The Star Of The Show 1

I awake to the sound of voices murmuring. I blink, not knowing where I am, and then it comes back to me in a rush. My husband's face looks down on me with concern.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, unable to form any coherent words. I have just cum repeatedly in a roomful of strangers. There were too many orgasms to count, they just kept coming...oh god. I look up at him and start to cry. He sits me up on the table and holds me in his arms. I bury my face in his chest. I'm suddenly aware of my nakedness, but it doesn't matter now. The party is over.

------Seven days ago------

We are sitting at the breakfast table, sipping our coffee and scrolling through our phones. The morning outside is bright and sunny.

"We're invited to a party," he says, looking at his screen.

"Mm," I say, still scrolling.

"It's a week from tonight."

"Okay." I'm still looking at my phone. "Are we going to go?"

"We have to. You're the guest of honor."

I stop scrolling and look up. "The guest of honor?"

"Yes," he says, a wicked grin on his face. "You will be the star of the show."

And then I understand. We haven't been "invited" to a party, he has arranged it. And I know why. At the beginning of the year I gave him a belated holiday present at a gorgeous villa on the ocean. The gift was two beautiful young girls who teased and pleasured him while he was tied to the bed. Now he wants to return the gesture. Our love for each other is unmatched, but we have a very open marriage. Years ago, before I met him, I was a high-end submissive, and after that a sought-after dominatrix. Then I met this man that I love so much, and I gave up the world of professional bondage. But there was still a need in me, a restless desire for the thrill of extreme sex with strangers, and my husband has allowed me to fulfill that need occasionally.

For a long while our agreement has been that I won't have sex with others unless he is present. It's to keep me safe, I know, and for the most part I've kept that promise. Except, about six months ago, he was away and I was needy and I went to a bondage club, alone, where I was dominated by three men. It was a safe space, with multiple protocols and safeguards, but still I never told him about it. And the guilt lingered, which was, in fact, one of the reasons I gave the girls to him at the villa.

But now, here we are, and I can't say no. I gaze at him over the rim of my coffee cup.

"Okay."

He returns my gaze, a look on his face I can't quite describe.

"It's been a long time since you've..." he pauses, searching for the right word. "...indulged yourself."

Not as long as you think. But I stay quiet.

"And," he continues, "I feel like I owe it to you after my little fling at the villa." He grins again.

No you don't, I think, but I don't tell him why.

"Okay," I say again, this time with a smile.

"But there's one condition."

I wait for him to continue, but he just looks at me.

"And what's that?" I finally ask.

"We can't have sex this week. You can't masturbate, you can't touch yourself. We can cuddle, but that's all. It will make you...more ready for the festivities."

I turn and look out the window at our sunny back yard. Rarely have I ever gone a week without sex, and I'm not sure I want to now. But I can tell he wants this for me so much, and I don't want to disappoint him. Anyway, a week can't be that hard, and even if it is, the payoff should be more than worth it. Smiling to myself, I decide to accept the "challenge".

I turn back to him and look into his eyes.

"All right," I say. "It sounds like fun," I add, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Great, I'll say that we are coming."

He smirks, realizing his pun, then stands and goes to make another pot of coffee.

The week passes quickly. Not having sex turns out to be easier than I expected, but I still feel the excitement building in my body. I can tell my husband feels it as well. We don't speak much about the upcoming party, but it's the elephant in the room as our anticipation grows stronger every day.

We both rise early the morning of the party, then go out to breakfast at one of our favorite places. Afterwards we take a long walk on one of the many hiking trails nearby. It's winter, so the air is cool, but the sun shines through the passing clouds as we hike. When we get home, my husband stays downstairs while I go upstairs to prepare. I soak for a long time in the whirlpool, relaxing into the warmth, and I catch myself when my hand goes absently between my legs. Then I shower and wash my hair, making sure every part of my body is scrubbed and clean. After spending time at the sink I move to my dressing table, still naked. I let my hair mostly air-dry while applying a small amount of makeup to my face, finishing with just a touch of lipstick. I use the hairdryer briefly, then I stand and move to the full-length mirror on the wall.

