Chapter 1: Friends in low places.
Black cars began showing up at the mansion just past eleven o'clock Saturday night. The first one to buzz and be let in deposited on the front steps a woman of distinguished class. She was Italian, tall and dark haired with the seductively feminine form that looked fit enough to grace the glossy pages of Vogue, or at the very least, Playboy.
Her skin was a golden honey color and looked as wet as if she had just run through a fine rain. Her lips shone glossy in the patio lights, wide and full and nude. She had a thin nose set between two wonderful hazel eyes that seemed to pour intelligence and sophistication into the world around her. The elegant, yet risqué dress that hung from her body was a full-length evening gown, shoulder less and sewn layer upon layer with imported silk the color of old parchment. The fabric (which ruffled and fanned as she strutted) was mostly void across her strong, well-defined back, except for two thin gold straps, one stretched across her shoulder blades and the other just above where the crack of her ass started to peak through. They were the only means of restraining the beautiful gown on her fit body. She had chosen this dress because the matron had said the nephew—what was his name again? Rusty? Maybe it was Ronald-- was a breast lover, and she knew he would enjoy hers the most.
They were still young, very large and forcefully perky, soft as any natural breasts could be, with upward tilting nipples that, in that moment anyway, were very hard. This state of solidity was partly caused by the nature of her visit and partly from the tug of a cool breeze. The warm spot between her legs (covered by nothing but the skirt of her dress) was caused completely by the former. She had worn a set of large red beads around her neck as well, just to draw his eyes even further into her seductive trap.
Her dark hair was strait and fell without a single errant strand to either side of her cleavage. She had flown in Andrei Claire, New York's most coveted fashion stylist, to make her hair this radiant and perfect. The cut framed her angular and absurdly beautiful face with perfection normally only seen in shampoo commercials and salon advertisements.
To mess it up would be akin to drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa with a thick-tipped sharpie.
The front door was opened by the matron.
"Ms. Bellucci, it is so nice to see you again." The blond woman's smile was radiant and proud, like a child who had the best offering for show and tell.
"Ms. Ryan," Monica said, kissing her softly on both cheeks, "Thank you for inviting me. Am I the first to arrive?"
Jeri smelled of peaches. "Yes. They will be along in a bit. I told the rest of them to show up just before midnight. I remembered your particular...passion...from last year in Prague and thought you might want to get a private viewing before the night began."
"Really?" One of Monica's dark eyebrows curled up in an expression of surprise,
"Prague," Jeri started, nearly bursting with pride, "Will mean nothing to you now."
"All this time," Monica smiled, "A member of your own family...you must be very lucky."
"It all came together by happenstance," she nodded. "I could not have been happier."
"I'd imagine. Where is he?"
Jeri led Monica into the great room on the far side of the mansion. The furniture had all been cleared except for some plush leather sofas. Erotic paintings and photographs had been hung along the four walls of the room and lustrous purple curtains had been hung across the windows. Candles were burning everywhere.
The room's only occupant was a young man, savagely athletic with a thin fuzz of black hair. He was sitting on a reclining chair in the center of room, hands and legs bound by black satin ties. A thick blindfold of the same material was drawn across his face.
Monica's eyes widened with thrill as she caught the first glimpse of his touted attribute. She stood there stunned, not being able to remove her eyes from the baseball bat of a cock between his thighs.
Jeri stepped forward and slipped her fist around the head, just doing that much seemed to fill her entire palm, and gave her nephew a little tug. He groaned, moved his hips around a little.
"Jeri," he complained, Monica shivered to hear his voice, deep and full of timbre, "How much longer are you going to keep me blindfolded?"
"Not long, Ruslan, I promise."
Then, with a silent wave of the hand she urged Monica to come and grab hold of it. Reverently, respectfully, she did.
She wanted to touch it over and over again; rolling the thick mass between her fingers and then rapping her knuckles against like it was a wooden door. It was so beautiful...
But the clock had just struck eleven-thirty and if any of the other arriving guests caught her breaking the rules like this she would be banned.
