Sunday morning

My dad always called my mother a witch. You see, she has this sixth sense, ‘a feeling,’ she calls it. She instinctively knows when something, normally bad, is going to happen, and that is what I was experiencing at that moment. It was a knot in the pit of my stomach that sent uneasy signals to my brain. I haven’t a clue what made me feel that way or why this feeling had arrived, but it had. And I didn’t like it.

My right eye eased open, scanning the room as my brain slowly woke and wearily processed the information before me. Warm, bright sunshine filtered through the closed slats of the white window shutters.

Outside, two people were having a heated discussion. I couldn’t understand a word that was being said, but I was getting the impression from the muffled tone that if they were not in their present surroundings it would have become a full-on, door-slamming, plate-breaking argument, but as they were in company, they were trying to keep it down, their voices a barely audible hoarse whisper.

Working on autopilot, the natural start to my day, found me blindly reaching my hand out to search for my phone. First, the bedside table, then across the highly varnished wooden floor in a hunt that I soon discovered was to prove fruitless. I lay back on the bed and began to piece together the previous hours, like shards of a broken mirror.

I felt down under the sheets between my legs. I was hard, which wasn’t unusual, but it felt different, strained. As did my head. I was naked and confused, with absolutely no idea what time it was, or for that matter how I got back here. Slowly, the shattered fragments began to link themselves together, giving me a vague idea of the evening’s events.

The memory of leaving the house for the ride on the boat was quite clear. I remembered the hood being placed over my head, and then the room, a large open space filled with grotesque, masked figures.

The image of a naked woman on a bed, her legs stretched wide was vivid. I stared at the plain white walls of the bedroom, using its surface to project my memories. That was when an uneasy feeling washed over me, a queasy sensation that something bad or uncomfortable had or was going to happen. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it was there, gnawing away. Then slowly the fog began to clear.

******

Apart from Eve, Nick, Alice and me, the large stable room was now empty. I had watched this peculiar band of masked people filter out in an orderly fashion as if they were living the theatre. Eve was naked and self-consciously collecting her clothes from the floor, with Nick standing silently to one side, seething.

Alice asked us to follow her and we all shuffled out of the room, and along the short, brightly lit corridor and into a wood-panelled spa room. A mixture of pine, cedarwood and that suffocating sulphur smell from hot coals pervaded the room, where there were an unoccupied sauna and a jacuzzi.

“There is a shower in there,” Alice said, pointing to a frosted glass door, “all of your belongings have been collected and left inside. After you have refreshed yourself,” she said to Eve, “you and Nicholas are free to do as you please. The rest of the evening is your own. Joseph, a driver will take you back to your accommodation.”

With that, she turned and left the room. Eve immediately hurried towards the shower room door, her right arm amusingly held across her breasts in a vain attempt to halt their natural sway as she moved, leaving just me and Nick alone. I was about to say to him that none of this was of my design and that I was sorry if it had gone too far, but he cut me off.

“Don’t say a word. Not one fucking word,” his voice bristled with barely restrained emotion, as he jabbed a finger in my direction. “If I find out that there has been any communication between the two of you, or if you breathe even a single word to anyone: a phone call, text, fucking Twitter or Facebook, anything, I’ll put your balls in a vise and squeeze so hard your eyes will explode.”

I wasn’t going to argue; how could I? The guy had just watched me fuck his wife in front of a room full of people and had to endure the humiliation of listening as she came on my cock and begged me for more. I can’t imagine that I would be overjoyed either. I could hear the sound of the shower slowing to a drip and then to a halt and a stifled a laugh. His neck turned a strange sort of mottled garnet red, his eyes bulged and bloodshot.

“Are we clear?” That was it; if he had just stood there and not uttered another word then things would have been fine, but he couldn’t resist, and neither could I. Eve exited the shower room, fully dressed, with her hair hanging in damp curls leaving dark wet patches on the shoulders of her peach-coloured dress. She observed us with a curious eye as if she had just missed out on something. Nick’s face was a picture of frustrated indignation compared to my wide, Cheshire Cat smile.

“I think you’ll find that you have your wife’s knickers in your pocket,” I said, a smile plastered across my face. I was hugely conscious of just how galling this must be for him as he grabbed her by the arm and made towards the exit. There is a small test that I’ve used to confirm someone’s interest. I didn’t invent it, it was gifted to me, but it appears to work. I watched them leave, walking to the door, and there it was, only a brief glance over her shoulder, but it was enough.

