Silk

Silk

I can just feel the crisp paper invitation within the pocket of my heavy, black wool coat, my fingers sliding over the material at my hip to feel the starched envelope within. I'd received it in the mail one week ago at my request. Clearly my application to attend had been successful - not just anyone is invited to an event such as this one.

The taxi chauffeuring me through downtown Washington DC is making good time. I'll be there perhaps ten minutes after the doors open. To be fashionably late is to be on time with this crowd. The roads are covered with slush, the recent heavy snowfalls only just starting to melt. It's going to be a cold, brief walk from the vehicle to the hotel, but that's all part of the game, you see. I'm at the party now. Or, rather, I am the party.

The palatial facade of the Adamant hotel stands out from the other equally splendid restaurants and establishments. If you want to hold an event to impress in this city, you hold it here, at the Adamant. Other taxis arrive, and I even spot a few limousines, where well-dressed men step out onto the street, dressed in tuxedos, cummerbunds, and white scarves draped over their shoulders. Smaller details make the man when one looks closely - cuff links, different colors tastefully included here or there, a different silk pocket square. But they are more or less the same. That is their uniform.

Mine is quite different.

As I exit the taxi, my black leather stilettos, each so highly polished as to be reflective as they hug my leg from toes to knees, press into the small coating of slush left on the sidewalk. Millimeters only, but every foot step squeezes the mire out from under me, leaving severe, unmistakable footprints in my wake. The men in tuxedos turn their heads towards me, some looking nervous, while other, more seasoned patrons, smile at me invitingly. My own rose-tinted lips curl with subtle greeting, my dark eyes glancing their way for only a moment before I head inside.

The lobby of the Adamant is coated in hard, gleaming opulence. Gold, marble, ivory, brass, and glass catch every sparkle of light and enhance it, illuminating the huge, two story room comfortably without requiring too many lamps or sconces.

There is no sign for the event, per se. Most in this hotel wouldn't even know it's occurring, given that the location is a presidential suite rented out by one Mr. Smith. Last year it was rented out by Mr. Doe. The members of this group feel no compunction to use real names, and the establishments in this city would lose considerable business if they pressed the point. Cash is an acceptable form of payment, after all.

I step into the elevator and press the Close Door button with a gloved finger. The gleaming brass panels slide shut in silence, leaving me caged within walls made entirely of mirrors. The invitation indicates the suite on the tenth floor, so I select that button and feel the car begin to ascend. My reflection is studied as I pull my gloves off, fold them, and place them in my pockets, and the person looking back at me is a svelte woman with dark features, fair skin, and gleaming black hair combed over to the left to exposed how the hair along the right side of my head is impeccably neat and short. It's a mohawk, but a glamorous one, grown out and styled to look like a pixie cut on the long side. Delicate earrings fashioned of a pearl set into gold hang from each ear, highlighting the elegance of my bare throat. The only other feature visible is my woolen overcoat, with a large, plush collar of fur rising almost to my ears, and broad black buttons that keep the material fitted to my curves.

My dark eyes slide to the door once more as the car comes to a halt, and a chime alerts me to my arrival at the tenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal a plushly-carpeted hallway, with silk paper in a deep red on the walls. There is only one door at the end of the hallway, and I can already see two large men dressed impeccably in suits and earpieces standing to either side of it.

Neither of them look at me until I draw the invitation from my pocket and hand it to them. The one on the right looks it over, his expression chilly and observant, and then he hands it to the man on the right, who looks even more inscrutable. He nods, then hands the invitation back to the first guard before pulling a radio from his belt and murmuring into it. I wait patiently, looking at the door rather than them, until at last the second man nods and reaches for the door knob, twists it, then pulls it open to let me inside.

The atmosphere within is warmer and more humid than it was out in the hallway. Colognes of the highest quality just mingle with the scents of wine. A cool draft slithers in from one of the side rooms (and there are many), carrying the scents from the outdoors, along with the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. Clearly the gentleman running this event has taken the addictions of some of his friends into account without forcing the rest of us to saturate in it.

