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Marcus Alexander Newton III, known as "Mark" to his friends and "Daddy" to several women his own age, had everything in life handed to him on a silver platter. Sometimes literally. Fabulously wealthy thanks to a few smart investments from his father, stunningly handsome in that roguish kind of way with a sharp jaw and slick blonde hair, and most of all the life of the party. Every party. As you might expect, it was not uncommon for him to leave with a young woman or two on his arm. Sometimes an older woman as well; he wasn't terribly picky. His sexual conquests --though he'd never use the word: it was hardly a conquest when it was so easy- were legendary, and the envy of every man in almost every social circle. He knew there was muttering behind every closed door; little glares when they thought he wasn't looking. Not that he minded in the slightest. It was only fuel for his ego.

Tonight's venue was a masquerade ball, hosted by a long-time friend of his father's. A media mogul, he believed. Or was she the steel industry CEO? Not that he really cared either way. Marcus wasn't here for the riveting discussions on trade or politics. He was here because it was an enormous event, hosted in the opulent ballroom of an expensive hotel, with thousand dollar champagne and a sea of masked women in slinky dresses for him to prowl through. He adjusted the cuffs on his tailored suit --stylish black, with a crisp white shirt, silver tie and pearl cufflinks- and made sure his mask was on correctly. The damned thing wasn't as comfortable as everyone made it look; too much fake silver filigree poking around his forehead and cheeks.

He stepped out from his hiding place amongst the rows of Greco-Roman pillars and onto the redwood floor, grabbing the hand of the nearest woman and whisking her off into a waltz. She was petite, with deep brown skin offset beautifully by a blue silk dress held at the neck and nowhere else. So easy for him to tear off later. Her mask resembled a rabbit, with a black braid tied behind. Even the ring on her left hand wasn't much of a deterrence. They spun and made small talk under the vaulted roof, lit purple by hidden lights and casting an almost ethereal atmosphere down on the dancers below. He smiled his perfect smile and let his little rabbit run off somewhere else; they usually came back soon after anyway. His next was tall; taller than him, with a straight build and few curves. Older too, in a simple purple mask and strapless dress. Not his usual fare, but he could manage. Unless her mouth curled and... ah, just like that. Not a fan of his charms, it seemed. Oh well, her loss.

He politely bowed, letting a much older gentleman take hold of his partner, and looked through the crowds for his next mark. And then she found him. Curvaceous, but not quite voluptuous, she strolled with a purpose toward him. A deep red dress that hugged her figure, the neckline plunging down past the sides of her breasts. Black hair tied up in a ponytail that reached between her shoulders. Even under the feathered mask, he could see her eyes as they burnt into him, her golden figure swaying with each step. Every head turned to her as she walked past, and Marcus felt a smug little smirk creep onto his face.

"May I have this dance?" He asked, taking her hand before she'd even opened her mouth.

"Forward, aren't you?" She said with an equally smug smile.

"I find it's easier to take than to ask."

"A risky attitude."

"Where's the fun without a little risk?"

She laughed at that, drawing the attention of the other dancers. "Let me guess... Marcus Newton?"

"I thought the point of the masks was so we didn't know each other," He said, "Is it really that obvious?"

"You're looking to be the most audacious man here. It seems to fit with your... reputation."

"Guilty as charged. What else have you heard about me?"

"Oh, a lot of things. Some good... some bad. A whole lot of intrigue. I can tell you that you're highly sought after these days."

"That much I'm aware of," He chuckled.

"Oh, I don't think you are," She leant in close, a waft of rose-water brushing past him as she whispered into his ear, "I'm not the only one with my eye on you. And I'm very willing to share."

Marcus nearly tripped over his own feet. He coughed, "Forward, aren't you?"

"I like to take as much as you do, Mister Newton. But I find giving is so much more rewarding," She flashed a pearly white smile as their dance finished, twirling on a heel and sashaying her way off the floor and towards one of the double-doors leading into the rest of the hotel. She paused, looking over her shoulder pointedly.

Marcus didn't need any more hints.

He adjusted his tie, trying his best not to strut as he left the ballroom, following her down red-carpeted hallways lined with portraits of people he was sure had been significant. He was used to entertaining groups of 'friends' before, but none of them had ever been so... demanding. He liked it. Especially if they were all this kind of woman. The kind he had no problem following like a lost little puppy because of the fantastic view they offered; her hips swaying and the thin material of her dress draping itself over every curve and detail.