It’s the little things sometimes, the unexpected. After I had showered and changed, I stood in the courtyard, looking up at the rear facade of this huge mansion, waiting for the driver to collect me. I reached into the pockets of my shorts and unexpectedly pulled out a yellow post-it note. Written on it was a mobile phone number with a short note inserted inside a heart, Call me. Eve, it read, making me smile as I remembered Nick’s threat. If only he knew.

I’m blessed; I know I am. Most men would die to be in my position, but I’m an outsider. I don’t belong with these people, that has been made clear. For all intents and purposes, I was the hired help, and my job was done.

Putting the note back in my pocket, I knew right then that I would call her; I wouldn’t be able to resist the challenge, regardless of the consequences. I waited for a few more minutes in the courtyard, breathing in the warm night air and the sweet scent from the buddleia shrubs, before walking towards an open set of French doors that led from the courtyard into a large dining room.

Bottles of wine were laid out on a big country-style table in the middle of the room, at one end of which was a large glass bowl that contained small sachets of white powder. A few people were gathered together, some I noticed were taking the powder and rubbing on the inside of their mouths, others were cutting into lines and snorting it through short straws, their masks remained, protecting their identity.

I may only be seventeen, but I immediately knew what those sachets contained.

Katarina was sitting, nursing a glass of white wine by a huge unlit fireplace. Being the only person in the room that I recognised, I walked towards her and was rewarded by a surprisingly welcome smile.

“Hi,” I ventured.

“Hi.”

“You okay?” I asked, sitting beside her. As she turned her head to face me, I could see that there was a barely hidden sadness behind her eyes. She shrugged an answer to my question, her shoulders slumped.

“It is what it is,” she said.

“What?”

“Oh, it’s way too complicated.”

“Try me,” I pushed, more than a little intrigued to find out how the confident tease that I saw earlier around the pool, was now a despondent shadow of her former self.

“Nice show earlier,” she answered, changing the subject. I decided to go with it.

“You liked?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. I mean, what can you say, this is all so bizarre, the masks and everything?”

“They are bizarre people, but dangerous.”

“I get that, but I don’t quite know where we fit in.”

“Well, you are here because you can supply a service. I am here because they helped me, and now I have to honour our agreement.” I watched her stare down at the hard, York stone floor, picking out her words carefully.

“I’m in this movie. It’s a big hit,” she laughed.

“Have I heard of it?”

“24 Hours?” she replied, with a look in her eyes that said, ‘you must have heard of it.’ And I had, but I didn’t recognise her from the trailer.

“You’re in that?”

“Yes. I play Sasha.” My face must have been blank, making her laugh at my reaction.

“The spy?” Still nothing.

“Black hair and tight shorts.” As soon as she said that, I knew. But she looked unrecognisable with different coloured hair.

“The arse?”

“You got it,” she said, mocking me with fake applause, “the arse. Anyway, Sam’s production company wanted me, but I had a contract with this guy back home in Slovakia. He was kind of my manager and we had made a few films together; nothing big, but I was getting noticed and he didn’t want me to leave. He wouldn't let me go to America so Sam approached these people for assistance, and to cut a long story short, they have made it all happen.”

“How?”

“I don’t ask questions; I’ve learnt that it’s better not to.”

“But you’re a star now, you don’t have to do this, you can walk away.”

“If there is one thing that I’ve learnt, it’s that nothing is ever given to you. Everything comes at a price. You know the first break I got was modelling swimsuits. It worked and it got my face out there, but the downside was that I had to suck the photographer off. That was the deal.”

“But …”

“There aren’t any buts, Joey, it’s just the way it is, the way it’s always been, I guess. I want something, and they can make it happen. As I said, that’s the deal, the payoff. They got me the role, and …” She shrugged her shoulders in resignation and didn’t say any more; she didn’t need to. If Kingsley's comments around the pool and my part in Henson’s initiation are anything to go by, then what was expected of her was clear.

“You wanna see something spectacular, kid?” On the other side of the fireplace sat a man in a wheelchair. He spoke with a slow southern American drawl, crackling with barely contained excitement. “Sprinkle some of that stuff on the end of your Johnson, and watch the girls go crazy.”

I looked back at Katarina and we both started to laugh; I mean real hysterical laughter that hurts. People began to look over at us as if we were mad, but we couldn’t stop. It was a release from this madness. This whole scene was crazy, these people are crazy, but in that tiny moment, it felt as if only Kat and I could see it.

Unfortunately, our brief interlude of merriment was interrupted by the arrival of Sam Goldstein. His mere presence cast an immediate chill over proceedings, as Kat stood to join him. I watched her as she crossed the room, the figure-hugging white jumpsuit clinging to her body, showing me a glimpse of her wonderful, scene-stealing bottom, aware of what awaited her.

