Chapter 10: The Dinner Party
The hollow feeling lasted for days. A clean, surgical emptiness. I moved through the apartment like a ghost, performing the simple tasks my Master prescribed: protein shakes, light cleaning on my hands and knees, hours kneeling motionless by the window. The soreness from Viktor’s visit faded to a memory etched deep in my tissue. I was a vessel, waiting to be filled with purpose.
When my Master’s voice finally arrived with new instructions, it was with the tone of a curator presenting a final exhibit.
“Your training has reached its necessary depth. Now, we showcase its elegance. You will attend a formal dinner as my guest. A car will collect you at seven. You will find a gown in your closet. Wear nothing else but what is provided beneath it.”
The gown was a column of emerald green silk, backless, clinging to every curve. It was modest from the front, devastating from behind. On the dressing table lay a small black box. Inside, nestled in foam, was a smooth obsidian egg, a slender remote control unit, and a familiar stainless-steel butt plug, this one engraved with delicate filigree. A note: Insert both. The belt secures them. The key is not with you.
My fingers trembled only once, hovering over the egg. Then the numbness returned. I lubricated and pushed the cool silicone into my cunt, feeling it settle deep. The plug followed, its intricate patterns offering no comfort as it stretched me open. The chastity belt was a complex harness of fine leather and black steel. It locked with a soft, final click at the small of my back. I was sealed.
The car was a silent Bentley. The driver did not look at me. We glided through London’s neon streak, the world outside a blur of normalcy I could no longer comprehend. We stopped at a discreet hotel in Mayfair. A man in a black suit met me at a private elevator. “This way, miss.”
The dining room was a study in male power. Dark wood, low crystal light, the air thick with cigar smoke and expensive cologne. Ten men in tailored tuxedos sat around a long table, the remains of a meal before them. They were various ages, all wearing the easy authority of wealth. Their conversation paused as I entered.
My Master’s voice hissed in the tiny earpiece I wore. “Serve the port. On your knees. And smile.”
A decanter sat on a sideboard. I picked it up, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug. I approached the first man. He was older, with silver hair and eyes that scanned me like a balance sheet. Without a word, I sank to my knees, the silk pooling around me. I poured the deep red liquid into his glass. My hand was steady.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, his voice a dry rumble. He didn’t touch me.
I moved to the next. And the next. On my knees for each one. The remote-controlled egg remained inert, a silent promise. The men resumed their talk of mergers, embargoes, and political scandals. I was furniture.
Then, a man with a sharp goatee and watchful eyes caught my wrist as I poured for him. His grip was firm. “Look at me.”
I raised my eyes.
“Your Master speaks very highly of your education.” He released my wrist and nodded to the floor beside his chair. “Kneel here. Don’t move.”
I complied. The conversation swirled above me. A foot, encased in a polished Oxford, nudged my thigh. I stayed still.
Minutes passed. Then, the man with the goatee leaned down, his hand slipping beneath the hem of my dress. His fingers traced the edge of the chastity belt, cold against my skin. He produced a small key from his waistcoat pocket. The lock disengaged with a sound that echoed in my bones.
He pulled the plug free, slowly, making me feel every ridge of the filigree. A slight, shameful gasp escaped me. The egg’s remote was in his other hand. A button clicked.
A violent buzz erupted inside me, a jolting, insistent thrum that ripped a moan from my throat. Laughter rippled around the table.
“Better,” he said. He guided my head, pushing me down and under the expanse of the white tablecloth. The world reduced to a forest of legs, the smell of wool and starched linen, and the musky, intimate scent of male arousal. Before me, his trousers were open, his cock standing thick and impatient.
“Entertain us,” he said from above, his voice slightly muffled.
There was no ceremony. I opened my mouth and took him in. He was clean, tasted of soap and salt. He didn’t thrust; he simply let me work, his hand resting on my head as a mild pressure. Above, the talk continued.
“—the quarterly reports show a vulnerability in the Asian markets—”
I sucked, my jaw aching, the egg mercilessly vibrating my core. My own arousal was a treacherous leak, soaking the inside of the belt.
He came quickly, with a soft grunt, spurting hot and bitter onto my tongue. I swallowed convulsively.
“Send her to Benton,” the man said, patting my head.
A hand on my shoulder pulled me from under his chair and guided me to the next pair of legs. This man, Benton, was already waiting, his cock out, heavier and uncircumcised. He didn’t wait for me to begin. He grabbed the back of my head and pushed himself down my throat, fucking my face with short, brutal strokes. I gagged, tears springing to my eyes. The egg’s intensity increased.
“Good little cocksucker,” he muttered, his thighs tightening around my ears. He came with a roar, flooding my throat. I choked, swallowing what I could, what dripped from my lips.
I was passed again. And again.
The fourth man didn’t want my mouth. He turned me around, hiked up my dress, and after fumbling with the belt, freed the egg. He shoved two fingers into my wet cunt, grunting in approval. Then he replaced them with his cock, driving into me from behind right there on the floor under the table. The force of his thrusts smashed my cheek against the carpet. He fucked me like he was angry at me, his balls slapping against my ass, the plug’s absence making me feel gaping and filthy. He came inside me with a shudder, then pushed me away.