I like what I see. My body is nearly unchanged from when I was in college. My breasts are firm, slightly upturned, the aureoles puffy with prominent nipples. My stomach is flat, my ass shapely and tight. My long legs are lean, the skin soft and smooth on the inside of my thighs all the way up to my bare pussy. My wavy, reddish-brown hair cascades down on either side of my breasts. I stare into the reflection of the large, almond-shaped gray-green eyes looking back at me and slowly lick my lips. I step back and smile, proud of a body worthy of being the center of attention.

I already know what I'm going to wear. I reach into a drawer and pull out my favorite G-string. It's red and tiny and barely covers me. I put it over my pussy and tie the strings on each side. Then I walk to the closet and pull out the dress I want. It's the color of jade, the fabric not sheer but thin enough to cling to and drape my body. I pull it over my head, tie the thin straps behind my neck and smooth it down my legs. It stops above my knees, with slits on each side all the way up to my hips. The back is low and loose. The front is open almost down to my navel, allowing easy access to my breasts. My nipples are nearly visible.

I am admiring the dress in the mirror when my husband walks in.

"Time to go." I watch his eyes sweep over me.

"Almost ready."

I pick the shoes I want and walk back into the bedroom. I sit in the chair and pull on the silver stilettos, strapping them around my ankles. My husband watches me silently, his eyes devouring my body. I stand and give him a broad smile.

"How do I look?"

"Fucking hot," he responds, his voice a low growl.

I smile again, gather up my bag, and we walk together down the stair and out to the car waiting in the driveway. The air is chilly, and I'm not wearing a coat. He quickly opens the door for me, and I slide into the front passenger seat, the soft leather caressing my bare skin. He ogles my legs before shutting the door, then moves around and slips into the driver's seat. In moments we are on the highway.

"Where are we going?"

"Up into the hills. You'll see. It's about a 20-minute drive."

He glances sideways at me, then puts his hand on my leg. I feel his warmth, and I squeeze my thighs together over his hand. I can tell he wants to slip his hand under the dress and fondle my puckered nipple, but he refrains and keeps his hand on my leg. We drive that way for a while, the excitement building for both of us. I can already feel the dampness between my legs, and I close my eyes and exhale with a soft sigh.

I keep my eyes closed as we drive the winding roads up into the hills. I open them when the car slows, then we pull into a long, tree-lined driveway that ends at an upscale home near the top of a steep slope. The large house is all wood and glass. The view is back out over the city, the lights twinkling in the distance. I step out of the car clutching my bag and look around.

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow," my husband responds, gazing intently at me. "Are you ready?"

I swallow and nod, then he takes my hand and we walk up the curving stone steps to the entry porch. The front door is huge, all intricately carved wood set between two tall glass sidelights. He gestures for me to ring the doorbell. I push the button and hear the deep chime inside. I step back and nervously smooth down my dress.

The door opens, and a tall, distinguished looking man motions us inside.

"Come in, come in. Welcome to my home."

"Thank you," I say as we move into a spacious foyer. He eyes me appreciatively, barely glancing at my husband.

"Follow me."

He leads us into a dramatic great room, all comfortable furniture and expensive artwork and soaring ceilings. A huge stone fireplace occupies one wall, and wide windows face the stunning view of the city back down the hill.

"Your house is beautiful," I murmur, taking it all in.

"It is." He pauses. "Though not nearly as beautiful as you are."

"Thank you," I say. I've been told this many times, but for some reason I am blushing this time.

His eyes bore into me. My husband touches me possessively as our host smiles at us both. We follow him past the gleaming kitchen, down a wide hall toward the back of the house. At the end is a pair of wooden doors, which he opens with a flourish, then stands aside.

"Everyone," he says, "our guest of honor has arrived."

I walk into the room, my husband right behind me. The conversations stop as all eyes turn towards me. There are perhaps a dozen people in the room, mostly men, but there are a few women as well. No one is naked, but a few of the men are shirtless, and the women wear skimpy outfits. Almost everyone is wearing a mask and holding a drink.