It appeared that she had got her wish, but at what cost, and was it worth it? It summed up most of the people in this building, including myself if I’m honest. Human beings, willing to prostitute themselves for either monetary or career gains.

I grabbed a glass of cold champagne and decided to explore the house. The old man was watching me with a curious smile on his face. He wore a crumpled, cream coloured linen suit, his Panama hat alternating between his head and his hands. It was currently in his hands.

“You really have no idea, do you?” he chuckled.

“What?”

“Seems that youth is wasted on the young,” he began. “Son, are you aware that most of the women in this place would willingly drop their panties for you?”

As he spoke, I noticed a pretty blonde waitress standing at the table filling glasses on a tray. Her complexion wore a permanent, embarrassed pink blush as she poured the red, white and sparkling wine.

I assumed that waiting on guests while wearing nothing but her underwear, wasn’t her usual way to spend a Saturday night, and it didn’t sit comfortably with her. Although her main focus was her work, she was obviously eavesdropping in on the conversation and this was confirmed as her eyes softly shifted from the tray towards me.

“You have a gift, son, one that is craved, don’t waste it,” he continued, placing a thick unlit cigar in his mouth, wetting the dry leaves between his lips. “What do you say, young lady?” The girl visibly flinched as she was unexpectedly brought into the conversation. I observed the old man’s wicked grin as he winked at me, then continued to sketch the woman’s character.

“I am willing to wager that there is a husband waiting back at home, totally unaware of what is happening here in this house of sin, am I right? And I am also prepared to take odds on the reason you are here is monetary. Tell me if I am wrong.”

I looked at her sullen expression, her eyes focused unwaveringly on the tray of glasses in front of her. He appeared to have painted a picture of her life so perfectly that she was speechless as if he had captured her soul.

“I am, of course, more than happy to contribute to the pot. Let’s say fifteen hundred of your English pounds if you kneel before this young man and suck his cock. Five thousand if you bend over the table and let him fuck you.”

The girl closed her eyes and shook her head in mortified indignation but didn’t move from the table. You could almost hear the cogs working in her head at having this proposition dropped into her lap. Two women stood by the French doors that led to the courtyard, listening intently to the conversation, curious to discover how it was going to pan out.

“Did you see this young man perform for us earlier?” he asked, building on her indecision, “and what did you think?”

The girl shrugged her reply. “How does he compare to your husband? My guess is your man pales in comparison. Am I right? And you, my dear, are now in a quandary. You are currently weighing up your options, working out all the connotations. Wondering if you can get away with it, without him knowing, while all the while you are inquisitive as to how it would feel. Am I right?”

Again, the woman said nothing, keeping her eyes cast down on the tray of glasses before her. “Do you have any experience of a cock of his size? Would any of your previous partners come close? Is that the real issue, you’re scared that you might just enjoy it like that woman tonight. Did you see her? Did you see how she yielded to him, even amongst a room full of people?”

I could see her shifting nervously as she absentmindedly played with her hair. ‘My god, she’s going to do it. She’s going to say yes,’ I thought. At that moment, a stern-looking woman appeared in the doorway, enquiring as to why it was taking her so long to collect the wine. The look on the old man’s face said it all, we were so close.

“It’s all my fault,” he said, raising his arms in fake surrender, “I’ve been detaining her unnecessarily, and I apologise.” The girl turned to leave, but not before the old man left her with something to consider.

“I’m happy to let you think it over, miss. Maybe run it by some of your colleagues. I’m easy to find, I don’t move far or fast these days,” he said to her back, as she paused before leaving. As she disappeared, I raised my glass in the old man’s direction with a smile.

“Congratulations.”

“Why?”

“Well, from her reaction, you seemed to have mapped that girl’s life out pretty accurately. How did you figure all that out?” I marvelled.

“Experience,” he chuckled, “why else would an attractive girl like her subject herself to all this, except for money? ‘The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil,’ after all; the bible got that one right. Also, the indent in her third finger, left hand. She recently took off her wedding ring. Why would she have done that? I am prepared to state that I have just given her the opportunity that she was hoping for, but she’s having misgivings.”

“Misgivings?”

“Yeah. In her head, I think she has already made her decision; I could see that in her eyes. The money is way too much to pass up … but her heart? Well, that’s a different matter altogether. She loves her husband and doesn't want to betray him.”

