"Hey, great outfit!" your friend Maria told you with a grin, the toned amateur athlete leaning over to give you a friendly hug.
"Thanks." You were glad Maria could make it. The tall, easygoing woman was always a comforting presence. "Come on in! Party's just getting started."
In spite of her compliment, you thought your outfit was a bit...much. There was nothing wrong with looking sexy, of course, but the lacy little black dress, garter belt, stockings, and dagger heels your girlfriend had picked out for you were
hardly
up to the tasks required of a hostess. Any time you opened the door to let guests in or bent over to pick something up, you worried you were flashing half the room. Panties would have been nice--they certainly would have helped hide the jeweled handle of the buttplug inside you--but your girlfriend had calmly and very reasonably explained that underwear simply wouldn't work with your overall look. At least...you were pretty sure she had. You couldn't remember exactly what she'd said.
To be fair, you always felt a little frazzled when you had to host one of your girlfriend's parties. You desperately wanted to make sure they went perfectly, but it was never an easy task. Your girlfriend usually invited lots of people you barely knew and had a tendency to ask extra things of you at the last minute, leaving you flitting about nervously--
"Are you gonna let us in?" Maria asked. She was still standing patiently in the doorway.
"Oh!" You moved aside so she and her friends could enter. They all were wearing street clothes, which made you feel even sillier in your slutty dress. Come to think of it, everyone else at the party wore normal clothes too. Odd. "Sorry."
"No worries." Maria's smile was understanding. As she and her friends walked into the room, one of them shot a glance down at your evident cleavage. You blushed and looked away.
There was no time to waste on embarrassment, though! The distant sound of the oven beeping signaled the salmon mousse tartlets were done.
You scurried through the bustling crowd of guests toward the kitchen, squealing as one of the guests--a woman your girlfriend knew with a leather jacket and shaved head named Elle--accidentally groped and squeezed your ass when you passed her. It
had
to be an accident, even though Elle
really
leaned into it; your girlfriend had told you this would be a formal affair, and you knew groping wasn't appropriate for such an event.
"Sorry! Excuse me," you squeaked out as you moved past her.
"Cute look," she replied, leering at you.
"Th-thanks."
You sighed with relief as you made it to the kitchen and closed the door behind you. The sound and warmth of the crowd was beginning to build, and it was nice to get a moment of respite. Even better, you opened the oven door and were delighted to discover the tartlets came out perfectly! Your girlfriend would be
so
pleased. Normally you were simply
dreadful
when it came to puff pastry, but your girlfriend always demanded it for her parties nonetheless. She never minded when you botched the recipes--in fact, she seemed to find it amusing--but it was always terribly embarrassing. Not tonight, though! You slipped on an oven mitt and plated the appetizers, humming a little tune to yourself as you delicately put a parsley garnish atop your platter. Perfect!
"Hey, beautiful." You spun around to find your girlfriend right behind you, a smirk on her face. "Everything going okay?"
"O-okay? Um...y-yeah! I think so!" came your stammered reply. For whatever reason, whenever your girlfriend held a party you found yourself helplessly flustered by her presence. It was probably just because of how incredible she looked--tonight her long, dark brown hair was in a French braid, one that trailed past her smoky eyeliner and wine red lipstick down to the collar of her black pantsuit. You could practically
feel
the power radiating off of her. No wonder she made you feel so meek.
"Great." Your girlfriend broke out into a full smile when she saw the platter you'd composed, and your heart skipped a beat in joy. "Wow. You're really becoming a wonderful little hostess, you know that?"
It felt like your blush had spread all across your body; your chest was flushed and you felt intense warmth from the top of your head all the way down to your clenching sex. "T-th-thanks! I was r-r-really careful this time."
"In fact..." your girlfriend purred, taking a step toward you as she stroked her chin. You froze. "You might be getting a bit desensitized after all our little parties..."
Her words meant nothing to you. "D-desensitized? To w-what?"
"Nothing, dear. Don't worry about it." It was nothing. You stopped worrying about it. Your girlfriend reached out to grab your chin, then tilted your head side to side as though examining you. After a moment, she nodded to herself and pulled away. "Bit more couldn't hurt. We don't want you getting
too
competent, after all."
"A little more wha--"
Snap.
Your girlfriend snapped her fingers and everything became heavier and slower, like someone took your thoughts and movements and slathered them in honey. You swayed back and forth subtly with a newfound lack of coordination.
What were you doing again?
"How does that feel?" Your girlfriend was leaning forward to peer at you, excitement in her eyes. Her question confused you.
"How does what feel?"
Your girlfriend giggled, a lovely sound. "Perfect." She turned to leave the kitchen. "See you soon, beautiful."
