Thank you guys for staying patient with my writing and thank you for all the positive votes. As always, I love the feedback I get from you -- the things you like, the things you don't -- from the storyline to the writing style to what you'd like to see in upcoming chapters. If you are new to the series, you will be well served to go back and read it from the beginning. I think that each part has plenty of erotic content, but to understand the characters, the whole story should be read.
This is the first of two chapters talking about the birthday party. I have found that I enjoy writing about the thoughts and feelings of the characters, almost as much as the action, which means that there are lots of chapters to go till the story gets to Sunday night and Jim's time in charge of Michelle, and there will be lots of jumping off points from the end. I hope that you'll stay with it to the end. I know I will.
"We've got about 10 minutes before we need to head over, honey," Pete said, noting the concern on Michelle's face. He looked out the window of the car, and he understood her concern. They had driven around the block, just to get a look at where they were going. They had seen the house for Clarence's birthday party, a party where Michelle had unconditionally volunteered to be the sex slave for people she had never met before, and who she knew were very "perverted," in one of her master's words.
It was a simple one-level, light-blue clapboard house with white trim that was situated in the middle of a lower middle-class area of town. It looked clean and decently kept, as did the houses around it. It was not on a side street but ran along a secondary street; big enough to have traffic lights on it, but not big enough to warrant four lanes. Still, both Pete and Michelle had noticed that it was pretty busy, considering that it was a Friday nearing the end of rush hour.
What set this house apart from the others was that it was situated toward the back of the lot, away from the street. The neighborhood was old enough that you'd expect older trees and underbrush to give the houses privacy, but not Clarence's house. He had a 3-foot-high chain link fence that went around a large front yard. All they had as they had passed was a quick 3 or 4 second view, but they both had seen a good-sized wooden deck in the front, similar to what you'd see in most backyards. The gait of the fence was open, and on the mailbox was a big poster-board sign that read, "Happy B-day, Clarence!"
Oh, Lord, you might as well say, 'Everyone invited!
Michelle had thought to herself, a thought also present in Pete's brain.
As they passed the house, they had seen that most of the activity of the birthday party was happening on the front deck and surrounding yard. People were holding beers and other drinks as they milled around, and Pete could see smoke coming from a very large grill.
What had Pete concerned, and certainly Michelle, was that among the people gathered, it was almost entirely men. Michelle had only seen a few women. And most of the men looked slightly unkempt, like workers that had just gotten home from work and had simply changed into shorts and tanktops. Many looked like they were still covered in the sweat and grim of the day. That was all that they had been able to see as they passed the house, but it was enough to give them pause.
Pete had been watching the neighborhood as soon as they got within 5 minutes on their GPS. Once inside that window, he (and he guessed Michelle) had been watching the pedestrians, looking at the houses, and noting the businesses so that they could get a sense for what they were about to do. They had seen a Jamaican restaurant, a Haitian restaurant, and a couple of Hispanic grocery stores along with other fast-food franchises.
Walking along the sidewalks they had seen many African-Americans, some Hispanics, but only a few Caucasians. Most of the houses had appeared well-kept, even though they were dated. Lawns were cut; most houses did not look worn-down; there were folks out and about pulling weeds and such. This part had been a relief to them. It was not a slum or a ghetto, which Pete admitted to himself seemed rather racist as soon as the thought came to the surface. This was Mike's event, and he was the only African-American of the four men Michelle had given herself to, and they had worried that by going to his neighborhood, they might get into a dangerous situation. However, they could tell that these were good people doing good with what life had given them.
Pete and Michelle were parked at the Popeye's that was a block away, as instructed. Michelle took the time they had before getting out to reflect on where they were, and why they were there. This would be the first "event" that Jim had told her about nearly 24 hours ago. Mike would be in charge of her tonight. This was happening, Michelle reminded herself, because instead of starting with a small fantasy when Pete had threatened to divorce her over her frigidity, she had agreed that they would start acting out fantasies, and she had asked to go first. And in a moment, completely out of character, she had gone big with her fantasy. Really big. Like, beyond what she could have imagined big. It was a deeply held secret fantasy, one that she had hidden even from herself. She had "given" her body to four average, run-of-the-mill guys, for them to use for the weekend.
When she had spoken the words to the unsuspecting men and her husband -- the words that had sealed her fate -- she had imagined that it would be a weekend of being fucked, along with maybe one or two risky things that they asked her to do. That, in and of itself, would have been a quantum leap for Michelle. She had truly been frigid in her marriage. She knew it, and had not been able to find a way out of it. But she knew, and had hidden it from Pete, that she had a dark side, a sexual side, and when Pete had threatened to divorce her, she had not thought, she had gone for it.