“So, what’s your prediction?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, pondering the question, “the moment may have passed. If that woman hadn’t arrived when she did, I think we would be in a different place from where we are now. My guess is she would currently be bent over that table, with her cute little tush in the air and her panties hanging around one of her ankles. She would also be five thousand pounds richer. I have no idea now, son, evens at best.” I shook my head in amusement, took a sip of champagne, and started to leave.

“Young man,” he called after me, “before you go, will you do me the courtesy of listening to a little advice from a wise old owl. We all have a gift and while some of us are lucky enough to realise it, others spend their whole lives searching. The trick is to use it to your advantage. I am going to guess that you are in your late teens.”

“Seventeen.”

“There you go. So, you have ten, maybe fifteen years to utilise your talent to its maximum potential. In other words, bank as much money as you can before your appeal fades. There are a lot of rich people out there, men and women alike, who will pay handsomely for your services. You will be leaving tonight a lot richer than when you arrived; Yes?” I nodded my head in response and watched him reach inside his jacket and hand me a business card.

“I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, son. I have a keen eye and I back my instincts. It’s a strange world, with a lot of strange people in it. I’ve seen things that you wouldn’t believe, and others I wish I hadn’t. Call me.”

I took the card and added it to the small collection inside the right-hand pocket of my shorts. I don’t know why, but I trusted him. Maybe he was right, and if he were, then perhaps paydays like this could become a regular event.

“You ever tried this stuff?” he said, wheeling himself over towards the table.

“No,” I answered, watching him empty a sachet of the powder onto a glass board, then begin to chop it with a gold credit card. He then licked his little finger and dabbed it into the power and brought it to his mouth.

“Top quality stuff too. Come over here, son, and try some.”

******

“Bonjour la tête endormie.” Sally stood in the doorway with a huge grin. Her hair was wet and was combed back off her face; the white cotton robe that she wore was open at the front, showing the black bikini underneath. “I thought I’d better come and see if you were still alive.”

“What time is it?” I asked, my voice a strained croak as I stared bleary-eyed towards her.

“Two in the afternoon,” she answered, placing a cup of coffee, two paracetamol and my phone on the bedside cabinet. The coffee’s strong aroma wafted towards me, filling the room. “I think you might need these.”

“Who was outside?” I mumbled, picking up my phone and turning it on, “I heard them arguing.”

“Oh, that was Nick and Eve; they’ve just gone. I think it’s safe to say you left an impression.”

“He didn’t sound happy.”

“Well, that’s an understatement,” she giggled, opening the white, slatted blinds, letting in both the afternoon sunshine and heat of the day. “You were certainly the star of the show last night; don’t be surprised to receive a few offers.”

“Not getting jealous, are you?” I teased as she moved towards me, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand resting on my leg.

“Well, I did wait up for you last night, lying on this bed like a jilted teenager.”

“Waiting for what?” I asked, feeling her hand inch up my leg and rub my erect cock through the sheet.

“Guess.”

“Did teacher need my cock?”

“Yes,” she replied, her heavy eyelids looking me in the face as her hand crept under the sheet and wrapping around my aching cock, “I needed you to give me exactly what you gave Eve.”

“And how is our boy this afternoon?” The voice of David Hamilton broke the moment. He stood shirtless in the doorway, wearing a tight pair of orange swimming shorts.

“A little delicate, I think,” Sally answered, quickly removing her hand from under the covers.

“Yeah, well, the combination of cocaine and champagne will do that,” David interrupted, with a half-laugh. He remained in the doorway as if waiting for an invitation to enter. “I’d be surprised if he can remember anything, and perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

Both of them followed my gaze as my attention was unexpectedly diverted by the image of a strikingly pretty Latino woman in the hallway. A short, white towel struggled heroically to restrain her impressively voluptuous frame. Our eyes met fleetingly as she glanced in my direction.

“That’s Rocío,” Sally said, gauging my reaction, “I’m not sure you’ve met her.” The way she said it felt strange to me at the time, but I had seen her before. Seeing her again unlocked more thoughts from last night.

As David and Sally looked at each other, there was a connection, an acknowledgement, a distinct understanding. The kind of look that said, ‘It’s okay, the kid can’t remember a thing,’ but I could, as tiny pieces of this puzzle were slowly beginning to fit together. Not everything, but maybe just enough to begin making sense.

******

I can remember the feeling. It felt good, I mean really good. After a line of Columbia’s finest with the man in the wheelchair, I could feel my heart pumping the bliss through my veins. Everything appeared clear and I felt alive, in control, smiling at the old maids while listening to them purring as I walked past. They all wanted a bit of me, a bit of rough.

