The guests are arriving

Before the evening begins, Mr. Jones says that due to a work commitment, six guests cannot come. So there will be "only" six guests.

But we'll have fun, I promise.

The doorbell rings at seven past nine. I've been counting the minutes since Mr. Jones closed his office door behind me, and each minute has felt like an hour. The tray is heavy. Five glasses, ice clinking against the glass, dark whiskey swaying slightly. My hands are still only because I've locked them against the silver edges, and my knuckles are white.

I open the door. The frosted glass slides aside and the evening air rushes in—humid, salty, the black sea beyond the garden wall unseen but felt. Standing in the doorway is a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a dark coat that drips slightly. He doesn't look at me. He stares at my chest, where the white apron stretches, and at the gold pendants dangling from my nipples and swinging when I breathe.

“Welcome, master.”

My voice comes out lower than I'd like. He enters without answering, without taking off his coat, and passes me so close I can smell him—rain, tobacco, wet wool. My right heel slips on the marble, and I grab the tray to keep from falling. He doesn't turn around. He stops in the center of the entryway, looks at the stairs, looks at the dark hallway, as if he were measuring the house. Then he reaches for the tray without looking at me.

He picks up a glass. His fingers brush mine. Cold.

"What is your name?"

The question hits me like a slap. Because I don't know anymore. Or I know, but that's not what I should say. The tag hanging from my collar is engraved with a name that isn't mine. The name Mr. Jones chose for me. He took the last male thing I had left. Lorenzo. There is no Lorenzo left in this house.

"Bianca, master."

I say it softly. The first time I say it out loud to a stranger, my voice trembles on the second syllable. He drinks, lowers his glass, and finally looks at me—his eyes moving from my face to my neck, to my neck to my medallion, to my medallion to my apron.

"Bianca." He repeats it as if he were tasting it. "Bianca. Yes. It suits me, I'd say I like it."

Then he takes off his coat and throws it over me. The wet fabric covers my face, his smell hits my throat, and by the time I manage to free myself, he's already gone into the living room, and I hear the sound of ice in his glass as it recedes. I hang my coat on the coat rack with one hand, the tray still in the other, and my fingers tremble so much that I slip the hook twice.

The second doorbell rings while I'm still turned toward the coat rack. The third immediately follows. Two cars at once, maybe three—I hear the doors, the low voices of the men greeting each other outside, the scree crunching underfoot.

I open the door. Three of them enter. The first is short and stocky, with large hands and rings on his fingers. The second is slim and elegant; he looks at me and smiles as if he's seen me naked before. The third doesn't look at me at all—he walks right by, takes a glass from the tray without asking, and goes to sit in the farthest chair without saying a word.

“Welcome, masters.”

"Masters already call us masters. This sissy has been trained well."

“Sissy school is a guarantee. They know how to treat these little whores.” Adds the second man.

The skinny man stops in front of me. He takes my chin with two fingers and turns my face toward the light. His nail presses under my lip, right where my scar is.

“And this?” he asks, to the others, not to me.

"Mr. Jones wants it uncovered," says the stocky man. "He said not to cover it."

The skinny guy lets go of my chin. "Too bad. With a little foundation on top, it would almost be believable."

They both laugh. I remain still, my eyes lowered, the tray weighing as if it were a brick inside. The medallion thumps against my neck with every breath. WHITE. Hand-engraved, in black ink, letter by letter, and I feel it against my skin like a brand.

More arrive. I lose count. Each time the bell rings, each time the glass slides, each time the bow and the words—"Welcome, master"—and each time the glass disappears from the tray and the hands touch me, my arm, my back,

an open hand turns a whole palm that grabs my ass and squeezes it, I don't move, I can't move, the apron doesn't cover anything behind, I feel his hot breath on my ear as he does it.

“Turn around,” he says. “Let me see.”

I turn around. The white apron is short, with nothing on the back, just the thin strap that ties it around my waist. It reaches just below my back, and there's nothing underneath. My bare buttocks, the XXL plug barely protruding between them, the metal base glinting under the entrance lights and the red LED flashing. At the base. He whistles softly. Someone else, behind him, comes over to look.

« wow that looks really big.»

"How big is it?"

«And a size XXL, sir, the diameter of a beer can and 25 cm long.»

He caresses my ass. "I like you. You're so young and already so open."

"Thanks to my masters, sir."...ha.ha.ha he bursts out laughing.

«You're also modest»

"And tell me the truth, do you like having it in your ass all day?"

With my gaze downcast. Out of shame, I answer in a small voice.

"Yes, master, I like it."

"and does it vibrate?"

«Yes, master, when Mr. Jones wants, he can turn it on.»

He reaches out and pushes the base of the plug with two fingers. My body tenses forward, my back arches on its own, and a sound escapes my mouth before I can stop it. The ice in the tray clinks because my hands have been shaking. Someone laughs.

"Hold on the tray, Bianca," the thin man says from the living room, without raising his voice. "Don't spill anything."

I hold the tray. My right hand is steady. My left isn't, but the tray rests on my palm and wrist, and my wrist doesn't tremble. The men around me talk among themselves as if I weren't there—the market, a game, a boat one of them bought in the spring. They drink. The ice clinks. I stand among them, my ass bare, the plug inside, and wait.

the stocky guy approaches me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “Show me where the bathroom is. I have to pee.”

I precede him. I leave the tray on the hall table, next to the first man's coat, and my heels click on the dark wood of the hallway—one, two, one, two—as he walks behind me. I feel his eyes on my bare ass, on the plugin LED flashing.

The bathroom is at the back, a heavy oak door opening onto black tiles and a large mirror above the sink. He comes in, stands in front of the toilet, and turns to look at me.

