You may began," I told her.

All eyes forgot about me as she turned and walked, slowly because of the chains, her buttocks moving rhythmically, back to Maria.

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