For a while it felt like being back at school; the rumour was out, and the girls wanted to see if it was true. Legend has it that I would charge a pound a peek, which isn’t true. That piece of misinformation even made it to the school staff room, which is where I guess Sally first heard about me.

These rich old birds were willing to pay a lot more and I was getting fifty-pound notes offered to me just to unzip my fly and let them see my cock. Listening to the oohs and aahs made me think that maybe the old guy was right, maybe I was selling myself short.

After leaving the old man in the dining room, I wandered aimlessly around the vast house, with the vague intention of finding Sally. As no one had arrived to take me away, I decided to take advantage and hid my features behind a discarded Venetian long nose masquerade mask. For a while, at least, I became the invisible voyeur, peering into the weird, wonderful, and at times disturbing, world of these people.

Margaret Kingsley’s words from earlier floated around my head. “Nothing is off the table,” she had said, and it appeared that nothing could be truer. All their fantasies, kinks and perversions were obtainable, and it seemed that nothing was beyond them. Walking along the building’s labyrinth of wide candlelit hallways, it soon became obvious to me that these people enjoyed exhibiting their capabilities and appetite to the full.

Doors were left wide open, inviting in participants and watchers alike. In one room stood a solidly built man in his mid-thirties; he was naked and was masturbating before a circle of middle-aged women. Catcalls and abuse rained down on him from all sides, everything from the size of his manhood to his inability to perform.

Sweat poured from his brow as a woman rose from her seat, lowered the top half of her dress, and knelt before him, her tongue flicking the man’s swollen purple helmet, as all the time the insults continued. Finally, the man’s legs buckled slightly, and with an anguished moan, a solitary spit of his semen landed on the woman’s naked left breast.

“And again,” a large woman ordered, her dress bunched up around her waist, her tan coloured knickers pulled to one side displaying her moist hairy fanny, above her pale, thick thighs.

“I can’t,” the exhausted man panted.

“You can, and you will.”

“It’s too much,” he pleaded, “that’s three times, and you are asking for more; I can’t, I’m sore.”

“So, a woman is expected to fuck a man as many times as he desires, but when the boot is on the other foot, the man simply refuses to comply?”

“I’m not refusing, I just can’t.”

“Then why did you agree to it? Failure leads to punishment. Do you remember what you signed up to?”

“Yes, but …”

“There are no buts. You are reneging on our agreement. Remind me of the terms again.”

“If I fail, then there will be a forfeit.”

“Correct,” she smirked, “now can you remind me what we agreed on?”

“Please. I just need some time to recover.”

I remained out of sight, half-hidden by the heavy crimson drapes that hung in the hallway, watching the drama unfold before my eyes. It was clear to me that the man had agreed to something that was beyond him, and he was now regretting it.

“Ok. We will give you five minutes. But there will now be a time limit on how long it takes you to complete your next task. I think another five minutes of our time seems fair. And just so we are clear, if you fail, then the forfeit will be activated. Do you remember what it is?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I imagine you do. Your wife will be sent to the purple room. Are you aware of what happens in there?”

“Sort of,” he mumbled, his head downcast in defeat. He must have known then that the game was up. Not only was he exhausted, but now the added pressure of knowing what awaited his failure was surely going to be too much. Just to add to his predicament, a door on the other side of the room opened and one of the waitresses was brought in.

Her wide, disbelieving eyes scanned the spectacle before they finally landed on the man at the centre of the woman’s attention. She stood in silence staring at her naked and broken husband, her face bearing the same beaten expression that I had seen so many times before from people leaving the bookies. They had bet heavily and lost, and now it was time to pay.

“Good,” proclaimed the large woman, “well, my watch is signalling that the five minutes are up, and I will now start the clock on the next five. In your own time.”

The man began to enthusiastically rub his limp and lifeless dick, but already it was apparent that it was hopeless. Soon, four minutes had passed, and the women's attention began to drift from the man’s futile attempt to gain an erection, to his shocked and crestfallen wife.

I tried to conjure up the conversation that at some point the two of them must have had. He would have bragged that achieving the task would be a breeze, met by her encouraging words, saying that she had every confidence in him. I bet that they had already spent some or all of the projected prize money. What is that old saying about counting chickens again? But this was a tough crowd; these people had gained their wealth by being shrewd and only placing their money on sure things. This couple never stood a chance.

“Do you remember the last girl that went to the purple room?” The voice came from an elegantly dressed lady, her light brown hair combed back in a ponytail. The question was addressed to nobody in particular, but I couldn’t help but notice the waitress’s reaction, her eyes scared and tearful as she watched the horror unfold.

