Mr. Remotely

"Uuhnm." Sarah, sitting one chair down overhearing this, hums, "Interesting. Guess we'll see."

There follows a delicious moment of hesitation as Clay turns his head towards Tom who stands nearby then looks back out at us before,

"Ah, fuhhhhck!" he exhales hard, his features slack as his penis twitches frantically, then bucks again to jump and swing those balls, watching us watch. "Ah, fuck."

The penis doesn't lie; he wants to give us this; gasping and slack jawed as he surveys the eight women who want to see him jerked off by another man.

But Mr. Remotely doesn't move at first. Unlike Clay who gets to come for us, unless he's got bi-sexual leanings, there's nothing in this for Tom but the excitement and titillation of knowing we want to see some (other) man come this way and the pleasure of sexual submission for its own sake. Those can both be potent (again, ask my husband). But if the guy is simply a hard hetero (nothing wrong with that, very serviceable for most uses), well; Houston, we may have a problem.

He's just standing there, hands at his sides, that nice penis pulsing gently with his heartbeat, looking at me like maybe he didn't hear that or wondering am I serious.

'What?' I can't help but taunt him in my head. 'You said, 'you can tell me', didn't you? Would you rather I told you to suck him off?' And what makes me feel even bitchier is I STILL can't read this guy. His expression, that look he's giving me; is he appalled and ready to bail? Challenging me? Too excited to get his bearings? Or is this fucker just hesitating for dramatic effect; soaking up the sexual oxygen to make us hold our breaths and then gasp a little when he submits?

"You heard me. Go on!" I snarl after a moment.

And then, he just does.

He steps forward and drops to one knee beside the other male who responds with another "Fuck" and buck. Tom looks at the penis he's been told to jerk and then back up at us, his eyes scanning the group as if gauging our view of things, shifts slightly closer and then reaches across with one hand and takes that cock and starts working it.

Clay, his feet planted wide, knees slight bent, begins to moan and thrust, bucking hard now and then so his balls come up and slap the heel of Tom's stroking hand and swing the way I told him we'd enjoy. He won't last long; that position creating strain in his thighs and torso, watching us watch as we smile at those swinging balls and Tom's hand pauses now and then at the bottom of a stroke to display his flushed penis for us.

"Both hands. Handle his balls." Liz says, then chortles. "That's better. Yes, he likes that." She purrs as Tom reaches his other hand up between Clay's legs from behind. "Play with his balls and stroke. Make him come."

He does. It's a nice comeshot. I've watched it a few times on Phyllis' phone; she likes to record stuff. But at the moment I'm only half paying attention to that because I'm focused on Mr. Remotely. He's milking that cock with this intensely focused expression; like he's trying so hard to get this right, make it a good show; adjusting his grip and timing to jerk on the upstroke with each spurt to make it... Yeah, it's a nice comeshot, kudos and all, but has he really never...? I watch Tom's erection flex in sympathetic spasms in time with the spurts of the other male.

"Fuck, Laura, that's sweet." Cheryl says. "How'd you know?"

"Yeah." Phyllis agrees. "Good call, Laura, and... Ah, that's right, get it all." she coos as Clay gasps and bucks again when Tom drives tight curled fingers up the come slicked shaft to milk the last of it from the head. "Christ, this guy knows how to play to the audience. But he's new right? How'd you know he'd...?"

And, of course, now that he's made me look good with my sisters, I get this equally irrational twinge of proprietary pride; as if I'd been insightful and calculating rather than pissed off and reckless with the new toys.

"I can just tell with some guys." I say modestly.

Then he does it again, as if he knows my voyeuristic weak spot; or is he just driven by his own exhibitionist need to do it, to show me how badly he wants this?

His assignment complete, Tom releases Clay's penis and turns to face me directly; yes, me; he meets my gaze and angles his body directly towards where I sit slightly off center. Down on both knees now, he grips his cock tightly in his fist and leans back, placing his free hand behind him, spreads his knees wide, curls his pelvis under and arches to bring his hips forward and up and "Yes, you can." He says hoarsely as that fist around his cock squeezes and pulls the loose skin upward to even further accentuate the lift and offer of his balls, of himself, to me, yes, clearly to me specifically; with my girlfriends and these other males looking on and, in case there were any doubt, "Please, Laura, use me." he begs me by name.

"My, my, girls," Liz laughs, "I think this one is in love."

"Please, Laura," Clarice turns to me from two seats over, mimicking his pleading tone and fraught expression, "use him. Oh, please, please, do use him." She taunts happily.

Okay, so that's hot; I mean clench my pussy kind of hot.

