The party begins

Mr. Jones doesn't move from the doorway. He looks at me like you might look at something you've just bought and haven't quite decided where to put it. Then he enters slowly, his footsteps on the parquet floor making no sound. He stops behind me. I see him in the mirror: his black shirt, the gold chain glistening on his chest, his freshly shaved jaw.

“Turn around,” he says.

I turn around. My hands remain at my sides. My eyes remain low, on his chest, on the chain, on that black dot that's the first thing I learned to stare at without actually looking.

He reaches out and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He lifts it. Not hard. Just enough to make me understand that if he wanted to, he could break it, and that he's not doing it because it's not the right time yet.

"Look at me."

I look at him. His black eyes, calm, unhurried. There's something inside that I can't read—it's not desire, it's not anger. It's the patience of someone who knows that time works for him.

"They didn't explain much to you, did they?"

"Yes, master."

"How little?"

"That I had to be ready. That I had to do what he told me. Nothing else."

He lets go of my chin. He steps back and takes off his jacket. He folds it carefully on a leather armchair in the corner, as if the evening hadn't even begun yet and he had all the time in the world. Then he sits on the edge of the desk, his legs spread, his hands resting on his thighs.

"There are twelve men in this house tonight," he says. "They are my guests. They came from far away for you."

"For me, master?"

"For you." He smiles faintly, a movement of his mouth that doesn't reach his eyes. "Today is the birthday of one of them. A man who has done a lot for me. And I'm giving him a gift. The gift is you."

My stomach tightens. It's not fear. It's something more confusing—the same thing I felt the first time Madame Vivienne put the collar around my neck. The feeling of finally being in the right place, and of not deserving it.

“You still don’t understand,” he says. “That’s fine. You don’t have to understand. You have to do it.”

He gets up and walks toward me. He circles my body without touching me. He passes behind me, then in front of me again. I feel him sniff the air near the back of my neck. My breathing becomes shallow.

"From now until tomorrow morning, you're not a person," she says. "You're the lady of the house. Do you understand the difference?"

"No, master."

"A person has their own will. The hostess doesn't. The hostess smiles when she needs to smile, pours when she needs to pour, opens her legs when she needs to open them. She doesn't decide anything. She doesn't think anything. She's just beautiful and available. That's what you are tonight."

"Yes, master."

"Repeater."

"I'm the hostess. I'm beautiful and available. I don't decide anything."

He nods. He walks to the door and opens it. Outside, in the hallway, there's a low table with some things I hadn't seen when I came in. He picks them up one by one and places them on the desk, in a row, like instruments on a tray.

A white apron. Small. For women. The lace around the edges is so thin it seems to be made to cover nothing.

A pair of high-heeled shoes, black, shiny. I recognize them—they're the ones Madame Vivienne picked out for me. I saw them in the suitcase before the two men took it away.

Two pendants. Small, golden, teardrop-shaped. For the nipples.

A flat, black box, as long as my hand.

And a remote control. Black. Small. With just one button.

“Come here,” he says.

I approach the desk. The marble floor chills the soles of my feet. I stop in front of him, a step away, and wait.

He takes the apron and hands it to me. "Put it on."

I take it. The fabric is light, almost transparent. I slip it on over my head. The laces fall to my shoulders and I have to tie them behind my back, blindly, with trembling fingers. The apron reaches just above my navel. The front covers my chest and little else. Behind, I'm naked. My ass, my thighs, my back—everything out, everything exposed.

He looks at me. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Then he reaches out and straightens a shoelace I've tied crookedly. He does it calmly, like a mother dressing a child.

«The shoes.»

I sit on the edge of the chair and put on my heels. When I stand up, the world tilts a few degrees. My ankles pull me. My legs have to work to hold me up. It's a feeling I know—Madame Vivienne has been teaching me for weeks. But tonight is different. Tonight, there's no one watching me learn. There's only him watching me be who I am.

“Walk,” he says. “To the door and come back.”

I walk. My heels click on the parquet, a dry, regular sound. My hips move on their own, as if my body knows what to do before I decide. I reach the door. I turn. I come back. I stop in front of him.

“Good,” he says. “Now the charms.”

He picks up the two golden drops from the desk. He moves closer. His fingers brush my left nipple, cupping it, tugging gently. The piercing is already there, healed, ready. He attaches the pendant with a precise movement. The golden drop hangs from my chest and sways when I breathe.

Then the right. Same thing. Same calm. When he's finished, he steps away and looks at me.

«Move.»

I don't understand. Then I understand. I take a half step, my hips swaying, and the pendants swing on my chest. They glisten in the dim light of the room. They make a tiny noise, metal against skin, every time I breathe.