The lady stood behind her humiliated husband, her index finger drawing a straight line from the nape of his neck, down his spine before arriving at the crevice of his buttocks. Despite the realisation that all was lost, the poor unfortunate man continued his futile attempt to achieve an erection, his face becoming contorted as he struggled against his own inadequacies and public humiliation.

“I believe it took a while to break her,” the lady continued, “but I think she quite enjoyed the experience in the end. Have you ever enjoyed the attention of multiple lovers, my dear?” she smirked, her hand snaking around the man’s muscular torso, replacing his tired grip on his limp penis with her own.

“This wouldn’t do at all,” she began, her steely gaze fixed on the figure of the shellshocked wife. “I’m afraid you have been failed by your impotent husband and time is up. You must surely realise what this now means.”

There was a brief moment of panic in her expression before she meekly conceded and nodded her head in response. Dead on cue, two men dressed in black arrived and quickly ushered them both out of the room. I assumed that part of the deal was that he had been present to witness whatever was planned; I was beginning to see a pattern forming. What amazed me as I watched them both disappear out of sight along the dimly lit hallway, was how meekly they accepted the situation. There was no protest or even the slightest hint of an argument. They both went willingly to their fate, whatever that may be.

The departure of the man left a void which was unexpectedly filled by the waitress that the old man had tormented earlier. She had innocently arrived armed with a bottle of champagne and was busy refilling the women’s glasses when she unintentionally became the focus of the women’s attention. I guess someone had to replace the evening’s entertainment, and this poor woman’s arrival was almost too perfectly timed.

“Now this young thing is more to my taste,” one of the women purred, much to the amusement of the group. She was a dark-haired woman who spoke sharply through thin painted lips, her emerald green eyes sparkling as she observed the waitress who stood, topping up the glass before her. She shifted deliberately in her seat, displaying the stockinged legs underneath her gown, while continuously studying the waitress’s reaction.

“My dear, have you ever tasted the pleasure of female flesh?” she said, taking the bottle from the waitress and placing it on the floor beside her chair.” I think you will find that you will learn to like it. It suits the far more delicate, feminine palate,” she continued, sliding the gusset of her cream-coloured knickers to one side, exposing her shaven pink labia. The blond-haired waitress stood silently before this privileged gathering. I couldn’t see her facial features, but I could imagine the mortification in her eyes; she was trapped.

“Well, what are you waiting for, girl?” She taunted, “You are, after all, just a servant, aren’t you? My great-grandmother would have had you horsewhipped for even breathing before carrying out a request. Or is that what you want? Do you want to join your colleague and experience the depraved minds of those in the purple room?”

The waitress shook her head and gradually obeyed her orders, descending to her knees as a hum of excited voices filled the air. As she capitulated and bowed her head, a satisfied hiss emitted from the woman’s lips, as tongue met clitoris.

On the right side of the room another woman rose from her chair; her deep red hair hung down off her shoulders, cascading over the familiar white and green summer dress, designed to accentuate her figure, the low-cut neckline tantalisingly exhibiting her impressive cleavage. She still held her mask to her eyes, hiding her full identity. She had seen me, I was convinced. She seemed to stare straight at me as she purposely strode in my direction, only to stop and look out into the dark passageway as she closed the door.

I left the shelter of the velvet curtains as a bawdy peal of laughter resonated from inside the room. I imagined the waitress being passed from woman to woman, each one stealing a little more of her dignity until they grew tired of their prey. I only hope she received a reward that compared favourably to the one that the old man had offered her earlier in the evening.

I crossed the hall towards a set of stairs that led to a second floor, getting myself lost amongst the maze of corridors. Only the soft blue light from the crescent moon outside lit my way, shining through the large windows that lined the wide hallway. Suddenly, the soft glow of flickering candlelight pulled me further in; its dancing light cast shimmering shadows across the floor and out into the dark from the open door. I couldn’t resist.

As I peeked into the oversized bedroom, the scene that greeted me was quite a revelation. A naked man knelt on the patterned rug while an equally naked pair of hairy men’s legs splayed either side of him. The man’s head bobbed up and down, obviously sucking on his anonymous partner’s member. Quietly, I took a half-pace forward, conscious to remain hidden, straining on the very edge of the long-lit fingers of light that reached out into the darkness.

Sitting on an armchair on the right side of the room was a woman who I had seen earlier at dinner. Her yellow summer dress looked a size too small for her, the buttons at the top testing the thread to its limit. Behind her stood Rocío, her hands running over the royal shoulders and down over the light cotton, cupping her breasts.