She had expected that a couple of them would probably back out, and that the whole thing would taper off as they got tired of fucking her, and their dicks had trouble getting up. None of them were spring chickens. Boy had she been surprised.
Instead, the weekend had morphed in surprising ways into something much more intense, starting with the moment that Bob, one of her weekend masters, had ripped her dress off in the hotel lobby. The men had surprised her with how ready they were to dominate her; how well organized they were in their plans; and how well they had understood her, finding the sweet spot with how much to challenge, how much to portray concern, and how much to humiliate.
She had surprised them in turn -- along with herself and her husband -- by how much she was loving all that had happened. She thought back to all that she had done since last night. She had been naked nearly the entire time, including in a hotel lobby (twice), in a diner, an adult toy store, and a bikini shop, and practically everywhere in between.
She had been fucked by probably 15 guys, only one of which she knew before the weekend started (her husband).
She had sucked off many of those same guys, and others.
She had licked asses.
She had drunk the piss of two men, one of them her husband.
She had been spanked to orgasm.
She had squirted for the first time ever, and without being touched.
She had proudly admitted that she was a submissive to perfect strangers, allowing and asking them to give her tasks to do during this weekend.
And she had recorded a slave contract on video to these men, and told them to blackmail her if she didn't comply by posting the video online.
And all of that had happened in less than 20 hours.
And no matter what it was she had done -- nasty, humiliating, or embarrassing -- she had done it willingly. She had not been so grossed out that she had tapped out. It hadn't caused her personality to "snap." It had not created a backlash of regret or anger toward her husband. Or, she noted, from her husband toward her -- something that would have made her crumble.
Instead, it had exhilarated her. It was as if this fantasy and all that it had entailed, from the acts she had done, to the thoughts that accompanied them, to the orgasms she had experienced, was something that she had been waiting for her entire life. She wasn't sure what to make of that, she only knew that it was producing pleasure and emotions and love for her husband and for sex in ways that she had never experienced before.
That afternoon, after picking out her swimsuit for tomorrow's activities which Tommy would be in charge of, she and Pete had found another hotel to check into. They were both desperate to get some rest, having had little the night before; but before they did, they had gone to a pharmacy, and Pete had made Michelle go in and buy the enema Mike had instructed her to buy. Pete had given her an order that if someone, by chance, had asked her why she was buying an enema, that she was to tell them the truth: that she was going to have anal sex for the first time in her life tonight. Nothing had happened and no one had asked any questions, but Michelle had acknowledged that the idea of telling that to a stranger had turned her on.
When they arrived at the new hotel, Michelle had followed Mike's instructions and given herself an enema. It was humiliating to know that what was happening as she expelled the contents of her bowel could be heard in the next room. Pete thought nothing of it, knowing that the reward was on the other side of her cleaning out. When she was done, they had both hopped in the shower and promptly taken good, refreshing naps. While they were sleeping, Pete's phone had buzzed with a text from Mike.
This is Mike. Make sure Michelle is dressed in something like the picture Jim sent me of what she wore to the diner this morning. I want her to be dressed like a slut from the beginning tonight. Send me a picture once she's put it on, and I'll send the rest of the directions.
When they had woken up, Pete shared the message with her, and she had quickly pulled some clothes from the suitcase to work with. It didn't take her long to find something that would work well.
She first chose a pink yoga shirt, popular at any community gym. It was purposefully thin and see through, with the expectation that the wearer would have a sports bra underneath. Michelle wouldn't. It had no sleeves, and the armholes were so deep that you could practically see the entire side of her torso. In big black letters on the front were the words, "Play hard," and under it were the words, "Work hard". The back was held together by strips of the shirt material that spanned the gap from one side of the shirt to the other.
She had gotten her scissors out and gone to work on the shirt. She took off a length from the bottom, so that it gave her some underboob. The shortening meant that there weren't armholes anymore, just hanging material on either side, from her armpits down. It also meant that "Work hard" was no longer on the shirt.
I'm going to definitely Play Hard,
she thought. Then in back, she had cut all the strings off, so that there was nothing holding the sides together in the back. Finally, she had cut out the front near the neck, and had changed it from a standard collar to a v-neck; a deep v-neck. Pete looked on in admiration of her work. She saw it, and with a smile asked, "Can you think of anything to make it sluttier?"
"You've pretty much done it all," was all Pete could say. He was already slack jawed at how revealing the shirt was.
"I know what to do!" she said with a look of inspiration. Then she took the scissors and cut out flaps, two inches in diameter, just above her nipples. "This will give them easier access." She winked at him.
"Sounds like someone is back in slut mode?" Pete asked.
"I was never out of it," she responded. "It's just hard to keep the sexual energy up when you are starting from where I was yesterday at this time. And I really needed that nap."
