Malignity of Stone Ch. 07

The first thing that struck me about the place was how utterly ordinary my presence was.

I was dressed like... well, like the sexed-up parody of a waitress, in glossy black nylons and high heels, with a frilly skirt calling attention to my thighs, and a blouse purposefully tightened to emphasise my tits. I felt like a clown on stilts, and a neon light for male sexual interest.

But when I entered the club on Nicks' arm, nobody turned to look at me.

I soon realized why, and it made me shiver.

The only people sitting in this place were men. Reclined in leather chairs and on sofas, puffing on fat cigars, downing shots of expensive liquor, and conversing with one another over the most varied topics.

The place was full of women, but none of them seemed to have right to use the armchairs.

They were all dressed like me. Some carried trays with drinks, others knelt humbly by the sofa, massaging the feet of their male overlords, and others still were on their knees for a different reason. As we passed a secluded alcove protected by wooden panels, I was all too aware of a raven-haired head bobbing up and down, sucking demurely on some occupant who sat behind the panels.

The club's furniture was exquisitely refined. Dark mahogany, quality leather, fancy libraries with leather-bound texts, suffused lighting to give an atmosphere of intimacy. It smelled of man-sweat, leather, alcohol, cigar smoke...

And sex.

Us women, we were part of the furniture. Waitresses and serving girls, deft fingers and waiting mouths.

By the way Nick held his head high as he strolled in, I figured it must be his first entrance with a dolled-up female prey he can show off. But few people noticed us. The adults in the room have clearly seen all this before, and maybe more, so much more...

I was so common here that I basically disappeared. Just another whore, here to serve her betters.

The knowledge that these places existed, right under the nose of the law and public opinion and Me Too, was already terrifying. But the worst part? That I, a lesbian, was to spend an entire afternoon in this place, and would obey men's orders without question.

That finally broke something within me.

It was the moment when I stopped thinking of myself as Cindy first, and started to think of myself as woman in the most generic terms instead. A member of a lesser gender, a piece of human livestock for men to play with as they see fit. What importance did my sexual orientation have, when I was in the power of the patriarchy? They got to decide how my body was used. Not me.

And these weren't regular men, either.

Most people in attendance were fifty or older, and they reminded me of Burns. Stocky or fat, balding, but with the aura of wealth that always surrounds the brazen rich and powerful. A few of the others were just like Nick, 20-year-old bullies and jocks who strutted about with the self-confidence of a young lion, who knows the pride will be his to rule some day.

I could literally smell the winner mentality from here, and wouldn't need to take a guess as to who these men voted for, or what they thought about gender equality.

The fellow women were all young adults like me, women with dreams of a career that were now being squashed in the iron fist of the patriarchy. Would we even be allowed to vote at all?

If Nick forbade me to, would I obey?

He snapped his fingers, breaking me out of my reverie.

"I'm here to discuss business," Nick said. "Grab a tray and make yourself useful."

"Yes Sir," I said, blushing, and headed for the bar.

No words or directions were spoken. None were needed. I was simply given a tray. I began to carry the drinks around, not in any particular direction, just hovering around the tables to allow men to grab any drinks they wished.

I felt even more demeaned than if I had to be a real waitress. Waitressing is hard, it requires real skills, organization, coordination. But what I was doing... a roomba could have done it with equal efficiency. I took no orders, coordinated with no-one, I simply and wordlessly grabbed the tray and walked in circles.

The intellectual and psychological devastation was pressing me into a thin, thin fabric that barely resembled the person I used to be.

Men had crushed me. I would no longer be free. Lesbian or no, I would always be theirs. Nothing could ever undo the fact that I was acting as a slavish waitress to a roomful of the sort of people I used to despise the most on planet Earth.

When at last I got to Nick's table, the tray was taken off my hands by another serving girl. All of a sudden, I was extremely conscious of the hungry stares looking at me from around the table. The men had stopped their game of cards, whatever it was -- they were all old save for Nick, and the one who seemed to command attention at the table put down his cigar, ogling every inch of my body.