Everything felt so warm. Warm 'cause...cause you cooked something. In the oven. You blinked slowly. That was right--your tartlets. They were finished and you had to get them out to the guests because this was your girlfriend's party and you had to make sure everything was perfect. The realization brought on a new wave of anxiety as you recalled all your responsibilities for the night. Better get to it, then!
"S'cuse me," you slurred as you returned to the party, platter in tow. People seemed
very
excited by the appetizers as you passed them by--their hands were all over the tartlets and also your tits and ass, pinching and groping in a way that left you alternating between sharp intakes of breath and noble attempts to hold in moans. You were the hostess, after all, and your girlfriend no doubt expected a high level of decorum from you.
Just after you finally placed the platter down on the coffee table, a couple nearby flagged you down.
"Excuse us!"
You rushed over to them, sucking down deep breaths to try and stave off the intense heat building in your body. They were more friends of your girlfriend: Claire and Will, neither of whom you knew particularly well. The former had a granola-y look with her messy bun, crop top, and jean shorts, while the spectacles and tweed jacket of the latter screamed academia. This was the first time they'd attended one of your girlfriend's parties.
"Sorry to bother you, but Claire here spilled her wine. Would you mind helping us clean up?"
"Of course! Not a problem." You flashed them a smile, then looked down at the red wine stain that thankfully had landed entirely on the hardwood floor. Your girlfriend's rugs were safe--phew! A big stain would have ruined everything! "Let me get the mop."
Claire piped up nervously. "Ah, no, that won't be necessary. You can use..." She took a deep breath. Her voice came out as a sultry whisper, one you barely heard over the chatter around you and the music playing in the background. "...use your mouth."
You blinked. Claire and Will both looked at you hungrily. Something didn't seem quite right, but the warmth and weight of your mind and body made it impossible to figure out what.
"Oh! Okay!" you replied, sinking down to the floor. Once you got there, you realized what must have been bothering you--while you were on your hands and knees with your mouth against the floor, your exposed ass would be presented to the rest of the room. You fidgeted with embarrassment and rotated around the stain so you'd be flashing the least amount of people possible, but you were close enough to the center of the room that any subtlety proved impossible. In fact, a majority of people nearby were looking expectantly at you now, including your grinning girlfriend.
"Thanks for cleaning that up, babe," she called across the room, her voice drawing even more attention to you. "You're the best."
A whimper escaped your lips.
But...you
did
have to make sure this party went perfectly, and that meant being a good little hostess. And good little hostesses pleased their guests and maintained their composure, no matter what! Fortified by the thought, you sank down to the floor and began to lap up the red wine.
Your dress instantly rode up and over your hips, gravity doing you no favors. A slight draft felt cool against your soaking wet sex and well-lubed asshole clenching around the plug inside it.
Everybody stopped talking to watch. The only sounds you heard were the soft jazz playing in the background, some occasional whispers or giggles, and those of your own eager mouth at work. Above you, Claire looked on with predatory delight while Will hung back with a smug smile on his face.
"Thank you," she breathed, voice trembling with excitement. Her eyes went wide with delight when she saw a lock of your hair spill over your shoulder and into the stain. "Oh! Let me help you out."
Claire knelt down beside you and carefully pulled your hair up and away from your face with a tight fist.
"Mm'fankyou," you managed between licks.
"Of course." Her other hand trailed down your spine, no doubt in an attempt to stabilize your precarious position. And then it reached your tailbone. And then it wrapped around the handle of your plug and started gently wiggling it up and down, barely moving it at all.
You moaned with surprise and pleasure, aghast. What a faux pas this was! Claire no doubt had intended to hold you steady only to accidentally put her hand right on the toy inside you! There was no telling her to stop, of course--it would make everything terribly awkward for the rest of the night. No, you'd just have to keep quiet for the sake of the party, eyes half lidded and hips bucking backwards as you slurped her spill off of the floor.
The closer you got to being done, the tighter Claire's grip on your hair became, and the more your buttplug was pushed, pulled, and otherwise manipulated. You yelped and moaned with each (completely unintentional) thrust, your ass clenching and unclenching to milk all the pleasure you could. The crowd's whispers grew steadily more brazen as well, though you could only make out a few scattered words and phrases:
"...so eager..."
"...incredibly well-conditioned..."
"...has no idea?"
You squirmed and tried to hide your face from the onlookers, but whenever you did Claire would tug on your hair to make sure everyone had a good view. And then finally, just when the sense of fullness inside you became intense enough to build toward orgasm, you cleaned the last of the floor and unsteadily got back onto your feet.