She disappeared into one of the suites, and Marcus caught the door just before it closed. His grin grew broader; that was a lot of voices and hushed whispers coming from the other side. He pushed through into the luxury suite. If ever there was such a thing as too much mahogany, this room was it: panels, dressers, even the little end tables were all carved from the deep redwood. A slightly Victorian style, complete with a four-poster bed draped in scarlet silk. A miscellaneous fur rug was thrown in front of a marble fireplace. The kind of thing he was used to treating his playthings to at his own penthouse. And speaking of playthings...

There were no less than a dozen women in the room. All different shapes, sizes and ages. All of them masked, but with their figures beautifully wrapped in their evening gowns. They lounged on the bed, against the walls, sitting on the rug... they all turned to look at him, and their eyes seemed to light up with predatory hunger.

Tonight was going to be fun.

"Well, ladies, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," Marcus said. His ears pricked up at the sound of the door being locked and his crimson-clad goddess strolling up behind him, "Now then... will there be a line, or is it just going to be a free for- AH!"

He yelped as something struck his backside. Hard. He wheeled around to see the woman he had followed, holding a riding crop, a sadistic smile curling across her face. He opened his mouth to object or flirt, but another shriek came out instead as someone else struck him from behind. He whirled around again, his face turning pale as the women advanced. They were all holding an assortment of tools; crops, handcuffs, knives...

"This isn't what I was expecting," He said, "Not that I mind, but-"

"Quiet!" Someone hissed as she smacked his cheek with her crop, "You don't get to speak."

"H-hold on, we never discussed a safe word..."

"You won't be needing one," Said another.

A pair of arms shot under his, wrapping around behind his neck and rendering his entire upper body useless. Marcus struggled as best he could, but trying to kick only unbalanced him. His eyes grew wide, and his heartbeat panicked as the masked women gleefully sliced away his expensive suit, almost cackling whenever the tips of their blades left little scratches across his torso.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," One of them said, dragging her crop up his abdominals, "Sure, they're nice but..."

"I worked very hard for those!" Marcus said. He hissed and whimpered as nails dug deep into his side.

"Come on, let's see the main event already!" One said as she cut away at the buttons on his trousers. Marcus wasn't sure if he should struggle more or less with a knife so close to his...

His pants fell away, and at least four hands tugged his boxers down. The silence was more embarrassing than the rest of the ordeal.

"Is that it?" Someone finally said.

"Maybe he's a grower?" Came another.

"Ha! All men are the same; telling you three inches is six," Cackled an older woman.

"Aw... I think it's kind of cute," The Woman in the red dress cooed from behind him.

"Cute!?" Marcus exclaimed, "Listen here-"

He squeaked as a firm grip curled around his cock and balls. The woman it was attached to licked her lips, leaning in close and viciously biting his collarbone. He squirmed, and her grip tightened to a painful level. A few of the others dragged their implements over his skin, giggling as he flinched and writhed. The anticipation, the fear, the knowledge he was stuck with them... god, what the hell did they have planned for him?

"Come on, that's enough, girls. Let's give him his new evening wear."

"I was delighted with that suit, thank you very... m-much..." He petered off as the group slowly spread away. One of them was standing in front of him; an older woman with Marilyn Monroe hair and an elegant, full-length dress. In her hands was a wire hanger, and dangling from it was a very skimpy set of lingerie. Sheer fabric and lace in black, with translucent breast cups and a thong. The garter-belt was clipped into a pair of stockings with little bows tied across the tops. There was even a matching pair of black satin gloves.

"You're joking!" Marcus said.

"You didn't seem to mind making my daughter wear it," The older woman said, handing the lingerie off piecemeal to the rest of the group.

"Your daughter? What does she have to do with- get off of me!"

"Oh, shut it! She has everything to do with this. My daughter, her sister, her best friend..." She pointed to each of the women in turn, "Or do you not bother to remember every woman you throw out of your penthouse? Even the ones you string along for months on end until you get tired of them like a piece of tissue paper?"