While nearly all eyes turn towards me, whether it halts conversations or not, I attend to no one at first. I'm not expected to, of course. Again, that is the game. They wait, and their patience will be rewarded. First I take a look around the suite. A sitting area near a fireplace has room enough for six people, and various couches lined about the walls and floor provide room for many more. The space I'm currently in is only the living room of the suite. From my vantage point I can see a hallway on the right and to the left, leading off to a study, a den, a smoking room of course, and likely a few boudoirs and bathrooms. There's a kitchen as well, neatly tucked in behind a serving station furnished with all manner of savory and sweet.

At first I head into the bathroom, ostensibly to check my lipstick and makeup. Everything is perfect, of course, my eyeshadow subtle but smoky and inviting, and my lips full and equally tantalizing. Instead I pull out my phone and check the account I used for my patron's deposit. It's there, safe and secure as of ten minutes ago, so I needn't worry about being taken advantage of. Or, rather, I don't have to worry about that. I can't speak for these other gentlemen.

When I exit the bathroom, I cross the length of the living room, slowly unbuttoning my coat. Slender fingers attend to each button, my glossy nails loosening the garment slowly until, at last, the front is open, revealing only my midline.

It's enough. Now conversations are grinding to a halt as eyes rake down the strip of naked, exposed flesh revealed. I'm wearing no clothing beneath it, though I keep on my boots for the look and for the safety of my toes amidst all this close company. Once I have all of their attention, I slide out of the garment entirely, rolling my shoulders until the sleeves pool at my elbows, and from there I slip my arms out of it and hold it only with a finger hooked into the collar. One of the waitstaff comes by and takes it from me, and I watch as they move it to a locked cloak room. I will obviously not be needing a number, as I am the only woman here.

Almost immediately I am joined by a sleek, elegant man, who teases me by making sly conversation. I know what he wants, and he knows that I know, but even so we walk together to the bar, where we each order a glass of red wine, and from there we move back into the crowd. He's charming, perfectly erudite and interesting, and he gently tests my knowledge of a topic before speaking more of it. The man knows the game, finding conversation that I can take part in, rather than dominating me by speaking at me in a one-sided fashion. To do so, admittedly, would embarrass him. Those crass enough to try and belittle me obviously do not belong.

This man, who calls himself Michael, doesn't touch me, and I know instantly that he's new to the game. Were he more of a veteran, he would behave like the newest member of our conversation, a man calling himself Angelo. Angelo's hand rests gently on my bicep as he asks about my comfort, and if I need anything. He pretends, as all are supposed to, that I am clothed, and touches me as one would any clothed lady guest. Michael has forgotten that, and looks somewhat chastised for having been too cautious.

Of course, I'm not at all clothed. My body is on full display from the knees up, from the full, soft mounds of my breasts, capped in tight, pink nipples as they are now, to the shaved, sweet triangle of my sex. My ass is firm and my body is fit without losing any of its alluring softness. All in all, I have put in a great deal of effort to assure that my body has been sculpted to allure and seduce, to make men want to touch it, to taste it, and to crave it.

Angelo plays the game better than Michael, and so it is with Angelo that I now spend my time. While making idle chit chat about the latest round of elections, he leads me to a room clearly furnished to be a study. My wine has been finished long since, and I look about to see where I might set it down. There's a desk, its surface cleared and its construction sturdy, and so I set the crystal there, looking at him knowingly.

Slowly he moves to the door and closes it, though he doesn't lock it. That is against the rules. No one is barred entry anywhere, though etiquette will damn you if you barge in without knocking. The players here are savvy enough that the door is as good as locked now. My partner approaches me at the desk, setting his tumbler aside on a small table near at hand.

He says nothing, offering no awkward excuse as to why he closes the distance. He simply does, cupping the back of my head and drawing me in for a kiss. Angelo is older but still fit, and he is clearly quite skilled. I press against him as he tastes the wine left on my tongue, and I can feel his erection trapped in his black dress pants. My fingers slide in between us and I free it to the air, stroking its stiff, velvety length, encouraging it to grind against my stomach.