I look around the room. It is large, with oversize couches lining two of the walls and several comfortable chairs in secluded corners. A bar sits on one side. The lighting is soft, indirect, reflected by the many mirrors on the walls. But by far the most prominent element in the room is the long, narrow table near the center. Rings are attached to the edges, and a winch and chain wait at the end closest to the wall. Opposite the table is a smaller one, its surface covered with all manner of dildos, vibrators, clamps and toys. Whips and floggers hang on the wall above it. Between the tables, a hook is suspended from the high ceiling.

I take a breath as I take it all in. The air in the room is cool, and my nipples are hardening under the thin fabric of my dress. A fact that's not going unnoticed by everyone here.

As I walk toward the center of the room, I notice a woman in the shadows. She, too, is masked, but I recognize her immediately. The riot of black curls that frame her face is the giveaway. She is the same woman who was just a college girl when I gave her to my husband for his birthday years ago at a villa high above the ocean. I played with her as well, a luscious treat for us both. About a year after that she returned the favor, dominating us in a dungeon together. But I haven't seen her since then. Now, here she is again, dressed in knee-high spike-heeled boots, a G-string, and a low-cut push-up bra. All black, of course, setting off her caramel-colored skin. She is still as gorgeous as I remember.

She steps forward and meets me in the middle of the room.

"You may call me Mistress," she says with a smile.

"Of course," I return the smile. Then, after a pause, "Mistress."

She eyes me for a long moment, her gaze taking in my dress and my body. She glances over my shoulder at my husband, then they walk away together and whisper something I can't hear. I hope he is telling her my safe word. He settles himself in a chair in the corner, and she returns to me. It is clear she will be the one orchestrating the festivities of this party.

"Hold out your wrists."

I do as she says, holding her gaze. She reaches for a short length of white rope and swiftly and efficiently binds my wrists, tying the rope off with a flourish. She moves me a few steps until I am directly under the hanging hook, then raises my arms and loops my bound wrists over the hook. She steps back and admires what she sees.

"Twirl for us."

I am a little wobbly on my high heels, but I manage to twirl in a circle, my stretched body on display for everyone in the room. There is a murmur of approval. As I turn I catch a glimpse of my husband on the chair in the corner. He watches me impassively, no expression visible on his face. I also notice the owner of the house standing by the bar. His expression is easier to read. There is lust in his eyes. I am the center of attention, as promised, and already my arousal begins to stir.

"Who wants to touch her first?"

"I do."

The voice belongs to a shirtless man about my age. With a short beard and hair down over his ears, he reminds me of someone I've been with before, but his mask prevents me from knowing for sure. He stands behind me and begins to stroke my legs through the slits in the dress. One hand reaches around and fondles my nipple while he kisses the back of my neck. The other hand cups my G-string. I can feel the bulge of his cock through his pants against the crack in my ass as he rubs against me.

"Okay, who's next?"

"Me."

This time it is one of the women. She is dressed in a thong, high heels and a loose-fitting top, her long blond hair cascading down her back. She moves in front of me and takes my face in her hands. She pulls me forward and deep kisses me, her tongue in my mouth. Then she reaches down and cups my ass with her hands, pulling her pussy against mine. I can feel her wetness pressing against me, and I moan softly into her mouth.

When she pulls away, the other partygoers encircle me. They all begin touching me at once, their hands caressing my legs, sliding under my dress and fondling my breasts, stroking my bare back. Their hands are everywhere on my body. When one of the men slips his finger into my G-string and between the folds of my pussy, my body undulates. He gives me a wicked grin before pulling back. I stare at him as my arousal continues to build.

"That's enough. It's my turn now."

The people around me murmur and reluctantly move away. The Mistress reaches up and unfastens my wrists from the hook overhead, then leads me to the long table. I stand at the end, facing it, and she bends me face down against the soft padded leather, my arms outstretched. I turn my head to the side and see myself in one of the large mirrors.

"Keep your arms above your head and spread your legs."

It's awkward in the heels, but I manage to move my feet apart. The movement presses my abdomen against the end of the table. The Mistress takes her time and strokes my legs, then slowly pulls my dress all the way up and exposes my bare ass. She runs her hands over it for a moment, then walks to the wall with the whips and selects a crop. I groan silently as I watch her return and position herself behind me. I press my face against the leather and try to prepare for the pain.

