Blissful Torment

To the uninformed onlooker, it would have looked like one of those posh high society parties where people show up in suits and dresses, then stand around in small groups while slurping champagne and eating very tiny sandwiches made from at least seventeen ingredients, but most likely with fish eggs on top. Possibly an onlooker might have noticed that a surprising number of people entering the villa wore trench coats or similar concealing clothes despite the warm summer night. Or possibly that a few especially daring guests did the opposite, and arrived in costumes that left very little to the imagination.

The hosts were careful though to not make this all too obvious. It was a private function, and only a select few very close friends were allowed to put names on the guest list. A rather threatening (but very well-dressed) bouncer made sure that protocol was followed unconditionally.

Only if a name was on his list and photographic ID was presented, did he politely hold the heavy curtains open. Those were decidedly needed, as they blocked the view from nosy neighbours, and for good reason: Just in the foyer waited a reception committee, the four of which wore less clothing between them than would be considered decent for a single person at an office job.

The two women and two men had three important jobs: One, to show the guests where the changing rooms were. Most guests wanted to get rid of their coats, or just as often, to slip into something more fitting for the event. Two, to ask and note down any wishes, so to pass it on to the hosts of the evening. But most importantly, to make sure the guests had understood the rules. Infractions would result in immediate and absolute expulsion from this and any future events. The reception committee was there to make sure that nobody would afterwards claim that a rule had just slipped their mind.

After the guests had changed, they were guided into the party rooms proper. A purely theoretical uninformed visitor would probably have found their jaw on the floor immediately. More people were walking around naked than clothed. Those that did wear something wore mostly latex, leather, corsets, chains or ropes. Common cloth was rarer than naked skin, but if it was used, the costumes were daring and revealing. One commonality between many attendees was that a significant portion wore collars, and every collar had a laminated tag attached.

Technically, it was not just a party, and the collared participants were the exhibits. Notably, and very obviously, it was also an interactive exhibition.

As one would walk through the rooms, some more patterns became obvious. Many rooms had a dedicated art piece, with the rest of the room's decor completing the ensemble. In these cases, the laminated tag was prominently displayed on a wall nearby the exhibit.

Visitors made sure to read these notes carefully, as they were core of what the rules referred to. Not only did they give the names of the art piece and its master, but also informed about how to interact. All of them came with a list of Yes and No, and either a green circle around the word "orgasm", or a red strike-through.

For example in a small room just to the left of the grand stairs, there was a box, about the size of a very thin sarcophagus, but standing upright, and with many holes large enough to conveniently fit an arm through. Two of these holes exposed a woman's breasts, a large one in the back her ass, and quite a few more other delicate and sexy bits of her body. 

The label informed that the occupant's name was Stephanie, that any of the implements on the nearby table were allowed to be used, groping, light pinching and slapping, tickling and fingerfucking was allowed (but not punching) and to only use hands. The toys in question were rubber bands, clothes pins and multiple kinds of rough and soft gloves.

Stephanie had been spending the last three hours in her box. She could not see much of what was going on outside, there was no opening close to her head, and there was not enough space to move so she could peek out anywhere else. But she did not need to see. She felt (and smelled) her own wetness run down her legs, as hand after hand played with her clit, sometimes a soft feminine touch, other times a harsh rubbing. She didn't need a mirror to know her pert butt was bright red from having gotten a few spanks by basically everybody passing by. Maybe later her master would tell her what a good girl she had been, and reward her with an orgasm. Or maybe not. Probably not. 

In a very large bathroom on the upper floor, a very different display was going on. The sign on the outside of the door said it was a lecture, given by "Doctor Leah Solo," and the topic was about "The peculiarities of the male orgasm." Any man could put their name on the list for the next lecture, or just visit as a spectator instead, with the caveat that anyone watching was not allowed to participate later. After all it was important to keep the experiments free of bias.

It was a recurring performance every year, and well loved by all the Mistresses who had brought their boy toys to sign them up to learn a few lessons.

Dr. Leah, wearing a much too tight nurse's uniform with slits and cuts in all the right spots, thigh-high stockings and high heels then gave a short speech to the onlookers, before she and her assistants strapped the test subjects to a medical examination chair. She then proceeded to use her gloved hands to massage the male's penis, testicles and often also prostate. Some of the younger subjects were a bit disappointed that she was already a middle aged woman, and not a hot twenty-something any more, but it took them all of half a minute to see the advantages that experience brought.

Spectacularly quickly, she had the poor souls at the edge of orgasm, and lectured her audience about the different kinds of male pleasure centres, and associated orgasms. How to tease the shaft of a penis at the brink of orgasm as to make it impossible to actually cum. When to stop as to see the subject watch their cock in horror as their cum dribbled out in a devastating ruin. How to grab a post-orgasm cock-head right to make the owner scream for mercy. Where to find the prostate to tickle a third orgasm from a completely exhausted and begging victim. How they in the end would always cave and lick her hands clean of their own cum, no matter how manly and arrogant they started out as.

