Chapter Six
The gold lace set is less of an outfit and more of a suggestion.
It consists of a sheer, shimmering gold bralette that barely covers my nipples and a matching G-string that disappears into the crease of my ass.
Over it, I wear a translucent gold robe that billows behind me, leaving nothing to the imagination.
The silver collar remains, a stark, cold contrast to the warmth of the gold, reminding me that no matter how pretty I look, I am still property.
The day leading up to the dinner is spent in a state of high-tension readiness.
Elton and Leon have a way of keeping me on edge; they don't always give me orders, but the expectation of an order is a leash in itself.
I spend the afternoon preparing the dining hall, my hips swaying under the robe, knowing that every time I bend over to polish a wine glass or straighten a linen napkin, I am being watched.
The estate’s security cameras are everywhere, and I know Elton is watching me from his office, probably zooming in on the way the gold lace strains against my skin. The thought makes my pussy ache, a dull, constant throb that hasn't left me since the session in the sensory room.
"Rosemarie," Elton’s voice booms as I enter the drawing room.
I stop instantly, my heels clicking on the marble. I sink into a deep, slow curtsy, the robe sliding off my shoulders to reveal the gold lace. I keep my eyes downcast, my breathing shallow.
"The guests are thirsty," Elton says, his hand resting on the small of my back. His touch is possessive, his fingers splaying across my skin. "Show them how well you've been learning your place."
I am directed to the sideboard where the vintage wines are laid out. My task is simple: pour the wine and serve the appetizers. But the "service" is the excuse. As I move from guest to guest, the atmosphere is thick with predatory intent.
I lean over Julian to fill his glass, and I feel his hand immediately find the curve of my ass, his fingers digging into the flesh, pulling me closer. I don't flinch; I lean into it, my breast brushing against his shoulder.
"She looks... polished," Julian murmurs, his voice a low growl. "The rough edges are gone."
"She's becoming a masterpiece," Elton replies from across the room, sipping his drink.
As I move to Silas, he doesn't wait for the wine.
He reaches out and grabs my wrist, pulling me sharply toward him.
I stumble, my chest pressing against his thigh.
He doesn't look at my face; he looks straight down at the gold lace covering my breasts.
With a sudden, violent motion, he hooks a finger under the lace and flicks my nipple, the sharp pinch sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
I let out a soft, involuntary whimper.
"Still so sensitive," Silas chuckles. "I wonder if she still tastes like the mess we made of her last time."
The dinner is a choreographed exercise in humiliation.
I am not allowed to sit, nor am I allowed to stand still.
I am required to kneel beside the table, moving from chair to chair to refill glasses or clear plates.
The position is grueling; my knees ache against the hard floor, and the gold robe has long since been discarded, leaving me exposed to the gaze of eight people who view me as a piece of living furniture.
The conversation is detached, discussing mergers, acquisitions, and art, while beneath the table, a different kind of business is being conducted.
Alistair, the newcomer, is the most subtle.
He doesn't touch me at first. He simply watches.
His gaze is clinical, stripping me bare more effectively than any hand could.
When it is finally his turn for a refill, he doesn't take the glass.
Instead, he reaches down and slides his hand up my inner thigh, his palm hot against my skin.
He doesn't stop at the top. His fingers find the thin string of the G-string and tug it aside, sliding two fingers deep into my soaking wet pussy.
I gasp, my back arching, the wine bottle trembling in my hand.
"Quiet, Rosemarie," Leon warns from the head of the table. His eyes are dark, enjoying my struggle for composure. "A good maid doesn't make noise during dinner."
I bite my lip, my eyes watering, as Alistair begins to work his fingers inside me.
He isn't gentle. He pumps his fingers in and out with a rhythmic, demanding pace, his thumb grinding against my clit through the thin fabric.
I am forced to keep pouring the wine, my hand shaking, while my insides are being ravaged by a stranger.
The contrast is maddening—the clink of silverware, the polite laughter of the guests, and the wet, slapping sound of Alistair’s fingers inside me.
I feel a wave of heat crash over me, my pussy clamping down on him in desperate pulses.
I am on the verge of a public climax, the sheer taboo of the situation pushing me over the edge.
"I think she's reaching her limit," Alistair observes, his voice devoid of emotion, though his fingers accelerate, driving deeper.
"Not yet," Elton says. "She hasn't earned her release."
With a sudden movement, Alistair withdraws his fingers, leaving me feeling empty and shivering. He wipes his hand on a linen napkin and looks at Elton. "She has excellent tone. Your training is impressive."