On the opposite side of the room stood a large dressing table with two candles placed in holders either side of an imposing mirror, giving the room its only light, but my attention was drawn to the salmon pink shirt and blue cargo shorts that hung off the back of a chair.

It was him; it had to be.

I looked on, hearing the moans of encouragement, before noticing the glint from the gold Rolex watch that hung on his left wrist, the same watch that I had seen previously as he handed me an envelope full of cash, the hand that now combed through the man’s thinning brown hair, grabbing it in his fist and forcing him down onto his cock.

It was him; I knew it.

“I’m going to cum,” he grimaced, the words catching in his throat as the kneeling man’s head stopped and he leaned back on his heels. For the first time, I caught a shadowed glimpse of his face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned towards his wife. It was the recognisable and highly respected Sir Henry Whittaker, Olympic gold medal winner and national treasure. I can still picture my mum jumping around our front room, screaming in celebration as his clear round in the jump-off claimed gold.

“Are enjoying yourself, Sophie?” he asked, his words slurred as he stumbled towards the dressing table and swallowed the contents from a whisky glass before pouring himself another.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” she replied, looking over despairingly at her husband. It was only at that moment that I recalled her name and who she was. I remembered the news coverage of them getting married and seeing her at various royal engagements on the television.

The press called her ‘the nation’s princess’ for her work with various charities and good causes, but unlike many with royal connections, there had never been even a hint of scandal; they were the perfect couple. Yet here she was, sitting back in a large armchair, her female companion massaging her breasts while watching her husband suck the Home Secretary's cock. What a picture.

Hamilton pushed himself up the mattress, leaning back on the headboard, his semi-erect cock lying across his pelvis. Whitaker joined him on the bed, placing his hand on Hamilton’s chest as they embraced in a kiss.

“What do you want?” he asked, nibbling on Hamilton’s ear, his voice dramatically playful.

“Oh, I think it is only right and fitting that we let her majesty decide,” Hamilton teased, picking up on his lover’s tone.

“Do what you want,” Sophie snorted.

“But we are at your command, my lady,” he dutifully replied.

“Yes, my dear,” Whitaker added, “what do you say?”

“Fuck him if you want, you are fucking everything else,” she said, as Rocío bent over her and undid all the buttons down the front of her dress, parting the material like a curtain to reveal her pale, oversized royal breasts.

“Is that an order?” Whitaker asked, his cock straining in Hamilton’s grasp.

“Yes,” she snapped, yelping as Rocío prized the heaving bosoms from the shackles of her bra, and pinched her erect nipples between her thumb and forefinger.

“Say it, then. Order him.” The challenge was met with a chorus of giggles from those gathered as Hamilton turned and lay face down on the bed, his bottom raised to expose the dark black butt plug that was inserted into his anus. Whitaker leaned over him, his mouth down close to his ear, his taut, wiry arms either side of Hamilton’s naked body. Quickly the plug was removed, replaced by Whitaker’s hard cock poised at the entrance of Hamilton’s gaping orifice.

“We await your instruction, my love,” he taunted.

“Ok,” she said exasperatedly, leaving her seat and standing at the foot of the bed. For the first time, the scowl that she wore on her face was replaced by an impish grin, her dress falling away as she stood, letting it tumble down her body. Time and the effects of a privileged lifestyle hadn’t been kind to her.

Overindulgence and childbearing had certainly taken its toll on the once delicate royal figure, and as she stood there in just a pair of plain white knickers, you couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. It was obvious that she was reluctant and only playing along with this to please her overbearing and bullying husband.

She began by clearing her throat and adopting a cod regal accent. Playing the part of an 1850’s dowager, “By royal decree, I hereby sentence the right honourable David Hamilton, to be sodomised in my presence. This act is to be executed by my husband, Sir Henry James Whitaker, for my pleasure.” A round of applause greeted the completion of the proclamation, while in the hallway I was scared to breathe, one foot piercing the orange glow on the carpet as if I were being pulled in by some unseen force.

“Do it,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion, raising her arm like a Roman empress and turning her thumb upside down.

Hamilton lay with his face buried in the pillow, his arms stretched out wide, gripping the edge of the mattress like a crucifix. Whitaker spat on the palm of his hand, first coating his penis with saliva, then inserting two glutinous fingers into Hamilton’s anus.

