Compassion Is A Way Of Being

I never knew his name; our hosts never told us. Neither did I know where they found him. He wasn't the first young man which the posse of imperious dominants had provided for the entertainment and he wouldn't be the last.

The submissive character and accommodating nature of the sluts which brightened these parties always entranced me. They loved to serve; they lived to satisfy others. I adored that sentiment.

They blindfolded him; a tight shiny black Latex top and matching glossy stockings covered his obvious muscular definitions on his torso and legs. Our hosts, who had a legendary status in the community, tied his thighs to his chest and his ankles to a frame above his head. His wrists were fastened to the sides of the padded bench, leaving him helpless. They shaved him too; his butt, his pubis, his scalp and all of his exposed flesh was as bare as the skin of a newborn baby. I think it made him sexier.

His purpose at the all-male party was to be used; well over a hundred people received invitations to enjoy the entertainment the generous masters provided. It was an evening of rampant debauchery between consenting men, held every month in a vast converted warehouse. Some revellers came naked, others attired in their fetish wear of choice. A few had their clothing chosen by the masterful hosts.

At nine o'clock, four happily married and "completely straight" husbands engaged in a bout of nude oil-wrestling, with the two losers destined to spend the entire party using their mouths to service the faceless pricks of dozens of men who wanted nothing more than a blow-job from the glory holes.

At ten o'clock, three leather-clad tops did a whipping and spanking BDSM demonstration, unleashing torrents of wicked strikes against a submissive's exposed skin until blood trickled down his milky white flesh and they heeded his blubbering screams of mercy.

At eleven o'clock, the fisting show saw two young men bury their arms into the rectums of their elder partners. And as the clock struck midnight, five revellers recycled their beer into the willing mouths of three pantied piss-slaves, and then invited those present to empty their golden nectar into the overflowing mouths of the watersports fetishists, until the sissies could take no more.

Alongside the outrageous shows and fully staffed glory holes, were rows of bondage furniture and fetish equipment free for anyone to use. The near-naked submissive was in one corner, just another offer to sate the perversions of the oversexed guests. He was my favourite, and I spent the entire four hours watching the delicious and immobile twink.

Men came to screw his lubed arse, sliding their cocks into his hairless hole, presented to them by his spread legs. Others slipped their bare pricks into his open mouth, ramming their erect dicks roughly past his thin lips and causing him to gag.

The organisers had positioned him to serve everyone and anyone. No cock refused. No fuck declined. No choice given. He was merely a vessel for the horniness of dozens of hedonistic sons, fathers and uncles with no more rights than a Roman sex slave at their most indulgent of feasts.

It was intoxicating. He had knowingly yielded his consent. He wanted to be treated no better than a discardable masturbatory sleeve where the dominant tops gave no concern for his pleasure. The desperate slut sought the dehumanising degradation, and the masters had offered him his depraved wish.

I watched him take his first prick of the night as they confined the two losing oiled-up husbands to an evening of cock-sucking. An overweight man in his fifties clad in just a red football shirt sidled beside the twink and placed his tobacco-stained hands on the Latex thighs of the submissive. He eased his stout tool into the nicely presented hole.

They both sighed; a mutual exhalation of enjoyment shared between two men. I stared, captivated by the movement of the hirsute buttocks, thrusting the member deep into the desperate bottom. The ripples of flesh as one body smashed into another, followed by a repeated slapping sound, aroused me. A metronomic beat of sodomy, punctuated by soft groans and orgasmic squeals.

A second man pulled the slave's head to the side and roughly filled his willing mouth with a short erect cock: an ideal size for a blow-job. I watched intently as the shaved slut's lips worked that bare erection to a throbbing, pulsating orgasm that splashed cum over his chin.

Throughout the night, this pattern continued; he sucked dozens of men, and he fucked many more. They came in all ages, all colours and all sizes; no man refused access to his holes or body. They touched him where they wanted, they used him with abandon. Splashes of white pearlescent liquid littered his skin, his Latex clothing and oozed across his face.