The first blow lands hard against my left cheek. I wince, then wait, and soon feel the sting in my other cheek. I think she is going to alternate, but she hits me repeatedly in the same spot. I've been whipped before, and it's always the most difficult to endure when you don't know where or when the next blow will come. The Mistress knows this and varies her strokes to keep me guessing. When she's done with my ass, she starts on the back of my thighs, hitting them repeatedly, first one, then the other. I feel the heat rising in my legs, and I moan quietly into the soft leather. She returns to my ass for a little while, then swings the crop hard against the inside of my thighs, blow after blow until I am audibly groaning. God, it hurts so much. My ass and legs are on fire, and a tear forms at the corner of my eye.

The whipping finally stops, and I think she is done. The mark of a good dominant is to know when their sub is unable to take much more, and my Mistress is one of the best. No sooner do I breathe a sigh of relief when I feel her untie my G-string and pull it away from my pussy. The extreme pain has increased my arousal, as always, and I feel my juices drip down my leg. I hold my breath, and sure enough, the Mistress whips the crop up as hard as she can against my bare pussy.

"Fuck!" I shriek as the pain rockets into my groin.

I fight to steady my breathing. My eyes are squeezed tight, but I hear the chatter of the crowd. They are pleased, I'm sure, but we all know the show is just beginning. The Mistress appears by my head and whispers into my ear.

"Stay where you are."

I listen to her walk away, then turn my head and watch as she pulls out a dish from under the table. She starts to walk around the room, offering the dish to each person in turn.

"Everyone take a number. Low number gets to fuck her from behind."

When she is finished, she stands in the center of the room.

"Okay, who's the lucky winner?"

Everyone looks at their slip of paper, their excitement palpable. Then one of the men holds out his slip with a grin, the number 1 writ large in the middle. The Mistress smiles at him and takes the number as groans of disappointment from the others fill the room. She makes a sweeping gesture toward me.

"She's all yours."

My breath catches as I watch him move behind me in the mirror. He quickly unzips his pants and pulls out his cock, already hard and erect from watching me being whipped. He wastes no time and pushes easily into my slippery pussy. I want him to reach around and finger my clit, but instead he holds my hips still and pumps into me with gusto. I squeeze his cock with my pussy muscles, and his strokes become harder and faster, his balls slapping against my ass crack with each thrust. It's clear he is close. I arch my back as much as I can, changing his angle, and he cums with a roar. I feel his jism spurt deep into my womb, and even though I haven't cum, I rock my hips against him, milking his still thrusting cock until he finally pulls out. A few people in the room clap, and I wonder if the Mistress is planning on having everyone else in the room fuck me.

She walks over to me and helps me stand upright. I am shaky, my ass and legs still stinging, but she moves me back to the center of the room.

"Hold on to the hook above you."

I reach up and grab the hook, my wrists still tied together. I am stretched again, same as before, but without the G-string this time. The Mistress looks around, then her eyes lock on the owner of the house still standing by the bar.

"Who wants to take off her dress?"

He smiles at her, then walks over and stands in front of me. He hasn't touched me yet, but his stare is hard and penetrating. I've never seen eyes so blue. He keeps his eyes on mine as he reaches behind my neck and unties the straps of the dress. He tugs them down until the dress falls to the floor, puddling around my stilettos. He keeps looking into my eyes for a long moment before looking down at the dress. Then his eyes ever so slowly travel back up my naked body, finally stopping at my breasts. Still he doesn't touch me, then his eyes return to mine. I can see the unbridled lust there, the desire unspoken. It won't be a surprise if he reaches out sometime in the future to try and arrange a private session with me. I give him a small smile of understanding, then he walks away.

The Mistress has watched all this with amusement. She reaches up and takes my arms down, then unties my wrists before leading me back to the table. She sits me at the end, then lays me down on my back. She pulls my arms down toward the floor and fastens my wrists to loops low on the legs. Then she spreads my legs and pulls them down on each side of the table as well, strapping my ankles near the floor. I stare up at the mirror on the ceiling and see my hogtied body, naked and available to anyone in the room. My heart beats faster as I wait for what comes next.