The grimaced scowl as Whitaker pushed his hips forward piecing Hamilton’s sphincter made me wince, but it only served to heighten the sense of theatre in the room, as slowly Whitaker’s strokes began to gain momentum, and soon the sound of his pelvis slapping against Hamilton’s bare buttocks resounded down the dark empty hall.

The thing that surprised me most was my reaction. I was absorbed in what I saw. I assumed that I would feel repulsed by watching two men, or at the very least a sense of disinterest. But I didn’t. Quite the opposite in fact and of course, it could have been the effects of the Viagra, or even the atmosphere in the room, but I was engrossed, aroused, I could feel it. I was intrigued to know how it would feel, and that was something that I hadn't accounted for, and certainly didn’t expect.

“Does this please you, your highness?” Whitaker grunted, the question aimed at his naked wife, who had remained standing, watching her husband’s athletic rump rise and fall, “how does it feel finally to see your husband fuck another man?” He mocked her, leaning his head back maniacally, howling at the ceiling. There was a cruelty in his manner as if he were taunting her, rubbing his sexual preference in her face. Sophie sighed an inaudible answer while looking over dejectedly towards Rocío.

“Show me,” she said, reaching out her arms, inviting the statuesque Latin beauty to join her.

“Qué quieres, as alteza real?” she answered, walking towards her. She wore a short black dress that highlighted her long, tanned legs. A mane of black hair hung loosely off her shoulders and down her back.

The sound of the two men grew louder as if they were putting on a show, an exaggerated grunting snarl emitting from Whitaker’s lips, met by Hamilton’s whimpering mewl, his head lying flat on the bed as Whitaker rutted him forcefully from behind, his hands placed on Hamilton’s hips.

“Show me,” Sophie asked again, her indifference drawing a smouldering smirk across Rocío’s face, as she reached behind her back and unzipped the dress. As it slipped from her shoulders, a multicoloured tattoo that covered the whole of her right arm was revealed. It began with a red rose on her shoulder, its stem creeping down towards her wrist, with demons and devils hanging off the thorns. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her large, distended breasts stood out before her, two perfect orbs, fake and lifeless.

The two women stood in the middle of the room, as close as two people could be without actually touching. It was Rocío who made the first move, leaning in and angling her head to one side, opening her mouth as their lips met. The tips of Sophie’s fingers ran softly down the side of the Latina’s body, and then up towards her breasts, her finger tracing a circle around the woman’s dark pimpled areola, then brushing her erect nipple with the palm of her hand.

From my vantage point, it was obvious that the woman worked out, her body was finely chiselled from her rounded shoulders to her tapered waist, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her, and her arse couldn’t have looked better if it had been sculptured by Bryan Collins.

There was a hush in the room as Rocío hitched her thumbs under the thin elastic band of her black thong. I noticed that the two men on the bed had stopped and now lay in a breathless heap, their limbs entangled like the branches of an unpruned apple tree. Dramatically, as the thin piece of underwear was lowered down her bare legs, my eyes widening in astonishment as a large, circumcised cock swung between her legs.

“You told me that she was beautiful, David, but I wasn’t expecting her to be so gifted,” Whitaker gushed, as they both stared at the sight before them.

“You can touch if you like, it’s real,” Rocío said, shivering as Sophie’s index finger traced a line from the woman’s shaven pubic area to the impressively bulbous crown, her wide disbelieving eyes staring at this anatomical impossibility. Pushing Sophie down by the shoulders, she landed on the edge of the bed, her bemused face directly in line with the woman’s cock.

Saying ‘woman’ feels wrong somehow, but that is how I saw it. Everything about her was feminine; her face, figure and voice were all that of an extremely sexy woman; it was only the very male organ that hung between her legs that muddied the waters. I had never seen anything like it before, and have to admit that at first, I thought it was a joke.

“Don’t be shy,” Whitaker said to his wife, as Hamilton leaned over and kissed his way down the man’s hairless chest, bowing his head between Whitaker’s outstretched legs, taking his cock into his mouth. Sophie looked stunned; she remained frozen to the spot, her gaze slipping from the woman’s cock to the two naked men on the bed.

Unexpectedly my attention was interrupted as the sudden glare of the security lights outside lit the hallway. Worried that my presence would be discovered, I quickly moved away from the room, scurrying down back down the long corridor, heading towards a large lead-panelled window and the source of the light.

Outside, a black Mercedes estate car was parked on the gravel driveway. All five of its doors were open, and as I looked down, I saw a group of men hurrying back and forth between the car and the house, shouting out inaudibly, but judging by their body language, panicked orders at each other. That’s when I felt a sharp stab on the right side of my neck.

And the whole world went black.