"You'll change them during the evening," she says. "I have other ones. Heavier. Longer. You'll feel them tugging at your nipples every time you move. And when a guest asks you something, you'll move. Always. You'll never stay still. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

He picks up the black box from the desk and opens it. Inside is the plug. Large. Larger than the one I'm carrying now. The surface is smooth, black, with a wide, flat base. Next to it, in the box, is a small cable and a charging dock.

“This is the one Madame Vivienne bought for you,” he says. “Size XXL. Vibrating. With remote control.”

He takes it out of the box. He holds it in his hand, weighs it, shows it to me. It's big. Bigger than anything I've ever put inside me. My ass tightens just looking at it.

“Have you had the plug put in yet last night?”

"Yes, master. The little one."

«Take it off.»

I turn around. I lean forward, hands on my knees, my ass facing him. The apron falls over my chest, leaving me exposed. I reach for the base of the plug and pull it out. It comes out with a slow, wet sound. I feel the void opening inside me, cold air rushing in where something used to be.

“Straight,” he says. “I didn’t tell you to bend over.”

I straighten up. I have the small plug in my hand, still warm, still wet. I don't know where to put it.

«Give it to me.»

I hand it to him. He takes it between two fingers, looks at it for a second, then sets it on the desk as if it were a piece of trash. He picks up the new plug. He lubricates it with a tube he takes out of the drawer. The movement is slow, methodical. He's in no hurry. The sheen of the lube on the matte black makes my thighs tighten.

“Bend over,” he says. “Hands on the desk.”

I bend over. My hands on the cold wood. My ass sticking out. My legs spread as wide as my heels will allow. I feel his body coming closer behind me. I feel the warmth of his hand on my back, holding me still.

"Breathe," he says.

The tip presses against my hole. Cold, hard, wide. I push my breath out through my teeth and try to relax. He waits. He doesn't force. He waits for me to open up.

“Slowly,” he says. “As you were taught.”

I push back. The tip enters. The circle of muscle tenses, burns, widens. An inch. Then two. Then I feel the head of the plug pass past the narrowest point and the rest slide in suddenly, all the way to the base. My body welcomes it with a moan I can't hold back. I'm full. Fuller than I've ever been. The flat base presses against my buttocks, cold, wide, like a cork.

“There,” he says. “Now you’re ready.”

He straightens up. I remain bent over the desk, breathing shallowly, my ass throbbing around the plug. I feel his fingers running lightly down my spine, all the way to the nape of my neck. Then his hand grabs my hair and pulls me up, slowly, until I'm standing again.

He picks up the remote from the desk. He holds it in his hand, his thumb on the button. He looks at me.

"I'll keep this," she says. "During the evening, I'll use it whenever I want. If I see you standing still, if I see you distracted, if I see you're not available—I'll press it. And you smile. Always. Even when your legs are shaking. Even when you can't stand up straight. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

He presses the button. The plug inside me turns on. A low, deep vibration starts from inside me and travels up my spine. My knees buckle slightly. My hands search for something to hold on to, but find nothing. The pendants on my nipples wobble.

He looks at me. He doesn't smile. He waits.

I smile. My lips tremble, but I smile. That's what he asked.

"Good," he says. And he turns it off. The vibration stops. My body remains tense, waiting, as if it doesn't know it's over.

He places the remote on the desk. He leaves it there, in plain sight. Then he takes a small case from his pocket and opens it. Inside is the tongue piercing. A silver bar with two spheres at the ends. He shows it to me.

"You wear this when I tell you to," he says. "You'll use it tonight. But only when a guest asks you to. Not before. Not on your own initiative. If I see it in your mouth without anyone asking, I'll have you take it off and put it away for the rest of the evening. Is that clear?"

“Of course, master.”

"Why is it needed?"

«To give oral sex better.»

"Who is better for oral sex?"

"To your guests, master."

"To the men who will use your mouth tonight," he says. "And there will be many of them. Do you know that?"

"Yes, master."

He closes the pencil case and puts it back in his pocket. Then he comes closer and takes my chin again. This time he looks me in the eyes for what seems like a very long time. I don't lower my gaze. I can't. He holds it still.

"Now I'll tell you what you're going to do," he says. "Listen carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

"Yes, master."

"Guests arrive at nine. You stand at the entrance. Standing. In heels. With an apron. With trinkets. With the plug in." He pauses. "When you hear the doorbell, open it. You don't wait for a double knock. You open it and stand to the side, so the man comes in and you're there, in plain sight."

"Yes, master."