The dinner ends, but the evening is only beginning. The guests migrate to the lounge, a room filled with oversized velvet sofas and dim, amber lighting. I am led to the center of the room and told to strip.
I do so slowly, my eyes locked on Elton's.
I peel away the gold lace, letting the bra and panties fall to the floor.
I stand there, completely naked, the silver collar the only thing I'm wearing.
I feel the weight of their collective gaze—the hunger, the ownership, the absolute lack of respect.
And I love it. I crave the feeling of being nothing more than an object for their pleasure.
"The game tonight is 'The Carousel'," Elton announces.
The rules are simple: I am to be positioned in the center of the room, and each guest will take a turn using me however they wish for five minutes. The catch is that I am not allowed to reach orgasm until the very end, and only if Elton deems my performance satisfactory.
Julian is first. He doesn't waste time. He flips me over, shoving my face into the velvet of the sofa and hiking my ass high into the air.
He doesn't use lubrication; he just rams himself into me with a brutal, dry force that makes me scream into the fabric.
He fucks me with a frantic, punishing energy, his hands gripping my waist so hard I know there will be bruises tomorrow.
He doesn't care about my pleasure; he only cares about his own release.
When he finishes, he dumps his load deep inside me and pulls out with a wet pop, leaving me shaking and leaking.
Then comes Silas. He prefers my mouth. He forces me onto my back, pulling my legs up over my shoulders so my pussy is flared open and vulnerable.
He doesn't touch my cunt, though. He grabs my hair and shoves his cock down my throat, gagging me, forcing me to take every inch.
He uses my mouth like a toy, his hips slamming against my chin, the smell of musk and sweat filling my senses.
By the time he pulls away, I am drooling, my throat raw, my eyes glazed with a mixture of submission and lust.
The women guests, Claire and another woman named Elena, take their turns next.
Their approach is different—more psychological.
They use small, handheld vibrators and ice cubes, teasing my nipples and my clit, bringing me to the very edge of a climax and then stopping abruptly.
They whisper insults into my ear, calling me a "pretty little hole," a "worthless pet," stripping away the last remnants of my ego.
By the time Alistair steps forward, I am a wreck. I am covered in the cum of the other men, my skin flushed, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
Alistair doesn't use my mouth or my pussy.
He turns me around and forces me to kneel, my chest pressed against the floor.
He enters me from behind, but he does it slowly, almost painfully.
He doesn't ram; he slides, filling me completely, his movements deliberate and controlling.
He reaches around to grip my throat, squeezing just enough to make my vision swim, his other hand massaging my breasts.
"You are a very obedient thing, aren't you, Rosemarie?" he whispers.
I can't answer, my throat constricted, but I moan into the carpet, my hips grinding back against him, begging for the friction to turn into an explosion.
As Alistair finishes, his body shuddering as he fills me, he pulls back and looks at Elton. "She's ready."
Elton stands up and walks toward me. He looks down at me—naked, used, covered in the evidence of the room's lust. He reaches down and grabs the chain of my collar, pulling my head up so I have to look at him.
"Did you enjoy serving our guests, Rosemarie?"
"Yes... Master," I sob, the words broken and desperate.
"Then you may have your reward."
Leon steps in then, joining Elton. They don't let me move. They position me between them, a living bridge of flesh. Leon takes my mouth, and Elton takes my pussy, entering me with a sudden, violent thrust that makes me scream.
The double penetration is the catalyst. The buildup of the entire night—the teasing, the humiliation, the raw power of the guests—all of it converges into a single point of intensity. I feel my internal muscles clamping down on Elton, my throat tight around Leon.
I don't just climax; I shatter. My entire body convulses in a violent, prolonged orgasm that feels like it's tearing me apart from the inside. I am sobbing, my eyes rolling back in my head, as I feel both brothers hit their peak.
They erupt simultaneously, filling me and my throat with hot, thick seed. I collapse under their weight, my mind going white, the world disappearing until there is nothing left but the feeling of them inside me.
As the guests begin to leave, chatting casually about the evening's entertainment, I am left lying on the lounge floor. I am a mess of fluids and bruises, my body humming with a deep, exhausted satisfaction.
Elton leans down and kisses my forehead, a gesture that is almost tender, yet entirely possessive.
"Clean the room, Rosemarie," he says softly. "And then come to my bedroom. I have some new rules I want to discuss with you."
I lick my lips, tasting the salt of Leon's cum, and smile. I don't want the rules to stop. I want to be pushed further. I want to see exactly how much of myself I can give away before there is nothing left but the collar.