But that just pisses me off more, because the fucker is getting to me; making me lose my mercenary, voyeuristic perspective and imagine straddling his face in sixty-nine so he can show me what that tongue can do while he jerks off onto his stomach and chest for me. Yeah, distracting thoughts like that that erode the pleasure of condescension and amusement I usually take at the disparity between the male's sexual desperation and my own softly simmering arousal at the spectacle. It's like he's trying to turn the tables or at least level the playing field of lust; hiding behind this desperate virgin shtick (even if it's true, he knows the temptation it presents), looking right at me, offering his balls and calling me out by name like that in front of everybody, like he thinks he can force my hand, manipulate me with this show of abject submission instead of the other way around. It's like after being made to jerk off another guy for the audience he's asking; 'Is that all you got?'

But that's just it; I can't read this guy.

Look at him; he is so goddamned sincerely desperate and excited; my wanna-be virgin cocktoy; that fresh set of inexperienced and semen heavy balls he's offering, mine to tease, empty or frustrate to bursting at my whim and leisure. He's not calling me out, he's begging because he's felt the touch of my whip and craves its sting; has heard the voice of his goddess and longs to obey only her; wants, needs me to be the one to take him and finish this, finish him, use him for what he's good for. He calls upon my name to let all these others watching know, and by his act bears witness, that he spills his seminal obeisance here at my feet, only for me.

So which is it? One moment he rouses in me the ire of an avenging Fury, and the next invokes the indulgent mercies of a beneficent goddess. Either way, I may do as I please with him. And for most of my sisters that would be more than enough. But the lack of a coherent story to tell myself leaves me whipsawed between those two extreme poles of my sphere of prurient impulses, or worse in some flickering, hyper aroused but indeterminate state of sexual urgency where I feel in complete control of the situation but not of myself.

I can tell you how the apparatus was set up and the object manipulated to produce the experimental results. And yes, they were entirely predictable and only more gratifying for being so. But even now, looking back, I can't quite believe in the quantum theory of superposition of states. I keep thinking that one more time through this and I will see the classical, local 'reality' behind this sexual allegory of the two slit experiment. I was there, after all; the observer who collapses Schrodinger's wave. Fuck the damned cat. I still want to know what really happened.

"Get up." I snarl, "You're doing this for all of us. You're nothing special, just another cock." The Fury taunts and yet the goddess knows it is exactly what he craves to hear and be.

Quickly on his feet, spread stance, hands at his sides, he strains again to offer me his balls. I leave him there, his penis thrust upright, as if I don't recognize the gesture, the plea; make him say it;

"Please. Laura, use me."

His words do not defy the Fury's scorn; he's nothing special, just another cock; that's all he wants to be, but for Laura, no one else; let her use him as she will to entertain her sisters, but he is her true acolyte, hers to give or share or squander at her whim. The goddess can't help but smile with proprietary self-congratulation; almost like the satisfaction I take in turning my husband over to the pleasure of the group, watching my girlfriends play, but knowing, by those quick little glances and smirks over their shoulders in my direction, that they know they're playing with my things.

"He claims he's a virgin." I say to the group, "First time for all of this. That's what he says." It's true. It's a lie. Either way it compels me to violate, "That sweet virgin anus, I think we should break it in." I point to Clay still standing nearby. "Bring back the stool so we can mount him for his first ride." I look around the semi-circle of women. "He may need some prep and coaching to give us a good run. Anyone want to jockey him for us?"

"Please, yes." Tom groans, looking aside to where Clay has positioned the stool with its upright dildo. Then turning back to me. "Let me take it up the ass for you. I told you, however you want."

"Fuck, that's hot." Phyllis says to me under her breath. "But fess up; did you tell him to do this? You interviewed him, right? Did you tell him..."

"No." Liz cuts in from my other side. "But it's exactly what he told us; whatever we want."

"You're serious." Sarah asks, "He's never taken it up the ass?"

"Not even a finger." Liz assures her.

"Well, fuck," Sarah grins, "I'll break him in for you."

"For us." I correct.

"Yeah." Clarice, who may be feeling a bit short changed by my taking over her intended impalement of Clay, says and gets to her feet. "I'll help" she pauses looks back at me with a wry expression, "jockey him." She rolls her eyes. Then, "C'mon, Sar. I'll grab the lube."

Things are not done the way I would prefer, but somehow that makes sitting back and watching them 'break him in' without comment or reaction more gratifying; the Fury rejoicing as the goddess mocks his adoration. He wants it to be me; I turn him over to the crowd for his presumption.

They turn him around, bend him forward, his hands down on the stool.

"Spread." Sara orders, kicking lightly at the inside of each ankle to open his stance further.

"Lower." Clarice says pushing his head down towards the dildo, making him bend his arms to lower his torso further.

