Audacity (Seraph)

The lacquered wood of the conference table is cold and smooth against my bottom. They set me right on the edge, so I’m less sitting than perching, my legs spread and feet planted on the ground, my knuckles grazing the surface of the table.

I wonder if this pose will remind Gabe of my audition, or whether he’s too busy battling a whole maelstrom of emotions to make the connection.

There’s a pause, during which I hear only our breathing and the pulse of the music someone’s turned on—an aria over a sensual beat. I’m suspended between apprehension and anticipation. Then, presumably, a silent signal, for they begin to touch me.

Hands everywhere.

Cuffing my ankles.

Sliding up my calves.

Grazing my inner thighs.

Caressing my forearms.

My biceps.

Brushing over my stomach.

Then one of them takes my jaw between his thumb and forefinger and tilts my head.

Someone licks down my neck.

Palms are pressed to my breasts, ghosting over my nipples before pinching them. It feels so, so good that I arch my body, sliding my hands backwards on the table for purchase and letting my head hang back.

Three fingers are pushed imperiously into my mouth, and I suck obligingly.

‘That’s a good girl,’ someone mutters, and then the same fingers pull out and find my entrance, driving in hard. I whimper at the welcome invasion, revelling in the stretch as well as in the knowledge that I have no clue which of them has his body parts inside me. I can sense them closing in, all of them, the scents of cologne and body heat and champagne crowding me.

I spread my legs wider to take the finger-fucking this guy is giving me. Someone kneads one breast, plucking at the nipple, as someone else bends and sucks hard on my other breast.

My tits are being worked by two different men, my pussy by a third, and it’s glorious. It’s just glorious. I moan softly to show quite how well their efforts are landing.

‘Look at her take those fingers,’ Benedict drawls. ‘I think that’s earned her some clit action, don’t you? And some arse action.’

‘Hang on,’ someone says, muffled, and there’s movement around me. I sense that one of them has got to his knees. Judging from the way the fingers inside me flex, it’s the same guy. Next thing I know, his tongue is on my clit, rough and hungry, and I full-on cry out as I abandon myself to this sensory overwhelm.

Someone clambers onto the table behind me, holding my ponytail aside so he can kiss my neck and massage my shoulders. It’s Gabe! I recognise the imprint of his mouth and beard on my skin. I hum in delight.

‘You’re doing so well,’ he croons in my ear. ‘So fucking well.’ He tugs my jaw away from whoever was holding it and comes in for a hungry kiss, fucking me slowly and deeply with his tongue. I give him my best moan, right into his mouth. His view over my shoulder must be pretty full on right now as he watches his mates go to town on me.

I am lapping this shit up. Full body massages need a new name, because this is what I call a full body massage: men crawling all over me, kissing my skin and laving at my clit and fucking me with their fingers. Their bodies may have formed a shield around me, but the predators are within.

‘Budge,’ Benedict says. ‘I’m taking her arse.’

My legs are stretched wider, one knee pulled up, and I brace myself harder on my bound hands. There’s some jostling for position, then comes a spitting sound, and a finger is probing me back there. Fuck—it’s been a while. I’ve had a lot of anal in the past, but not for some time, and Steve and Gabe haven’t even gone there with their fingers.

Benedict’s finger is thick and lubed up with saliva, but it’s a tight fit, and the filthiness of being worked in all three holes at once while my clit and nipples are tended to in sync is the best, most incredible, most full-wattage onslaught I’ve had in a long, long time.

‘Fuck me, you’re tight, you filthy girl,’ he drawls.

I’m so glad I’m blindfolded, because it’s affording me the necessary clarity to focus on the sensations that are building at alarming speed inside my body.

The dirty thrust of Gabe’s tongue in my mouth.

The insistent pumps of those three fingers in my pussy and that one up my arse.

The blessed friction of the tongue on my needy, needy clit.

The fine handiwork that’s going on on my nipples, which are being sucked and pulled and pinched.

And that’s before I even consider the rest of it—the strokes and kisses on my limbs; the heat of having five guys crowded around me; their mutters of appreciation and approval and disbelief; the sultry beat of the music and, over it, a female vocal that now sounds less operatic and more orgasmic.

I’m in a sensory paradise, and it’s so much, and I never want it to stop. I sit there, my legs spread as wide as I can get them as these guys pet me and touch me in the most sickeningly arousing ways.

But it has to stop, because this level of stimulation is so rare and so beautiful, its flame so impossibly bright, that it must ignite in glory before flickering out.

I know it must, but in this moment it’s blinding, and I’m gunpowder facing a lit match. My cries grow so loud that Gabe’s mouth is unable to swallow them up, the men’s words of encouragement and exhortation grow gruffer, filthier in my ears, and I give myself over to this chemical reaction that can only end in utter combustion.

As my breathing grows more frantic and my body begins to shake, Gabe releases my mouth. ‘She’s coming,’ he tells them, and I swear they ramp up their ministrations on every erogenous zone in my body.

I erupt in an orgasm of cataclysmic proportions, shattering so brightly that my petite mort really does feel like dying, like having one’s soul catapulted straight into the stratosphere.

My coming down is assisted with strokes and praise. I am beautiful; I am incredible; I am a filthy whore; Gabe is a lucky bastard.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Benedict says, withdrawing his finger from the most forbidden nook in my body. ‘I assume you’re as wet as we are hard. Objective achieved. Move the chairs, quick guys.’

‘She’s fucking soaking,’ one guy says next to my pussy—James, I think? He, too, pulls his fingers out of me, and I feel instantly bereft. Whenever I have a clitoral orgasm, I always need to be filled up pretty much immediately.

Luckily for me, there are four hard dicks ready to do just that. Five, if Benedict gets involved.

‘Right, gentlemen. Chairs. Condoms. You know the drill. Quick.’

As the others step away from me, Gabe holds me from behind, wrapping his arms around me. His knees are either side of my bottom, anchoring me.

‘You okay? That was fucking incredible.’

‘I’m great.’ I sound like I’ve run a marathon. In front of us, chairs are being moved and zips and condom packets alike ripped. I imagine our guests sitting in a circle, fully clothed, dicks hard and out, waiting for me. I feel like the greediest birthday girl who’s ever lived, and I fucking love it.

He kisses me on the cheek before releasing me.

‘Fucking hell,’ he groans, and I smile to myself. I assume he’s getting an eyeful of his dick-tastic meeting room. ‘It’s like being back at school.’

I wonder if they got up to this shit at the seminary, too…although they were probably pretty short of women there.

‘Right,’ comes Benedict’s voice from right in front of me. ‘It’s time for our little mashup of Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs. You ready, princess?’