His hands slide down my back, fingertips just dimpling my soft skin, until he cups at my ass, leaning forward to encourage me to lie back on the desk. I do so, my warm skin tensing against the cool, blank blotter there, and as he lines up his cock at my slit I lift my legs to cross over his lower back. His initial thrust is slow, enjoying the feeling of my tightness. He's the first of the evening, the one that dared to approach me first and charm me best among all the others. Michael will get his chance, of course.

They will all get their chance.

I gasp and arch my back, moving my hands back to hook onto the far edge of the desk. It gives me leverage to grind my hips against his penetration, working him in slowly, perfectly. The man doesn't waste his success with impatience; he lets himself slowly sink in while his hands roam, enjoying my breasts and stomach. When at last his hips press against mine I sigh happily, closing my eyes, as does he. His style is slow and sensual to the point of greed. He wants as much of my time tonight as he can get, and while he's teasing himself, I know he won't last much longer. None of them do, not at functions like this. Everyone has a fetish, and this one is theirs.

At long last, with a face flushed with need, he withdraws from me and pulls the silk square from his breast pocket. He holds it in his left hand as he strokes his turgid length with his right, bringing himself off to cum into the handkerchief. The glisten at my sex is wiped away as well with the silk, and he cleans himself with it before tucking himself away and zipping his pants once again. Angelo escorts me out like the perfect gentleman, engaging me in conversation once again, playing the game exquisitely as if nothing had just happened.

But it did, and that he deposits his silken handkerchief into a large glass bowl proves it. A few other men chuckle, while a few others grow somewhat tense. The game is truly on now, and the party won't last forever.

Throughout the evening I'm charmed and courted. All of the men are successful players, though I play the game myself and make many of them wait. All of the men here have my approval, of course. Unless they do something in grievously poor taste, I will take time with each, wetting his silk for him. There are perhaps twenty gentlemen at this event, and each will desire something different.

One man takes me into one of the bedrooms with a bottle of wine, and while I lean back against the edge of the bed, he kneels between my legs, eagerly ready to catch the gentle trickle of sanguine fluid as I dribble it down between my breasts, over my stomach, and down over my sex to his waiting, hot mouth. He wets his silk on his own, preferring his own touch.

Another man and his friend escort me to a games room, where they converse about their favored football teams competing against one another. I'm between them, of course, my hips pressed against one while my mouth takes the other. Their conversation is admirably focused for quite a long time, though they both laugh when it is clear both are in dire need of their handkerchiefs. It's in, admittedly, somewhat poor sport to ignore me, but they both are more than attentive afterward, playing the game marvelously out in the main room as they pamper me with conversation, wine, and refreshments.

Guest after guest seeks me out, courting me in their own ways, making sure I'm having a good time and feel welcome. Only when I'm pleased enough with them do I let them escort me somewhere private, and I help him to wet his silk for the glass bowl. The evening winds down, and it's clear that nearly everyone has contributed their silk to the glass.

Everyone, that is, except Michael.

He's been a true sport throughout the evening, engaging with the other guests and remaining polite, even as he watches every other man at the event walk away with me and return, their part played. When I find him, he's lingering near one of the windows, watching the light snowfall as he sips at a glass of water. Michael's skin is very dark, and his features are elegant and exotic. All manner and type of gentleman has been here tonight, and I've been pleased with all of them. Michael did not lose out on his chance to be first due to anything other than a faux pas in the game.

"Michael, you look bored" I purr. I'm pulling on my coat as I say this, and I can see the tension in his face.

"I'm pleased to have attended. This is my first event" he says, smiling with that same charm he had at the start. With a slight chuckle flashing his beautiful, bright teeth, he admits "I had no illusions about tonight - I didn't think that I would lose my silk handkerchief to you tonight. I only truly wished to see the game expertly played, so perhaps next time your time won't be so wasted."

