Say Yes

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" He is standing in front of an enormous fireplace roaring with yellow flames, holding a glass of red wine out to you. You take it with both hands and inhale the fragrant essence of a very old, presumably very expensive vintage, before raising your eyes to stare straight into his. You smile.

"Of course," you say, and watch with pleasure as he takes a drink from his own glass — not a sip but a full-throated drink, emptying half the glass. You've known this man for nearly a decade and never known him to do anything with less than full commitment. "Are YOU ready?"

His eyebrows rise and you feel a buzz of deep pleasure at having surprised him. It's not an easy thing to do.

"Am I ready?" He repeats. "Of course." He's silent for what seems like a long time. Then, finally, he says, "You'll need a safe word."

It's your turn to be surprised. "I've never needed one before." In the beginning you'd discussed safe words, but had come to the conclusion that there was no reason to use hidden code words or euphemisms — "no" and "stop" seemed to work just fine.

"But this is different," he said. "If you need me to put a stop to the whole thing, you'll need a way to let me know, clearly and unequivocally."

"I told you," you insist, "I want this." You set your wine glass down and walk to stand close to him. "I really really want this." You're close enough to feel his response to your words through the fabric of his thin wool pants. You press your body even closer to his for an instant before turning to walk back to the low table where you pick up your wine glass. "Besides," you say, "you know what I like and what I don't. I know you won't let anything happen that you know I wouldn't want."

"Still," he says, "it would make me feel better."

You feel a wicked grin take over your face as a truly brilliant idea occurs to you. "Ok," you say casually. "Can it be whatever word I want it to be?"

"Sure," he says. He knows you well enough to already be suspicious, but he clearly can't think of a reason to say no.

"Ok," you say. "In that case I want my safe word to be ... 'yes.'"

"Oh, jesus," he says in exasperation. "Of course you'd want to punish me."

"Not at all. I just think it will be a fun game," you say with a laugh.

"But how will I know for sure whether you're truly saying it to invoke your safe word and not by accident?"

"That will add a little extra challenge for me. And when I very obviously DON'T say it when I ordinarily would, you will know I really mean it and am not just getting carried away by the moment."

"You really are something," he says with a laugh, coming up from behind and wrapping his arms around you, caressing your breast with one hand and pushing the other hand down inside the front of your jeans. "I do hope you get carried away in the moment," he whispers into your ear.

"Me too," you reply, arching your back in pleasure as he continues to caress you. "There's just one thing I need you to promise me."

"Anything," he says.

"No one can know who I am. No matter what."

***

Hours later, you stand at the enormous door to the dining room. It's not where you and he usually dine when you visit for a meal. It's the formal dining room that easily seats twenty (but can be expanded into the adjacent ballroom to seat more). You can hear voices on the other side, and based on the level of joviality you guess that dinner has finished and they are on to after-dinner drinks. Perfect timing.

You're wearing a short, loose shift of a pale, shimmering, nearly transparent fabric that feels soft against your bare skin. For the past two hours you've been preparing — or, more accurately, being prepared, by a team of aestheticians who have expertly and meticulously removed every hair from your body from the neck down, covered every imperfection, and massaged a series of delicious smelling liquids into every inch of your skin. Last had come the makeup artist, who had applied such a light dusting of makeup and such small prosthetic adjustments to subtly change the contours of your face. You were sure he hadn't done enough to mask your identity. "There will be people there who I know well," you'd told him. "Who I do business with. They cannot know it's me." He'd assured you they wouldn't, but you didn't believe him — until you opened your eyes and looked in the mirror, and into the face of a very beautiful stranger.

Now, standing at the door, wearing the face of a stranger and very little else, you grasp the doorknob and enter the crowded room.

You were right. Dinner has ended, after-dinner drinks have been served, and the guests are no longer all seated. Some are near the fireplace at the far end, some are gathered near the bar.

"Come," he says, and although he doesn't raise his voice above the din of conversation, you hear him as clearly as if he were beside you. You turn to where you know you'll find him sitting at the end of the table, conversing deeply with three other men. As you approach, he pushes away from the table to make room for you to come sit on his lap. As you walk through the room filled entirely with men, you can sense the faltering conversations and eyes following you as you walk, your dress a mere suggestion of clothing that really does nothing to hide any part of your otherwise naked body.

You take your seat and notice with amusement that his conversation is the only one that hasn't faltered. He continues, with as much passionate focus as ever, the point he was making to his three companions, even as he begins to stroke the inside of your leg and soon your wet pussy. You fight to keep your breath steady and to keep from moaning with pleasure. There will be time enough for that later, you think.

"I'm sorry," says one of his companions. "I am truly trying to focus on what you're saying, but I'm finding myself a bit distracted."

"Oh yes," he says smoothly. "How thoughtless of me. I did mean to share."

"This is what you meant by an after-dinner diversion, then?" Asks the man in disbelief.

"Of course," he says. "But like everything else at tonight's celebration, you're welcome to decline. I understand this sort of thing is not to everyone's taste."

"No no," replies the other quickly. "Not at all. I just ..."

By now, the room has gone completely silent.

"I think," says another man cautiously, "that given the state of the world these days, we want to make sure there is nothing ... untoward about any of this."

"Ah, I see," he says, smiling. Then, to you, "Darling, how are you feeling?"

"Wonderful," you reply honestly.

"And now?" He asks, returning his hand to its work beneath your dress.

"Even better."

"And how do you feel about this whole room full of men taking turns fucking you?" Before you can answer, he rephrases. "Is that something you'd feel good about?"

You smile, and with your eyes say the word they both know you won't say. With your mouth you say, "Very much."

For a moment, you forget the whole room as he kisses you, deeply and passionately. Slowly, he shifts your weight and lifts you up onto the table and lowers you down so you're laying back with your feet on the arms of his chair, your legs spread before him. He moves down to lick your clit. You close your eyes to fight coming too soon. You listen as men shift around the room, some coming closer to participate, some moving farther away to watch.

You feel hands on your breasts, your thighs, your ass. In a moment you feel familiar lips on yours, and you open your eyes to see him smiling down at you as someone else resumes his former position between your legs, moaning as he begins to devour your pussy in a new but equally wonderful way.

"Are you doing ok?" He whispers, and you smile at the fact that he's once again phrased it deliberately as a yes/no question.

"I'm doing beautifully," you say, and then cry out as you feel an enormous cock plunge into you, causing an orgasm to rip violently through you.

"Good," he whispers, as he slips a blindfold gently over your eyes. "Now I'm just going to watch for a while."

You lose track of time, then, as you feel yourself getting fucked, over and over, by so many different people. You would have lost count — if you'd started trying to count to begin with. Instead you just exist in the moment, feeling insanely wet and greedy to be fucked and fucked. Those who aren't busy fucking you are licking, fondling and caressing every part of you. You come so many times you almost feel like you're in a constant, perpetual orgasm.

After a while, you begin to come back to your senses. A cool breeze blows over you and you realize someone has opened a window. The room seems quieter.

"That was so much more than I was hoping for," he says with a chuckle as he slips the blindfold off and scoops you up into his arms. You gaze around the room lazily. Everyone has gone, and the room looks very much as it usually does after a dinner party. The only slight giveaway is the wrinkled tablecloth where you lay for ... how long was it? You wonder.

He carries you out into the great hall and up the stairs toward his bedroom. Before entering, he pauses and gazes down at you for a moment, thoughtfully.

"Did you enjoy it as much as you seemed to?" He asks.

"Yes," you say with a wicked smile.