"So this is the fine little doe you brought to the club today," the man said, his voice rough from years of smoking. "How about we give her a test ride?"

"You won't be disappointed," Nick said, not even looking in my direction as he casually tossed my consent away like a bone being thrown to the dogs. "She's technically a dyke, but I've been teaching her, and you won't find someone who sucks a better cock."

That sent the table into an uproar of hysterical laughter. The man who'd first spoken slammed his meaty hand on the table, wiping tears from his eyes.

"You made a lesbian into your prim and proper bedwarmer? Well done, lad. You'll have to tell me the whole story one day."

"To be sure," Nick said, nodding. "But the truth is she'd do anything to not be considered an insufferable bitch."

There.

Those were the magic words.

As if by outside intervention, I found myself descending to my knees. Inside me, my mind was screaming at me, telling me to stop, to get out. I'd accepted Burns' oversight over my life, even though he was a man. I'd even accepted being turned into Nick's girlfriend just to have a solid alibi for life.

But now here I was, a lesbian in a room fully devoted to female objectification and male pleasure, sinking submissively to my knees as if on autopilot, and crawling under the big mahogany table like I'm a piece of furniture or a lapdog or some kind of weird fuckpet whose place is out of sight, and...

And before I knew it, cocks were coming at me in all directions, all stiff, prodding, rubbing against my skin.

They were all different sizes and shapes, and Nick's stood out as the only one clearly belonging to a man my own age, but they were all equally gross, slimy, musky... I shivered, goosebumps racing across my skin as I tried to countermand the switch of absolute obedience that had overridden my brain.

I was a lesbian, in a club that might as well be named misogyny central, kneeling under a table, and surrounded by cocks.

This situation was so absurd that I would have laughed, were it not for the tragedy.

My defeated lesbian lips parted submissively around a massive cock as it forcefully entered my mouth. I took two more in my hands, knowing what was expected of me, and let the others rub against my cheek, my ears, my hair, my vulnerable neck.

I began to stroke and suck, making myself into a masturbatory aid for a tableful of men that were marking my skin with their scent, claiming me as their property.

The man I was sucking off grew restless with my gentle ministrations. He started pistoning into my mouth, inching the tip of his dick further down my throat, with no regard to what I was used for. When I coughed and fought down my gag reflex, he seemed to enjoy it.

He battered my mouth with his cock as I knelt there, diminished and stripped of independent personhood, no longer a free woman, but a female sex slave in a men's world. He was prying me open, and every other cock under this table was asserting its superiority over my female status.

I was under sensory assault on all sides, with dicks literally flying at me in every direction, slapping me, rubbing against me, leaving trails of precum everywhere. It was too much. I was crumbling. I would surrender. I would give up my lesbianism in their honor, do everything they wanted, let them remodel me however they saw fit.

My squelching throat sounded more and more like a surrogate pussy for the men to use at their leisure.

"That's it," the old man said above me. I blushed. Instinctively, I went for the cock of the man I identified as an alpha at this table. "That's the one proper use for dykes if you ask me."

"She's good, isn't she?" Nick asked.

"Very," the man responded. "You're training her well."

"Perhaps we should show her the basement," another man said at the table.

"Haha, you must really like this one then!" Another interjected.

"Or really dislike her."

That sent shivers of cold dread down my spine. If this was the public face of the club, what would be awaiting me in the basement?

"Are you sure she's ready?" Nick asked. "I haven't seen that side of the club often, but..."

"Trust me," the boss said. "It's as wild as the stories would have you believe... but there's no better, or faster way to break in a filly like this one."

"Alright sir," Nick said. "The basement it is."

And with that, with my future so casually decided, the first ropes of cock started landing atop my exposed skin, while the huge dick in my throat twitched and then released, and released, and released.

I took load after load like the cum dumpster I'd now become, and swallowed all I could.

And judging from the words of my new male conquerors, later this evening there would be many more to come...