"Curve. A proper curtsy, not a hasty whore's bow. Back straight, head down, hands at your sides. You stay down until I tell you to get up. And when you're down, you say, 'Welcome, Master. Enjoy your evening.'"

"Welcome, master. Enjoy your evening," I repeat.

"Slower. Calmly. You're not acting a part. You're welcoming a man who owns you for an evening. Your voice must be low. The words must come out as if you really meant them."

I repeat. Slower. Slower. He nods.

"Then you get up. Pick up the tray of drinks from the entryway table. You hold it with one hand, at chest height, not in front of your face. Offer. If he takes it, you wait for him to take the first sip and then step aside. If he doesn't take it, don't insist. You step aside and wait for the next one."

"What if he asks me something?"

If he asks you something, you look him. In the eyes. And answer. You don't look down, you don't apologize, you don't act shy. Being shy is of no use to anyone. If he asks you for a drink, you bring it. If he asks you to go to the bathroom with him, you go.

«I'm going.»

"And what do you do in the bathroom?"

“I’ll help him, master.”

"To do what?"

«To pee.»

"And then?"

"And then I clean up."

"Clean what?"

“His cock, master.”

He lets go of my chin. He takes a step back. His gaze sweeps over me, from my neck to my feet, as if checking to make sure everything is in its place. The collar. The pendants. The apron. The shoes. The plug that I can still feel inside me, heavy, present.

"How do you clean it?"

“With your mouth, master.”

«Just with your mouth?»

"With your tongue. With your lips. Until it's clean."

"What if he gets turned on while you're cleaning him?"

“I’ll take it in my mouth, master.”

"What if he wants to fuck you?"

“I just bend over and let him do it.”

"Where?"

"Wherever he wants, master."

He nods. He goes to his desk and picks up the glass of whiskey that was left there, half full, next to the remote. He takes a sip. Then he sits down in the armchair, legs crossed, glass in hand. He looks like a man about to watch a movie.

“Repeat everything,” he says.

"I stand at the entrance. In heels. I open when the bell rings. I curtsy. I say, 'Welcome, master. Enjoy your evening.' I offer a drink. If he asks me to go to the bathroom, I go. I help him pee. I clean his cock with my mouth. If he gets turned on, I take it in my mouth. If he wants to fuck me, I bend over and let him do whatever he wants."

"What if he doesn't ask you anything?"

"I'll stay there. Available."

"What if you forget to smile?"

“You press the button, master.”

"And you?"

"I smile."

He takes another sip. The ice clinks in the glass. Outside, beyond the window, the sky is already dark. The room is lit only by two low lamps, one on the desk and one next to the armchair. Shadows lengthen on the parquet floor.

“Come here,” he says.

I approach. I stop in front of him. He places his glass on the table and looks at me from below, sitting down, as if he were looking at something he's just bought and is deciding whether it's worth the price.

«Turn around.»

I turn around. He reaches out and touches the base of the plug, across my buttocks, with two fingers. He presses lightly. My body tenses. I feel the plug move a millimeter inside me, the base pressing against my skin.

"Do you hear it?"

"Yes, master."

"You'll feel it all night. Every time you move. Every time you bend over. Every time someone takes you from behind. It's there to remind you that you're full. That you're ready. That you're never empty."

"Yes, master."

He withdraws his hand. He stands up. He picks up his jacket from the chair and puts it on. He adjusts his cuffs. Then he looks at his watch.

"Eight thirty," he says. "The first ones will be here in half an hour."

He walks toward the door. He pauses in the doorway. He turns around. The remote control is still on the desk, small, black, with its single button. He points to it with his chin.

"It stays there," he says. "If you touch it, you know what happens."

"Yes, master."

"I'll be back for you soon. You'll stay where I told you. Standing. On high heels. With the tray in your hand. And when I open that door, you'll smile."

"Yes, master."

He leaves. The door closes behind him with a sharp click.

I'm left alone. The silence of the room closes in on me. I feel the plug inside me, heavy, still. I feel the pendants on my nipples swaying slightly when I breathe. I feel the cold marble rising from my feet to my knees.

I look at the remote on the desk. Black. Small. Still. I don't touch it. I don't even get close. But my eyes return to it two, three times, as if the button could press itself.

Outside, beyond the window, I hear the sound of an engine. Distant, still. Then another. The lights of two headlights slide along the wall of the room, pass, and go out.

They arrived first. Half an hour, he said. But the headlights are already here.

I remain standing, on my heels, the white apron barely covering my chest, the gold pendants dangling, the XXL plug inside me pulsing slowly, as if it were waiting for him too.

The door in front of me is closed. The remote is on the desk. And the first car is already at the gate.