"If I've done anything wrong-"

"Oh, you have, boy. And now you're going to pay for it in full."

The women finally let him go, cackling as he dropped to the floor and tried to cover himself. The bra alone was comical, nevermind the way the thong barely kept his cock contained. And the stockings just made his skin crawl. They were so... smooth. But they rubbed along his leg hair like he was always being hit by little bursts of static electricity. Immediately he moved to pull the stupid gloves from his arms, but before he could even tug at them, the crops came out in force, leaving large red welts across his arse. He bit down onto his lip, the stinging pain bringing a tear to his eyes.

"Enough! I get it, I get it!" Marcus cried.

"Oh, you will get it." The older woman said.

"Poor thing. Did you really think you were going to be that lucky?" The woman in the red dress said. She sat on the bed, crossing her slender legs and tapping her crop against her knee, "Be a good little bitch boy and beg to be my footstool."

"I am not going to beg!" Thwack! The crops struck again, a howl of pain escaping him.

"Let's try again. Beg to be my footstool, and maybe we'll let you go early."

"Fuck y- AH!"

"Last chance, little boy. And I do mean little."

Marcus bit his lip, eyes watering, "F-fine... let me be your footstool."

"Pathetic," -Thwack!- "Beg like you mean it!"

"Gah! Fucking... please, mistress... make me your footstool."

"Better," She cooed, lifting up her legs and idly tapping the crop.

With a grimace Marcus crawled across the floor, yelping as the other women smacked his raw, red ass along the way and cackled with glee. He hung his head, shaking from the pain as the woman in the red dress lowered her calves onto his back. And then another few shapely legs settled on his body, forcing him lower and lower. This was fucking degrading. Another smack on his arse and he howled, drawing another round of laughter from his masked audience. How dare they? How fucking dare-

He gasped as someone's boot ground against his barely contained cock; rubbing the smooth leather across the thin lace. It was... unreal. Hard and smooth, warm and cold together, teasing his already confused package. He bit his lip and tried to focus on something else. The pain, the thoughts of revenge, and the utter hatred he felt for everyone there.

"Ha! Check it out, girls; he's getting hard from this!" One of his abusers cried.

"Only because-" he began before a silk glove viciously tugged his perfect hair back.

"Ah, ah. Furniture doesn't get to talk."

"Well, well. I guess he really isn't a grower after all," Someone said.

"It looks so perfect in those pretty little panties," Came a giggle.

"Hard to believe he gets anything done with that!"

The foot kept rubbing his balls through the thin, sheer fabric. A few of the women slid their crops under his belly, prodding and dragging the leather tips along his shaft. Marcus felt himself twitch, his legs clamping together until an open palm spank forced them open again. He wanted to bury his head into the rug, to forget about the cackling and the leering. The weight of the legs on his back was making him droop, arse sticking up into the air. Making it easier for them to abuse his cock.

"Aw, it's leaking already."

"He must be enjoying this!"

"What a little slut."

"I-I'm... I'm not..." He whimpered.

"Shush, you," One of the older women said, kneeling beside him, "Now we've dressed you like one of 'your' girls, let's make you feel like one."

A gloved hand closed around his cock and slowly began to pump along his shaft. Marcus groaned, his hips bucking into the warm grip before a few light smacks from a half dozen crops forced him back to stillness. Someone was teasing his balls with something, rubbing them through the tiny thong and making a point of grinding every lacy decoration into his skin. Someone above him pressed a bare foot onto his head, holding him against the floor. Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths in anticipation; him especially as he felt the pressure begin to grow at his base. His legs were about to give out, his cock desperately twitching in an expert grip as it smeared his pre along his sensitive skin. His breath hitched, his hips quivered and he-

The hand moved away, and his cock was left to twitch violently in the air.

"No!" He cried out, receiving a few more smacks. He was so close! So fucking close! "Come on, you can't leave me like this!"

"You never seemed to care if I came," Someone said, kicking him in the ribs.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just, please! Please!"

"Hmm... I don't think so."

"Who's next, girls?" The older woman said, flicking her finger across his head.

"Oh, me!"

"Aw, I wanted him next!"