I half expect her to make him suck it; a ridiculous thing that appeals to the Fury even as it appalls the goddess. She doesn't; he is ridiculous enough in that position without it. The view does not appeal, at least to me, and even less so when Sara spreads his ass cheeks to display his anus and reiterate the virgin tenderness of its pucker as Clarice taps his balls playfully from below, her fingers making them jump like balls in a pinball machine kept in play by the flippers.

No, this is not how I would do it. I like the thought of a man taking anally for my entertainment; I like seeing his body and face react as he's penetrated and fucked. But I don't find the male anus or actually seeing it penetrated attractive, and the thought of doing the fucking myself has no appeal.

But the Fury enjoys, even though it's unappealing, seeing him this way; a tough-love cure for the goddess' silly fondness; there's your acolyte, she sneers, twisting and craning his neck to look back at you, eager for your approval, as Clarice jams two fingers up his anus and jokes with us as she coaxes him to 'relax that virgin sphincter'. "God, he's tight." She announces happily as he moans and watches me watch. 'Is this good? Is this what Laura wants?' his eyes plead silently.

No. It's not. But it pleases the crowd so you're going to do it for them; for us. Remember?

They stand him up, turn him to face us. Sara wants a turn, drives her fingers up his anus, making him gasp and his penis flush as it bobs, his balls jouncing under the impact as she drives them in hard again then again, laughing and telling us, "He's loosening up."

This is nice, but I try not to show him. I want to join the banter with my sisters;

"Fuck that virgin ass."

"Ah, his balls are getting tight. He needs the dildo."

Laughter, teasing.

But I don't join in, because he's focused on me still as if he thinks it matters how he wants this, that he can make this something special just for me; make me care, make me grateful when he's the one who needs this, not me. I bite my tongue, forgo the pleasure of verbal masturbation for the deeper gratification of seeing his need for my approval grow ever more desperate as I withhold it. The angst of the goddess at the obeisance of her true devotee turned to parody only heightening the transgressive charm of this violation of his trust in her beneficence.

Yes, he needs the dildo; needs to show Laura he'll take it for her; mount and ride for the amusement of the crowd.

They ease him down; Clarice kneeling beside the stool to position the dildo to penetrate his anus as Sara stands to one side to steady him as he lowers onto it.

I love that first moment; reading the body and face, the tell-tale spasm of the penis at the initial penetration, the slight wince and involuntary lift of the hips to pull slightly back away from the intrusion, then the ragged exhale as he settles slowly and it eases in a little further, a few gentle bobs to fuck and loosen the passage, that reflexive lift and separation of the balls, stretching the scrotum tight across the pulsing root as it drives deeper. So pretty it almost makes me smile; but then he would know I am pleased. What fun would that be?

He's slow and careful, fresh to the sensations, but he's almost taken it all.

Clarice on her feet now across from Sara on either side of him, hands on his shoulders and back to steady him. They exchange glances, knowing smiles, nods, then shove him down hard onto the stool.

The Fury smirks, the goddess winces, the audience 'Ahhhh's in startled amusement and approval as he bucks, throws his head back, then curls forward, his chest and stomach clenching as the 'jockeys' press him down on it, holding him there as he moans and only works it deeper and harder into his anus with his thrashing.

'Whatever we want. That's what you said.' I taunt him silently as he lifts his gaze at length again to mine. Then suddenly in a wave of guilt or mercy I let him see me smile, because he suffers that I may be glorified, and, really girls, it's just so satisfying to see a man in this state; so unrepentantly at my sexual disposal.

The grand facade of my indifference broken, the goddess scolds the Fury into silence and joins the gentle celebration of her sisters; cooing and encouraging as he jerks himself off, rewarding his submission (or his arrogance, I no longer care which) with requests for the display of his penis (he so wants to show us) as he lifts and lowers himself now and again on the dildo with his Jockeys' approving assistance; "That's it, fuck yourself. Ream that sweet virgin anus till you come."

He does. And it's just the way it should be. Except, as I watch his penis dance and spurt for the second time that afternoon, I feel that unaccustomed twitching in my cunt; not just the need to be pleasured and fucked by my husband which these things always provoke in me, but some sense of incompletion with this in itself; I just can't leave it there, be done with him without knowing...

The males are back in the dressing room. We are tidying things up when Liz asks me;

"What's with you?" then guesses, "That guy Tom?" then laughs, "He got to you, didn't he?"

"No." I lie.

'Fuck him!' I think.

But I sneak out quickly to the lobby. I pull his contact information from the interview sheet and text my husband; "When are you home tonight? Can I bring home a souvenir from my afternoon?"

A moment later my phone pings and my husband...

But, alas, that would be another digression, wouldn't it?

Still, seriously; fuck that damned cat!