Probably the biggest show happened in the large ballroom that was labelled as the Succubus Den. Four women were wearing purple body-paint, prop horns, wings and butt-plugs that ended in demon tails. A large throne in the middle of the room was surrounded by many seating opportunities. If the throne was not taken, the four would lasciviously loll about it, winking at guests, trying to entice one to sit down. Whoever did so was given the title of Demon King for as long as they sat in the throne, and allowed to give orders to anyone sitting around it. Only guests who followed the orders were allowed to stay seated, the others had to stand up and watch from the side-lines.

Of course a Demon King has responsibilities, and the four Succubi made sure he (or she) would satisfy the needs of the demon cohort. The women tried their best to get the current King to climax as quickly and as hard as possible, and nothing would slow their endless greed for cum. Most King's reigns were very short lived, as men cannot cope for long with having multiple mouths assault their cock right after their first (or second) orgasm. Some women did better, though even they soon succumbed under the onslaught of eight hands and just as many pairs of wet lips.

Still, it was enough for them to decree all kinds of fun shenanigans to their audience, who was busy in equal parts trying to fulfil the often humours demands, while also enjoying the spectacle of someone on a throne squirming for their life.

But these big installations were the exception. Many of the smaller rooms were much more personal. One such example was Lilly's study: The girl was quite new to the kinky lifestyle, but had found a loving and experienced Dominant James to introduce her to all its facets. They had agreed to attend the party, as he was well-known in the local scene. 

She was tied with her arms behind her back, legs spread apart, forced to stand in the middle of the room. Another rope supported her from the ceiling so she could not fall, even though it would pull her arms upward uncomfortably if she leaned into it. She wore only high heels and a mask besides the obligatory collar.

Her laminated note was very vanilla for an event like this, making clear that she was a newbie, that neither penetration nor pain was in the cards, that she was not into women, and that she would only play with people after giving explicit consent. Cases like hers were the reason for the strict enforcement of the rules: Nobody wanted to have a wonderful orgy end up with accusations of dubious consent.

Her master stayed close for most of the evening, just to make sure she felt safe, though he was sure there was no need to worry. As expected, all visitors were on their best behaviour. Every couple minutes a different man would step up to her, ask her for permission to touch -- which she always granted -- and then he would spend a while minutes edging her with her fingers until she said that she could not take any more, at which point he would step down, thank her, and be thanked by her, and leave. 

Many would make her lick their fingers clean, which she always tried to avoid before giving in. Her card did mention it as an important kink, and people did pay attention. Even after the tenth time it still made her blush and feel like a slut, which she secretly relished.

After three or four hours, she started to tire out. At that point she was standing over a small puddle of her own juices, her thighs and breasts glistening from visitors smearing it onto her body. She  wanted to pee, her whole body hurt from standing uncomfortably for so long, shoulders, wrists and ankles all sore and tender. But even worse, her clit was painfully swollen, bright red and throbbing so hard she felt as if it was about to fall off and crawl into a dark corner to hide.

For the last twenty minutes she had been pushing herself to keep going, even though every touch had become unpleasant and she was not enjoying it. James was eyeing her sceptically. She felt judged. She felt like a failure, unable to keep up with everybody else.

Her eyes found his, and she opened her mouth to say something. He immediately got up from his chair, a concerned look on his face, and put hand on her cheek.

"Are you quite alright?" he asked.

"No... I... I'm sorry, master," she replied, head bowed, biting back the tears of disappointment in herself.

"Do you want to use your safe-word?" he asked calmly.

"I... can I? Would it be okay if I did?" she looked up at him, unsure of what to say.

"Lilly. My lovely Lilly. Of course it would be okay. There is absolutely never a time when using your safe-word is wrong," he replied, his voice as serious as a president declaring war, "It is absolute, and it trumps everything."

"Then... I would like to... Red," she nearly choked on the word, throat feeling tight. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," she whispered, "I cannot do it."

James had already released the rope that held her arms up from its hook on the wall, and stepped back up to her, and pulled her in a deep embrace.

"But Lilly, you already did it. You have no reason to feel inadequate. You did everything we agreed on, and you let me know then it became too much. It is so incredibly important that you realized that you hit your limits. I need to be able to trust you on this, because you're the only one who really knows whether you are okay or not."

She sobbed into his arms, both from frustration about herself, but also out of relief for his kinds words. "Are you sure? It's okay?"

"Yes. It is perfectly okay. You did so well. I am so proud of you."

She gave him a slightly teary, but very happy smile.

"Now let's get you cleaned up and get some food and drink in you, and when you're ready, we can check out the rest of the party," He took off her collar and put it in his pocket. "For the remainder of the night, you're just a guest like me."

"Thank you, Master."

2020-02-28, Blissful Torment.

Author's note: Tell me about your favourite room.