The nicest words

Today we're back to the classic party favor situation. Not as taboo as things have been recently. But still fun.

 

This is probably a part one situation. Maybe we can end there, leave it to your imagination.

Maybe not.

One thing I know for sure: I want to go to parties like this.

The Nicest Words

“Is that too tight?” Those were the nicest words I'd be hearing tonight. I knew that was true; that was part of the plan. But it didn't really strike me as important when I heard them. I just knew that the rope was tied up and down my boots, that my ankles were given support all the way up, and that I was hanging there, several feet off the floor. There was a pad on the floor, in case something went wrong. But nothing was going wrong. The rope was tight, but not cutting off any feeling. It was tight enough to hold me up, but loose enough not to hurt.

“It's fine,” I say. “Doesn't hurt.”

He laughs at me. Then he puts the spreader at my knees, pushing my legs just a few inches apart. Uncomfortable, but it leaves my holes open. Still doesn't hurt.

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“You will be.”

“I know.”

He puts the racquetball into my hand. All I have to do is let go. But that's the only way to stop what's coming. Nothing else.

I help as he lifts me up, hooking my wrist shackles up to the same chain holding my ankles. It's uncomfortable, my hands to my ankles behind my back. The spreader pushes my knees farther apart, making more sense now.

“Open, bitch.”

I open my mouth, and he pushes a rawhide bone into it. “Don't you dare let that go,” he says. “If it falls to the floor, I'm going to--” he stops and looks me in the eyes. He gives me a sly smile. “I'm going to get really, really creative.”

Of all the threats he could have given me, that's the worst. He could have threatened to sell me to a friend, or to beat me until I bled, or to pierce me and hang me by my skin. But no, he didn't do that. He just told me he'd get creative. And then he let me think about it.

He pulled my head up by my hair and pressed cotton balls over my eyes, with pads that covered my eyebrows, taping them there with medical tape. Then he wrapped my head in duct tape, leaving me completely in the dark.

My muscles were starting to burn as the first people arrived. I heard them walking, heard them talking. He was explaining to them that if I dropped the ball, they had to stop. No matter what was going on. Anything else, they could ignore. In fact, anything else they were encouraged to ignore. But if I let the ball go, everything stops. I heard him give the explanation several times. I counted the number of people who agreed.

Three.

Four.

Seven.

Twelve.

Sixteen. Oh my god.

I whimpered at the thought of that many people. How was that going to work? Could I handle so many?

“Step right up and take your turns,” he said, giving me a gently push that sent me spinning slowly. “Anyone who wants to, man or woman. Sign the whore's skin, whip it, cane it. Fuck her holes. Cum on her, make her cum. Stop her from cumming. Everything is fair game.

“The boy in the corner is there for all your toilet needs. The bootlicker will be crawling around for anyone who wants it. The bar is open. No flash photography; it'll disrupt the video.” There was a chuckle at that.

“One last thing.” His voice is a little farther away. “When you use her, however you do, add a line on her face. I want her to be able to see how many people know how much of a tramp she really is.”

The music started then. People started chatting. I heard laughter at jokes, friendly meetings, that kind of thing. It sounded like any other party.

Someone pulled the bone out of my mouth. Then I felt a line being drawn on my arm. “Pay attention bitch.” I didn't recognize the voice. “Tell me what I write.”

I focused on the feel of the lines on my skin. W. H. O. I knew what he was writing.

“What does it say?”

“It says whore.” I said, my voice shaking.

“And why did I write it?”

“Because I'm a whore.”

He laughs. “Damned right.” Then he draws a line on my cheek, just below my eye.

“Oh, I like this game.” A female voice speaks right next to my face. “I want to try.”

S.L.U-- “Because I'm a slut.”

Another line.

“Because I'm dirty.”

A third line.

“Because I'm filthy.”

“A slave.”

“A cunt.”

“Cum dump.”

“So that people know to fuck me.”

“Because I love cock.”

The tenth one I got wrong. I couldn't follow so many letters. Passive? Party favor? Perishable?

The cane tapped on my skin a few times. “Pathetic,” the voice, another woman, said. “I wrote that you are pathetic.” She tapped the cane again, harder this time. “Say it.”

“I am pathetic,” I said.

She hit me again, hard enough to sting. “P,” she said. Then she smacked me again, further down my body. “A.” Another slap to my thigh. “T” hip. “H” arm. “E”

She kept hitting me with the cane as she spelled it. Then she made me spell it back to her with another set of hits. I could feel the welts on my skin from the last few, and I was whimpering as I spelled. The last two hits she said the word again each time. She hit hard enough that I heard the swing through the air and felt the sting and impact separately. My eyes were watering, and I was breathing hard as she drew the tenth line on my face, crossing over the last four.

I didn't get a chance to catch my breath. Someone else had walked up and was running his finger along my skin. I winced when he hit the welts, but he wasn't tracing them. He was tracing the words.

“Is this true?” he asked. I didn't know what he was focusing on. I didn't remember which words were where. I knew that she wrote pathetic on my stomach, just over my cunt. But I only remembered that because she took such pains to remind me.