"on my knees" he says

«Get your dick out of my pants, I've got my hands full with my drink.»

«Right away, master.»

I kneel on the cold floor. The tiles chill my knees through my skin, and the plug shifts inside me. I bend down, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. I unzip his zipper. I pull out his cock—big, dark, already half hard—with my small white hand, I grab it by the root and aim it toward the center of the toilet. The powerful stream begins immediately toward the end. The man shifts slightly to the side, and a little urine lands on the floor and the rim of the toilet.

"Oops, Bianca, how careless you are. We can't leave the bathroom like this. Mr. Jones will get angry if he notices."

First, dry my dick with your tongue. And then clean up this mess. Floor and toilet."

With my tongue I collect the last drops that drip from his cock and I pass it all over the glans. Then I put his cock inside his pants and pull up the zipper.

Before leaving the bathroom Without even looking he says.

«Clean everything up and then go back there without making you wait.»

I already know that cleaning means cleaning with the tongue.

I was trained for this too.

I get down on all fours and pick up the pee that falls on the floor and then the edges of the toilet… once I'm done.

I get up. My knees are burning. I rinse my face at the sink, run my wet fingers over my neck, my chest, and my makeup smudges around my eyes—I see it in the mirror, the black just running, the lipstick still intact because Mr. Jones has proofed it. The tag is wet. I wipe it with my thumb. My thumb tastes like piss.

I return to the living room. The stocky man is already sitting with a glass in his hand and no longer looks at me. The thin man gestures for me to come closer.

“You did well,” she says. “The school trained you well.”

“Thank you, master.”

"Come here."

I move closer. He spreads his legs and touches his crotch through his pants, and I understand. I kneel between his knees without being asked. I unzip myself, my fingers no longer shaking—or shaking too much to care—and pull out his cock. It's long, thin, circumcised, and smells of soap and clean skin. I take it in my mouth and suck it slowly, my tongue circling the head, and he places his hand on the back of my neck, not pushing, just holding me there.

“Look up,” he says. “I want to see your face.”

I look up. He's looking down at me, the glass still in his other hand, and he's smiling. His hand on the back of my neck closes slightly. I continue—up and down, tongue flattened, breathing through my nose, the salty taste filling my mouth—and my knees are back on the cold marble, and the plug inside me throbs with every tilt of my head, and the gold pendants swing on my chest and jingle softly against my apron.

I hear the doorbell ring again, far away, near the entrance. Another guest. But no one answers. Right now, I have a dick in my mouth.

The skinny guy holds my head still and drinks, and I suck, and the bell rings a second time, louder.

Then I hear footsteps. Footsteps coming down the stairs. And Mr. Jones's voice, calm, from above.

"Bianca, you're the same old slut, always sucking cock, all you think about is opening the fucking door."

The skinny man lets me go. I stand up, wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, and turn toward the stairs. Mr. Jones is halfway up the stairs, wearing a black shirt, his sleeves rolled up, and he's looking at me. He's not looking at the guests. He's looking at me. His gaze travels from my face to my neck, my apron, my knees—and stops there, on my knees, on the marble, on the spot where I was kneeling.

“In my office in five minutes,” he says.

He doesn't say anything else. He turns and goes back upstairs. I leave the tray on the entryway table—empty glasses, melted ice, a puddle of water on the wood—and join him. My heels click each step on the dark wood, one after the other, and behind me I hear the guests resume their conversation as if I had never existed.

Mr. Jones's office is at the end of the first-floor corridor. The door is open. Inside, the light is dim, a single lamp on the desk. And on the desk is an open box—the lid thrown aside—and inside, gold things glisten. New trinkets. Bells. And next to the box, resting on the wood, is the remote control for the plug. Within easy reach.

Mr. Jones sits behind his desk and watches me from his chair. He doesn't tell me to come in. He doesn't tell me to close the door. He waits for me to do it myself.

I close the door. I stand in front of the desk, heels together, hands at my sides, eyes downcast. The plug inside me still pulses, slowly, as if waiting for him too.

"Bianca," says Mr. Jones. He tastes the name like the first guest did, but he doesn't smile. "Did they call you that tonight?"

"Yes, master."

"And did you like it?"

I think about it. A second. Two. The real answer is that when the skinny guy said my new name in front of the others, something inside me closed and something else opened, and I still don't know which of the two is me.

"Yes, master."

He nods slowly. Then he reaches into the box and takes out the new charms. Small gold bells with a thin hook. He holds them up to the light and rings them against each other. The sound is clear, clean, like that of a church bell.

"These are for tonight," she says. "And the new dress is in the closet behind you. Makeup on the console. Bright red lipstick. I want you to be a slut. Not as a guest, not as a servant. Like a slut."

He gets up. He walks around the desk, stops in front of me, and takes the medallion between two fingers. He turns it over. He reads it. WHITE.

"The party's really getting going now," he says. "You're available to all the guests. Everyone. If someone asks you for something, you do it. If someone wants you, you take them. If someone kicks you out, you go. I'll keep the remote."

He picks it up from the desk and twirls it between his fingers. Then he points it at me and presses. The plug inside me explodes with a deep vibration, and my knees buckle an inch, and a sound escapes my throat that I can't hold back. He watches me as I do it. He doesn't smile. He doesn't look away.

"Get ready," he says. "You have ten minutes. Then come down, and the party is yours."

He turns off the remote. The vibration stops, and the silence that remains is stronger than before. He sits back down behind his desk, opens a ledger, and begins writing as if I were no longer in the room.

I turn to the closet. I open the doors. Inside, hanging on a hanger, is a dress I've never seen before—black, shiny, short enough to be nothing. And on the console table next to it, open, is my makeup. The bright red lipstick is already out of the tube, worn at the tip, as if someone had used it before.