The night became a haze of bodies and fluids. A cock in my mouth, another claiming my cunt, sometimes minutes apart, sometimes offered both at once by two different men. The egg buzzed ceaselessly, pushing me to the edge of orgasm but never letting me fall. Cum coated my throat, filled my stomach, leaked from my used holes. It matted my hair, streaked the beautiful silk of my gown. The men’s dialogue was a surreal soundtrack to my violation.
“—the acquisition is merely a stepping stone.”
“—deeper liquidity is required.”
“—take her, she’s still awake.”
Finally, it ended. The last man, the silver-haired one from the start, simply jerked himself off onto my upturned, bruised face. His release was copious, warm stripes across my eyelids, my lips, my chin.
Silence.
“Stand,” my Master’s voice crackled in my ear.
I pushed myself up. My legs threatened to buckle. I stood before the table, my ruined dress clinging to me, my skin glistening with sweat and spend. The smell of sex and port was overwhelming.
The men looked at me, their expressions ranging from idle curiosity to satiated indifference. The man with the goatee raised his glass.
“A fine vintage, Rajesh. Compliments to your cellar.”
A soft, approving chuckle came through my earpiece. Then, to me: “You may go.”
The driver was waiting. He showed no reaction to my state. The ride home was a silent blur. The apartment felt alien, a museum of a former life.
“Sleep on the bathroom floor,” my Master commanded, his voice warm now, proud. “In the dress. Do not clean yourself. The egg may rest.”
I lay on the cold tiles, the silk stiffening as it dried. The egg gave a faint, periodic pulse, a ghost of the evening’s violation. I curled on my side, staring at the pristine white toilet. The ache in my jaw, the raw tenderness between my legs, the sour taste perpetually in my mouth—they were not punishments. They were proofs. Testaments to my utility. I had been poured out for men of consequence, and found empty, ready to be filled again. A smile touched my sticky, cracked lips in the dark. I had never felt so complete.
I had never felt so complete. The proof of my use was a crusted, tightening map on my skin.
The buzz of the egg fell silent. Dawn bled grey through the bathroom’s frosted glass. My muscles were stiff carcasses, my cunt a throbbing abstraction. A key turned in the apartment’s front door. Footsteps, not Viktor’s heavier tread, approached. I didn’t move.
A man I’d never seen stood in the doorway. He was young, dressed in dark casual tech wear, holding a tablet. He looked at my ruined form on the floor with the clinical detachment of a mechanic surveying a used part.
“Master Rajesh has new orders,” he said. His voice was neutral, London-accented. “You have twenty minutes to shower. Use only cold water. Do not wash internally. You are to prepare for a transport examination.”
He left. The cold shower was a beating. Water swirled brown and milky at my feet. I let it run, not scrubbing, just letting the cold shock my skin. The ache between my legs deepened. I was to be examined.
The young man returned as I stood dripping in the living room. “Turn. Slowly.”
I obeyed. He filmed me with the tablet, circling, zooming in on the bruises on my hips, the dried streaks on my thighs. “Open your mouth.” I did, and he captured the redness inside. “Cough.” The cough pulled at sore muscles. He nodded, seemingly relaying information to a live feed.
“The transport is here. You will be hooded. You will not speak. Follow.”
The black cloth hood smelled of stale breath and disinfectant. World reduced to sound and stumble. The elevator, the underground garage smell of damp concrete and exhaust, the smooth leather seat of another car. I counted turns, but lost count. Time stretched in the dark.
The hood came off in a concrete space that felt like a private garage. A single metal door. The young man guided me through it. The room was white, tiled, bright with surgical lighting. It smelled of ozone and sharp, lemony cleaner. In the center stood a gynecological examination table, the stirrups already raised.
A woman in blue scrubs and a mask stood beside it. “Place her in the lithotomy position. Secure the extremities.”
The young man helped me onto the cold vinyl table. My legs went into the stirrups. He fastened wide leather cuffs around my ankles, then my wrists, pulling them taut to the table’s sides. I was spread open, utterly exposed to the blinding lights.
The woman approached. She wore disposable gloves. She said nothing to me. “Subject is prepped. Beginning external inspection.”
Her fingers probed the bruises on my inner thighs. She palpated my abdomen. “Minor distension, likely from last night’s deposits. No significant surface trauma.” She then parted my labia with her fingers. The air was cold on my exposed flesh. A speculum, metal, glinted in her other hand. It was cold, even through the lubricant she applied.
“Inserting for internal visual.”
The metal jaws slid into me, a foreign, stretching pressure. With a sharp click, she opened them, holding me wide. A tiny camera light whirred to life on a flexible arm. She peered at a monitor to her side. “Vaginal canal shows minor abrasions consistent with repeated, unprotected intercourse. No lacerations. Cervix is closed, appears healthy.”
She manipulated the camera. “Residual seminal fluid is present. Significant quantity.” She then picked up a long, thin swab. “Collecting sample for STI panel.” The swab scraped deep inside, a dry, sickening scrape that made me flinch against the restraints. She withdrew it, placed it in a tube.