“Yes sir,” I said. Whatever it was, it was true. It had to be.

I felt his hand in my hair, pulling at the roots and lifting me up. I didn't need to be told to open my mouth. I didn't need to be warned that he was about to thrust his cock down my throat. I didn't need to be told to suck.

I didn't need him to say “Suck it like the bitch you are. Make love to my cock like your life depends on it, you pathetic cock hungry tramp.”

I didn't need him to say it. But that didn't stop him.

I would have moaned on his cock by myself, without any prompting. I didn't need to be told that I love sucking cock. I didn't need to be reminded that it felt good. I didn't need fingers between my legs, tracing my pussy lips, pressing between them with a manicured nail.

I also didn't need to ask for anything. Or have any opinions. I just had to lay there, get used, and enjoy it. I only had to hold on to my racquetball. Just hold on.

Teeth clamped onto the back of my leg, just below the curve of my ass. They started with a gentle nibble, then bit harder and harder, until I was screaming into the cock shoved down my throat. I don't know if she broke skin or not, but I did know there would be a bruise. I tried to take deep breaths when she let go, but between his cock and her fingers, I couldn't get enough air. I was moaning, trying to press against her fingers, trying to suck him all the way inside me.

Then she pulled her hand away. He came down my throat, and I felt the sting of a leather riding crop against my clit. I would have screamed if I wasn't focused on swallowing the cum down the right pipe. She'd hit me hard. Really hard. Just one time, but one was all it took.

The cock pulled out of my mouth, and I whimpered in pain.

Then the finger came back. Gently rubbing. Toying with me. Playing. Pushing me back towards the edge.

Another line was drawn on my cheek, and then another cock went into my mouth.

Behind me, she kept playing. I started moaning. I started bucking against her hand.

And again came the crop. Twice this time.

I squeezed the ball hard, but didn't let go. Not yet.

A hand slapped my face. Gentle, but insistent. “Focus on your job, cock whore.”

I turned my attention back to the shaft in my mouth, sliding my tongue around it, trying to lick the tip as he pulled out even a little bit before shoving deeper. I felt myself swinging back and forth as he fucked my face.

Then there was something cold on my ass. Not ice. Liquid. Lube.

And then something pushing in. A butt plug?

I got another slap on my face, and had to turn my attention back to the cock. I sucked hard, trying to ignore the pressure of the plug. Tried to focus on the cock instead of the continued pushing at my asshole. That was a big plug. Every time I felt like it was all the way in, every time my ass closed back around it, something else pushed its way in.

After the third time that happened, and I realized that each thing pushed in was bigger than the one before, I figured out what was happening. Anal beads.

 My mouth was free barely long enough to take a breath before another one is pushed in. This time, the mark goes on my cheek while there's a new cock already starting to fuck my face.

And then the finger begins playing with my clit again, slowly making circles, gently teasing.

The guy attached to this cock is rougher than the others, pounding away, yanking my head back and forth, really giving me a strong face fucking.

Then I felt two hands on my back. Hands with long finger nails, scratching gently at first. Then, as the cock in my mouth pulses and pounds, the nails begin to dig in my skin as if trying to hold me still.

Another bite on my other leg, one on each arm. It felt like I was being attacked by vampires. They bit hard and sucked like they were racing to drain the last drop of blood from my moaning body.

I moaned louder as the cock pulled out of my mouth and I felt the hot sperm splash on to my face. Fingers dug into my skin, and I felt the orgasm coming on.

Then the crop slapped me again, and I whimpered. The pain switched back from pleasure, and it hurt so much.

I whimpered in pain and frustration.

Then I felt something going into my pussy. A ball. Another ball. A second set of beads, at least twice the size as the ones in my ass.

And the mouths biting me moved a little bit, to fresh skin, and then started all over again.

“Are you ready to cum?” the voice was right by my ear.

“Yes,” I said. “Please yes.”

“Tell me you want to.”

“I want to come.”

“You need to.”

I felt the pleasure building. Her finger was making gentle circles again. “Please,” I said. “I need to cum.”

“Beg me.”

“Please let me cum mistress.”

“Goddess.”

“Please, oh wonderful goddess.” I bite my lip. “Please let me cum.”

She took her hand away from my pussy. Her other hand grabbed me by the throat.

I could feel her breath on my face. She licked my ear, then bit it so hard I thought she was going to bite through it. I moaned again, louder than before, almost pushed over the edge.

Then she squeezed my throat, cutting my air off for a few seconds.

“No,” she said.

Then she slapped my pussy again. She let go of my throat, grabbed my nipples, and twisted, hard.

“You can't cum,” she said. “Not until the end of the night.”

She drew a line on the side of my face. “And we're just getting started.”

One by one, the mouths sucking my skin let go. And one by one, they drew lines on my face. One by one, they walked away.

Then she slapped my cunt again, this time with her bare hand.

I heard her laughing as she walked away, leaving me swinging there, stuffed with beads, desperate to cum, and completely untouched.

I considered letting the racquetball go right then and there. But she had said I would cum. All I had to do was wait.

And she said she was just getting started.

What more could there be?