"Relax, ladies. Little sissies like him have more than one erogenous zone," Came the woman in red's voice. Marcus tensed as something warm brushed up from his balls and pressed insistently at his arsehole. He started to protest, but the foot on his head only pressed harder, leaving him with a mouthful of fake fur. Something cold and sticky was slowly worked into his hole, some being passed down to the hands gleefully stroking and teasing his already desperate cock. He almost bit into the rug as the first finger slipped inside him, squirming around until-

The noise he made was somewhere between a squeak, a moan and strangled scream.

"Oh my god."

"That was so cute!"

"Aw, has our little bitch boy never played with himself before?" A round of cackling and his cheeks felt like they were on fire. After a few smacks, so did the ones not on his face, "Don't worry... you're going to get well acquainted with it. Very well acquainted."

A second finger slid inside, and it took all of Marcus' strength not to collapse completely. The teasing, the rubbing, the pressing of all his buttons... it was relentless. Endless. He had no idea how long he was in their grasp, but it felt like hours upon hours. Every time his body drew close to finally throwing itself over the edge, the hands would leave, and he'd be left to shudder and wait until they stopped cooing and giggling. Everything started to fade after a while; thoughts of escape, of revenge, of anger and hatred all just melted away as the desperate need to cum filled his mind. His world was one of sweat-soaked lingerie and the smell of lube mixed in with a dozen perfumes.

"Please..." Marcus croaked, "Please... please..."

"Poor thing," Someone said. A golden-skinned hand picked up his head and pulled him onto his knees, his head resting at hip height in front of a slinky red dress, "Does the little slut want to cum?"

Marcus nodded, whimpering as the hands left yet again.

"I'll tell you what. We'll let you cum... if you show some of us a good enough time," She grinned down at him, letting his head go long enough to pull her dress over her head. Her panties were just as bright a red, translucent and skimpy. But what was inside them... Marcus shuddered as the hard, hot flesh flopped onto his face. He could feel it drip a bead of pre onto his forehead.

"Well? Think you can work out how to please a cock bigger than your own?"

The last shred of dignity in him made him hesitate as she dragged her cockhead down to his lips. But only for a second; desperation made him open his lips and slip her into his mouth. Dry at first, but soon he was salivating as he dutifully bobbed up and down her shaft. He swallowed mouthfuls of bitter, salty pre-cum and felt his own cock twitch as the other women howled with laughter around him. A few more dresses tumbled to the floor, and he was surrounded by smooth skin and hard cocks straining to leave thongs and panties. They grabbed his head and pulled him from member to member, thrusting down his throat until he gagged.

"Damn... what a tight throat."

"It won't be too tight after we're done with it!"

"Urgh, use some tongue! Ooh... that's it, boy."

"Check it out, his cock is still hard."

"I think that means he likes it!"

"No... I think it means he loves it. Don't you, slut?" The woman in the red dress pulled him off his latest cock, leaving him to pant in the air. He just let his mouth hang open, tongue lolling out before someone else shoved a thick, sweaty shaft back into him. His head was full of wet gagging noises and the slaps of dainty fingers jerking off waiting cocks. He wasn't even embarrassed any more. Who cared about all that? His hips rolled as someone slid behind him and stroked his cock in time to his sucking. His pace increased, leaping between his tormentors and desperately trying to please each and every one of them.

Someone grabbed his head and yanked him against her hips. His eyes widened, and he almost choked as her cock throbbed and pulsed, spurting ropes of thick cum down his throat. Someone else pulled him away from her, the last burst splattering across his face before he was forced onto a new shaft. He went limp, letting them use his mouth like a cheap toy. As a cumdump. A few sprayed his face and chest with it, letting him breathe as his mouth hung open hungrily. His hips bucked upwards into the hand of whoever was stroking him and finally- finally, he felt the pressure bubble over.

He collapsed backwards, shuddering and squirming as over a dozen ruined orgasms forced themselves out of him and dripped onto his chest. Each shuddering breath was full of the scent of cum as he oozed and twitched, a seemingly endless, mind-numbing relief washing over him with each spurt. By the time he was finished, he was barely conscious enough to hear them cackling over him. To feel them drag him upright and onto his weak knees. He only barely registered the hands moving around his throat. They left, but the tightness remained, and he brought his own hand upward. Smooth, firm leather. A metal buckle. Even a little chain leading up into the hands of one of his mistresses.