I notice that the other men are leaving, and the event coordinator, Mr. Smith (who had wetted a particularly lovely red silk square), is tallying up the successes of the evening. My brow creases as I consider something, and then I simply pluck Michael's handkerchief from his breast pocket, leaving him speechless. He can only watch with his lovely brown eyes as I walk over to the bowl, kiss the silk square, and drop it in, giving the coordinator a knowing look. Mr. Smith simply smiles at me, then makes a check next to Michael's name, and I return back to the man by the window, who has been left somewhat speechless.

"You most certainly didn't have to do that" he says softly, and I take up his glass from his fingers, which tremble a little as they caress against mine.

In a breathy whisper, I say "No. I wanted to."

My hand slides into the crook of his arm, and I lead him this way to one of the bedrooms. He's been observant enough to close the door without locking it, and he watches as I place my glass down on one of the side tables by the head of the bed. When I approach him and draw his head down for a kiss, he is more than adept at that part of the game. His lips are full and responsive, and I hardly notice as he guides me backwards until, at last, the edge of the bed presses up against the backs of my calves and thighs.

My fingers have been unfastening his slacks, but he moves my hands away. "I know you cannot tell me, but how many guests saw to your pleasure tonight?"

I press my lips together. My pleasures aren't why I'm paid for events like these, and I'm not about to betray the private activities of the other gentlemen. Still, he can see in my expression that not once have I been satisfied, and he nods.

"I had suspected as much. I realize that we cannot know each other beyond these walls. Once we both get to the street after tonight we must remain strangers, but..." He guides me to lie down on the bed fully, and his hands move down to my boots, unzipping them along the inner seam and slowly removing them from my feet, "...I am no stranger to you now. And my pleasure is nothing if yours is not present."

Now I flush slightly. It's easy to be standoffish and clinical and seductive when I focus on my partner. But Michael, though he doesn't play the game like a veteran yet, somehow knows how to play me perfectly. His touch slides up my naked legs, his dark fingertips caressing my inner thighs slowly. I've been touched and adored all night, but not to please me. Michael's intent is for me alone, and I shiver, my eyes closing as I feel him move onto the bed to loom over me.

He's still fully clothed, and somehow that's even more erotic while we're in private. I should be undressing him, pleasuring him. But the tables are turned now, and the complexity of the game begins to unwind as I feel the thrill of being fully naked at an exclusive party filled with powerful men. I've been kissed, touched, and fucked by all of them, in my mouth and my sex, using my hands and even my booted feet with one of the guests. Somehow that was all business.

This is more.

Michael lowers his dark lips to kiss along my neck, one of his knees pressing between my own to make my legs part. I arch and gasp, flushing more as I feel his fingers dip in between my thighs to lightly, slowly caress along my slit. I've been used nineteen times tonight over the course of four hours. My flesh is tender, especially since, in all that time, I've not cum once. His touch slides inside of me and I bite my lip, shivering, grasping at the sleeves of his tuxedo. My hips move against his caress, especially when his finger begins to thrust slowly, languidly, to make me grow wet.

"You are so beautiful" he murmurs against my skin, lowering his mouth to my breasts to suckle on my nipples delicately. My pussy quivers around his fingers and I moan, delighting in the sensation and the praise. Being this close, I can smell his cologne and the scent of his suit and skin. It's a delicious mélange that I want to lose myself in. I want nothing more than to undress him and straddle him, to slide my tongue along his skin and sink onto his cock as he squeezes my breasts.

The thought alone makes my pussy clench again, and I feel him chuckle as well as hear it.

"I wonder if you still taste like them all" he muses, shifting back and pulling his finger from my body. I watch, pupils blown wide with desire, as he suckles on his glistening digit. None of the men had finished inside me, another rule of the game. But still, the thought of him seeking out their flavor within my flesh is somewhat obscene and erotic, and my toes curl.

In a breathless, girlish voice I ask, "Do you?"

His smile is dazzling in the low light of the bedroom. "I would need to know what they taste like, to truly make a comparison." The thought of his beautiful mouth doing just that to all the other men makes me positively ache with need, and his smile is so devilish that I know that he knows what I'm envisioning.

"However, the hour grows late. May I offer you a ride home?"