Please touch.

You are trapped in the middle of the room, standing, in your vegan leather catsuit, breathing heavily.

The rest of the party is quiet. They are all staring at you. Who will be first? they wonder. Your face burns with embarrassment.

Finally, an elegant, older, obviously very wealthy woman steps up to you.

"What is the new rule?" she asks.

You look her in the eyes. You are shaking.

"Please touch," you say.

"Don't mind if I do," she says. With the tip of her fingernail, she traces a line from your neck, slowly across your chest, down the side and underneath one of your brand-new breasts, with a quick detour to tweak your nipple which is standing very clearly at attention underneath the catsuit.

"Oh, you are a live one," she purrs, watching you alternately flinch and moan as her fingernail does it's evil magic.

"Should I go lower?" she asks. Her fingernail resumes it's journey, down between your cleavage, down your front... down... down... until, as she looks your directly in your eyes, she traces the nail down until it is just above the male bulge in the crotch of the catsuit.

You look at her, gasping, more turned on than you have ever been in your life. You wonder what to say. Yes? No? But then you realize what you have to say. The only thing that someone in your position should be allowed to say. The only thing that fits with what Alistair has turned you into.

"Please touch," you say.

With a wicked smile she lightly runs her nail down the length of your hardening member, then down and around each of your balls, then back up again. A soft moan escapes your lips, your heavy lidded eyes full of lust. Your body tries to move of it's own accord, but the rings keep you firmly in place. You can't protect yourself from her touches.

"Oh yes," she says, "I think you will enjoy this evening very, very much."

You go 'eep!' as you feel a second person grasp your bottom with his large, athletic hand. It cups and squeezes one of your cheeks, the fingers running between you ass crack.

"A woman with a little something extra," he says, his hot breath in your ear. "How hot." You try and wriggle away from your hand, but are unable to move at all. You feel so **** and exposed as he runs a finger up between your buns and then then boldly gropes it. "I've never found trans women to be very interesting, but DAMN bitch, you are one sexy piece of ass."

The ice is broken now and more people wander over, all of them excited to touch you.

"Please touch," you whimper, whenever anyone asks if this is okay. You feel completely in your sub-space now, as if this were the only thing you can say. The only thing you are allowed to say as you are the entertainment for this top-tier of LA society.

You groan with pleasure as people grope your tits and tweak and pinch your nipples. Others are stroking your bottom and running fingers between your legs eliciting a delightful series of squeaks and squeals.

You feel so defenseless! There's nothing you can do to prevent anyone from taking any liberty they want with your body. And they do, exploring all your nooks and crannies from all sides. Hands and fingers all over your body.

As Alistair must have anticipated, your penis trapped in the catsuit is an object of endless fascination. The guests stroke it and tickle it and pinch it to see how hard they can make it. There is much discussion about whether they can make you orgasm, or if they should. By general agreement, they decide to stroke your member and massage your balls until it looks like you're about to orgasm, then to stop until you've cooled back down. One of the guests, you think she's a famous soft-porn author, establishes herself as the orgasm monitor, telling people when to stop so as to keep you always on the edge without actually tipping over into the blissful release that you now so desperately need.

Soon, you're completely lost in a fog of whimpering, **** pleasure. Constantly being fondled right to the edge before being cruelly denied.

The soft-porn author is also the one who leaves the party last, giving your member one last series of strokes. You are sweating and **** and pleading at this point.

"Thank you," she says, giving you a kiss on the lips, her tongue thrusting into your mouth. "That was delicious."

Finally, Alistair has shooed out all of the guests, including April. You are now alone in his house. You are tired, horny, and oh so ****.

He holds up a pair of scissors.

"How much do you care about your Amina Muaddi?" he asks.