He looked like a cum whore and a greedy slut from a pornographic film. I was entranced.

A muscular brute, tattooed with aggressive sexual images, played with the tied man's prick when he violently thrust his own huge monster into the slippery opening. The squirming queer squealed and begged for a release while the monster rammed his beast against the slut's prostate. I thought the pleading submissive was going to orgasm when the grip over his throbbing manhood lessened and was replaced by a fierce slap. A cruel tease from one of the hosts.

I touched the trussed submissive in between fuckings to generously lube him once more; he always jolted as I squirted the cool liquid into and around his stretched hole. Every time I'd plant a delicate kiss on his balls before retreating to ogle the show.

With the night drawing to a close, I approached the desperate slave. I reached over him and kissed him gently on the lips, taking in the sapid taste of the multiple deposits of cum that were splattered across his face.

My hand traced his torso, rubbing his smooth Latex clothing and touching his glabrous prick. It swelled in my hands as our tongues massaged and explored. He breathed heavily as my fingers tapped his engorged dick, slimy from the pre-cum oozing from his teased body. I gripped the base of his cock and milked him of the transparent liquid.

He grunted as I walked around him, not breaking my touch from his skin. I could hear the unmistakable noises of a young man pile-driving his meat into another slut only yards from us. The orgy was subsiding, there were more voyeurs than exhibitionists as many of the guests were spent.

This slave had not climaxed; four hours of giving the orgasms to others, and he had not peaked. I placed my hands either side of his waist and gently lowered my lips to brush the tip of his tumescent prick.

He gasped as my tongue lapped up the salacious pre-cum that had oozed from his cock. The pellucid liquid glided over my lips and ran down my chin. My kisses gently massaged his frenulum.

He panted as my mouth slid down the length of his shaft, deep-throating his thick cock and caressing his firm member. I felt the ridges on the skin, tasted the liquid leaking from his prick and smelt the musky, unmistakable blend of aromas coming from a well-used slut.

I sensed his need. I remembered the begging and teasing from earlier as my finger pressed against his wanton hole. It accepted me with little resistance and I found his prostate with ease.

His legs twitched; his muscles rocked with every movement my hands and mouth made over his teased body. His desire built as much as my own; my flesh prickled with anticipation as his thrashing grew more erratic. I needed to taste his cum; I wanted to feel the jet of his eruption. He squirmed, crying out as my bobbing head forced his cock repeatedly to the back of my throat.

He was close. He mewed, squealing and panting with every movement over his aching body. "Please," he begged, throwing his head against the cushion as a powerful wave of energy smashed into his quivering body and I felt the first pulse of his dick.

I never stopped for a moment; I wasn't going to ruin his orgasm. I continued to bob my lips over his cock, sucking intently on his erect prick as it spewed several spurts of thick liquid over my tongue and flooded the insides of my mouth. For hours, he had been screwed, his prostate had been stroked and his mind had been teased. He needed to exercise the horniness that had built from his sensory deprivation and his servitude. He needed another slut to wrap his lips around his prick and drain the cum from his exhausted body.

I was proud to be that slut. The man had fucked four dozen people and not a single person had brought him to his peak. No-one had given him an orgasm or even tried to leave him breathless and panting, enjoying the warm glow of climax radiating across his tired flesh.

I swallowed his cum as I stepped backwards and let his wet prick fall onto his mons with a gentle slap. I wiped my lips with my bare hand and caught the eye of the lead organiser, the tattooed beast, who gave me a courteous nod.

I walked past him with a smile, shaking my fluffy tail clipped to my butt. I stepped behind the glory hole screen and saw two overworked men, their faces covered in cum and kneeling on the floor. I waved at the first one. "Go round the front," I demanded of the naked middle-aged man. He smiled and a few seconds later, his erect prick came through the hole inches from my face, ready for me to wrap my lips around.

I did it every party. To some, I was the bottom to the bottoms. To my master -- the inked host -- his plugged and chaste slave was merely part of the entertainment. But to me, I was simply an oversexed slut who just desperately wanted everyone else to come.