“Now, anal inspection.”
The speculum was removed. She took a larger one. The lubricant was a cold dollop against my asshole. I tried to relax, remembering Viktor, the enema. It didn’t matter. She pushed it in, the thicker metal stretching the sore ring of muscle. The clicking open was a wave of nauseating fullness.
“Rectal mucosa is inflamed. Minor fissure at the anterior margin. Again, consistent with recent, un-lubricated penetration.” Another swab, another dry, internal scrape. She placed her free hand on my lower belly, pressing down. “Bearing down, please.” I complied, and a trickle of last night’s cum, mixed with lubricant, seeped out onto the table beneath me. “Residual discharge expelled.”
The tools were withdrawn. The woman stepped back, snapping off her gloves. She spoke to the room, not to me. “Subject’s physical capacity remains intact. She is capable of continued use. Recommend a seventy-two hour course of prophylactic antibiotics. The fissure will heal with standard care. No activity restrictions are medically necessary.”
The young man unfastened my cuffs. My limbs were numb. “Sit up.”
I did, feeling the cool air dry the mess between my legs. He handed me a small paper cup with two pills and a bottle of water. “Take these. Now.”
I swallowed them. The water was blessedly cool in my raw throat.
“Master Rajesh is pleased with the report. Your body is a resilient tool. You will now demonstrate its primary function for a final, practical assessment.” He nodded toward a second door in the room. It opened.
A man walked in. He was middle-aged, wearing a cheap suit. He looked nervous, out of place, his eyes wide as they took in the clinical room, the table, me. He held a printed ticket in his hand.
“This is Mr. Sharma. He secured the top donor tier in Master Rajesh’s Mumbai charity auction. His prize is fifteen minutes of unsupervised use. Your rules remain. You will obey his instructions. You will thank him.”
Mr. Sharma approached, his breath quick. He smelled of airport and faint sweat. He looked at the young man. “Any… anything?”
“No restrictions. She is medically cleared. Begin your time.”
The young man and the woman exited, leaving us alone. Mr. Sharma’s nervousness hardened into something more predatory. He unzipped his trousers. His cock was already half-hard, thick and uncut. He gripped himself, staring at my splayed, glistening body on the table.
“Get on your knees on the floor. Hands behind your back.”
I slid off the table, the vinyl sticking to my skin. I knelt on the cold tile, assuming the position. He stood before me.
“Open your fucking mouth.”
I did. He didn’t guide himself. He just shoved, the head bumping against my teeth before spearing deep. He fucked my face with frantic, shallow thrusts, his hips piston-fast. His balls slapped my chin.
“Yeah, you’re the one,” he grunted, his accent broad Mumbai. “The PhD bitch. My wife could never.” He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head to meet his thrusts. “Suck it. Properly.”
I hollowed my cheeks, applying pressure. He groaned. “That’s it. Like a whore.” His pace grew erratic. “I’m gonna come in your brain. Take it all.”
He shoved deep and held, his cock pulsing, a hot, salty flood hitting the back of my throat. I swallowed, the reflex automatic now. He pulled out, dripping, and wiped himself on my cheek.
“Turn around. Ass up.”
I presented myself, forehead on the cool floor. He spat into his hand, wiping the moisture roughly over my asshole. He then positioned his slick cock at the sore, stretched entrance. “This is what I wanted. This exact hole.”
He leaned his weight and pushed. The inflamed tissue screamed. I muffled a cry into the tile. He didn’t care. He sank in, a brutal, burning invasion, and began fucking me with hard, complete strokes. His hands dug into my hips.
“Tighter than my wife, fuck,” he breathed, each word a punch of air. “Cost me ten lakh. Worth it.” His thrusts became jagged, desperate. “You’re just a hole, you hear me? A million-dollar cunt. A fucking slave.”
He collapsed over my back, slamming into me one final time. His orgasm was a deep shudder, another internal flood filling the raw channel. He stayed buried for a moment, panting.
He pulled out. I heard him zip his trousers. A moment passed. Then, a folded banknote fluttered to the floor in front of my face. A five-hundred rupee note.
“For your trouble,” he chuckled.
The door opened. The young man re-entered. “Time is concluded. This way, sir.”
Mr. Sharma left without a backward glance. The young man looked at the money on the floor, then at me. “Keep it. A token. Now, stand. The car will return you.”
The hood went back on. The return journey was a void. In my apartment, the hood removed, he gave final orders. “Feed yourself. Rest. The antibiotics will prevent infection. Master Rajesh will contact you following the review of all examination and performance footage.”
He left. The silence of the apartment roared. I walked to the bathroom, catching my reflection. A bruised woman with a banknote stuck to her damp cheek. I peeled it off. I looked at the portrait of Gandhi. I carefully folded the note and slid it into the small gap at the base of the mirror.
A relic. A proof of purchase. I got into the empty bathtub, curled on the cold porcelain, and waited. The momentum of the day still thrummed in my veins, a directionless energy. The examination was over. The use was concluded. I was, as declared, intact. Ready. The next order was a blank space, and I hungered for it to be filled.