Ned lounged in the comfy over-stuffed chair, sipping his drink, watching the waitress, topless in her custom banquet service uniform, making her rounds. Her presence was appreciated by the other members of the select group of gentlemen in the entrance parlor of this secluded elite venue in London.
Her uniform was a classic rendition of black heels and panties, her brunette curls done up in a clasped bunch, leaving her shoulders, arms and boobs bare, on full display to the fascinated men. Her tanned body was highlighted by expensive jewelry, sparkling in the mood-setting low lighting. The twinkling shimmers were complemented by strategically applied rosy rouge, highlighting her attractive face and feminine zones. She was the first display of the elegance that these elite males expected in exchange for the expensive fees they had paid to attend tonight's performances.
Tonight she was the perfect welcoming hostess, greeting and assuring their comfort and well-being. But the men knew that on other evenings, she might well be one of the sexual artistes, the purpose of their excited attendance. They hadn't even begun tonight's personal participation events and they already looked forward to a next visit. They just hoped that tonight's hostess didn't rotate out to another elite venue before they could return and savor her more intimate charms.
The hostess took one last look around, satisfying herself that the men were ready for the show to begin. She signaled her matron that all was ready. A purple gowned woman entered the room and launched the night's festivities.
"Welcome to you all. Thank you for coming. I do see a few familiar faces, thank you for your continued patronage. For our new younger member, a special welcome. We hope you enjoy your first visit and come again real soon. Now... please direct your attention to our first young lady who has prepared herself to delight one of tonight's group with his requested fetish fantasy."
A pretty brunette lass entered the room. She sported a violet silk nightie, a two piece set consisting of tap pants and a low cut top. The lights skittered off her sequined mule sandals. Her step was light but practiced, subtly flaunting her loosely veiled round boobs. The top covered her tits but her pokies danced alluringly underneath. She smiled shyly, fingering her tresses, looking briefly at each seated man, wondering which one had requested the college coed sugar daddy scenario.
Taking his cue, the man who had booked this scene rose from his chair and approached. It was her first indication of her evening's mate. He was fit and trim, middle aged with dark wiry hair, wearing a tailored business suit. His look and manners exuded wealth and confidence.
She maintained her fixed smile as her face rolled upward, following his austere look as he stepped very close and hovered over her. She actually warmed to his manly presence, accepting her fate to be his fetish selection. The establishment's safety protocols assured her safety.
He didn't smile or greet her, simply took her hand, leading her back towards the exit door. Her step was bouncy glib as he stoically led her off to her staged college dorm room. She hoped this pseudo sugar daddy would be as good as some of her past partners and grant her full body orgasms as she enflamed him to experience the same.
The college date couple's exit signaled the next entrance for the evolving evening's show. This young lady wore a sleeveless body-hugging party dress, her honey blonde hair flowing over her shoulders and back. The lavender dress was low cut, exposing cleavage and skin down past her bellybutton. The matching lilac strappy heels were stiletto style, making her stride careful and slow. She stood solemn, not fearful but quiet, gathering attention to her presence.
Suddenly, she swiveled her hips to loosen her posture. Then she hinged forward fully at the waist, dunking down until her head almost touched the floor. Flipping back up with her long blonde hair whipping behind, her fingers combed back the strands behind her ears. The stance pushed her chest forward, a prominent display of barely contained tit flesh.
She regained her balance with a slow hip cycle and looked about for the man who had requested his favorite fuck-the-pole-dancing-stripper fantasy.
The youngest man, the newbie with a bad boy scruffy beard, stood quickly and seized her hand. He towed her off to their waiting scenario room, a replica of the typical strip club stage and the obligatory couch lounge. The older gentlemen snickered knowingly at his enthusiastic display, remembering the unruly lust of their own youth.
A darkly staged performer followed the young pair's exit. She was Goth attired: heavy eye makeup, purple lipstick, a tall metal studded leather collar with multiple restraint rings, a cup-less clenched-waist corset, shiny black pasties capping her nipples. Sheer purple stockings covered her legs from her stiletto heels to high on her thighs. She was nude from the top of the stockings to the hem of her corset, exposing her pierced shaved pussy. A large amethyst bauble hung from one of her labia rings, skittering the light, drawing attention to her pleasure center. Her strapped wrists were connected with a long silver chain, a handy accessory for deferred tighter binding.
The only other man in the room with Ned drew himself up to his feet. He was tall and athletic and also wore black: wool slacks, a Spandex tee-shirt stretched over rippling muscles. His unsmiling face drew the Goth girl into an eye-locked stare. She knew upon her entry that he was her mate; Ned was too sedate and vanilla to fulfill her looming role as the bound dungeon wench. The man took hold of her cuff connecting chain and led her out of the room.
Ned sat alone for more than a moment. It was quiet enough to hear the small sounds: the ticking pendulum clock, the air flow through the ventilation, his own breathing and faint background sounds from nearby rooms. The long pause ended with the opening of the door and the emergence of his date for the evening. The earlier waitress led the woman into the room.
Despite her costume, Ned recognized Lady Amy. He had not known her always as Lady Amy; in a prior life she had been Mrs. Smith, the Housemother of a TWA Senior facility in the Scottish highlands. Eventually, she had wowed and wed a minor Royal peer. But dark habits die hard in a TWA graduate and the British lord was not trained or experienced enough to fully satisfy her ingrained sexual cravings.
Thus, here she was. It was she who had requested and funded this fantasy. And Ned had been selected as the assigned TWA staff coach tutor to fulfill her fetish cravings.
Lady Amy was outfitted for submission. Her garb was the classic plum colored Story of O costume: tit-baring corset top that severely clenched her waist, her pussy flashing above mid-thigh dark hose when the long skirt, with its full length central slit, fluttered open when she walked. Her bare shoulders were covered by a translucent shawl, coyly shrouding her matron-sized boobs, scuffing against her shadowy areolas. Elbow length satin Opera gloves covered her forearms and hands.
She wore velvet wrist cuffs over the gloves. Her eyes were blindfolded with a deep purple satin sash that also banded her hair, exposing the ring embedded leather collar. Her bright purple lipstick, sturdy hooped earrings and amethyst jewelry gave her the look of noble wealth, stolen from her palace by force and soon to be ravaged by the conqueror.
The topless attendant snapped a long silver leash to Lady Amy's collar ring and handed the other end to seated Ned before bowing and exiting the room. Ned was alone with his captive.
Ned waited, watching Lady Amy breathe deeply, considering his next steps. He slowly pulled on the leash, signaling his prize to step closer. He continued to pull as she stopped when her knees touched his, leaning her face in for a kiss. He pressed her shoulders down and she kneeled between his legs. He put her hands on his groin.
