Weekend

Madame Vivienne stands before me, her black suit impeccably tailored, her cigar unlit between two fingers. Mister Jones is to my left, a glass of whisky in his hand. The ice clinks when he moves his wrist. He doesn't look at me. He looks at Madame.

"I've had a chance to evaluate the boy," says Mr. Jones. His voice is calm. Measured. As if he were talking about a horse. "He's got a polite mouth. And his ass responds well."

Madame Vivienne doesn't move. Her fingers drum once on the armrest of the chair behind her. Just once.

"Lorenzo was trained by professionals," he says. "He knows that."

"I know." Mr. Jones drinks. The ice clinks again. "That's why I'm asking you to rent it."

The word falls into silence like a coin in a fountain. Rent. Don't buy. Rent.

"All weekend," he continues. "Saturday and Sunday. I have a birthday party at my villa. Important guests. Men who need to be entertained."

«A party.»

"A party." Mister Jones turns to me. His eyes travel over my body with the slowness of someone with all the time in the world. From my face. To my neck. To my chest, where the black lace reveals the marks. To my belly. To the metal cage holding my cock. To my thighs. To my knees planted on the wood. "Dressed like a slut. With all the various accessories you've put on. The piercings. The cage. The plug."

The plug moves inside me.

"And available to everyone," says Mr. Jones. "Not just mine. To all the guests. All weekend."

Madame Vivienne doesn't respond immediately. I hear her breathing. She's a woman who never wastes a breath, and the fact that she's taking one now means she's thinking. That she's calculating.

The clock strikes. Twice. Three times.

“How many guests?” he asks.

"Ten. Maybe twelve. Depends on who's bringing who."

"Men?"

"Men."

"Only men?"

Mr. Jones smiles. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "The wives are at dinner. The husbands come after. And after dinner, the men come."

"Price?"

Mr. Jones names a figure. I can't hear it well. It's not for me. Madame Vivienne tilts her head a degree. Her fingers drum once more on the armrest.

“Too little,” he says.

"It's a weekend. Not a week."

"It's a weekend with twelve men," says Madame. "And a trained ass. He knows how to count. He opens his mouth when you tell him. He never holds back. He doesn't cry anymore. Almost never."

“Almost never,” repeats Mister Jones.

Mr. Jones approaches. Two steps. The heels of his shoes on the wood. He stops in front of me, so close that I can see the shiny toes of his shoes and the rim of the glass on the counter. The ice has almost melted. The water in the whiskey is clearer than before.

"Keep yours," he says.

I raise my head. My eyes meet his. Black. Cold. There's nothing warm about him. There's nothing in him that wants me. There's only the certainty of who I am, and who he is.

"Do you know what it means to be available to everyone?"

"Yes, master."

«Say it.»

"It means I'm a hole," I say. "And anyone can use it."

"Even the ones you don't like?"

«Even the ones I don't like.»

«Even the ones that hurt you?»

«Even the ones that hurt me.»

“Even the ones who treat you like a sack of shit?”

"Yes, master."

Mr. Jones looks at me again. Then he turns to Madame Vivienne. "A thousand dollars for two days. And you deliver it to my house. The trip is his."

Madame Vivienne rises from her chair. Her movement is fluid, regal. The unlit cigar dangles between her fingers like an extra finger. "A thousand for two days. The trip is ours. And we'll choose the wardrobe. I don't want your guests to think we don't know how to dress our boys."

«I accept.»

"And I don't want it to come back broken."

«It doesn't come back broken.»

«Everyone says so.»

Mr. Jones doesn't answer. He simply looks at me one more time. Then he turns to the table, picks up his glass, and raises the whiskey in a silent toast. The ice clinks. The water inside is almost transparent.

“See you on Saturday,” he says.

Madame Vivienne doesn't toast. She looks at me. Her fingers tap once on the cigar. Then she turns and says:

"You'll be his for the weekend, bitch. Don't disappoint me."

"No, Madame." The cold doesn't go away. The plug moves inside me when I breathe. The cage constricts me. The black lace clings to my skin like a second skin.

Madame Vivienne approaches. She stops in front of me. Her perfume is strong, something spicy, old. The unlit cigar dangles between her fingers. "Look up."

I raise my head. Her gray eyes pierce me. There's no warmth in her. There's no coldness. There's only the emptiness of someone who's seen too many boys kneeling on the floor to remember their names.

"You're lucky," he says. "Most people never make it to a weekend with a client. You make it to the first one."

"Yes, Madame."

"And do you know why?"

"Because I'm good."

"No." He leans in. His face is an inch from mine. The unlit cigar touches my cheek. "Because you have nothing left to lose. And that sets you free."

"Go get ready," says Madame. "You're leaving tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Madame."

I stand up. My knees hurt. The plug slips inside me as I straighten, a small, familiar movement. The cage tightens. The black lace clings to my skin. I don't look at Madame or Mister Jones. I shouldn't. I've learned not to look at anyone unless they ask me to.

As I walk toward the door, I hear Mr. Jones's voice behind me. "One thing, Madame."

"Tell me."

«The scar on the lip.»

"What's up?"

"I like it. Don't cover it up."

«We don't cover it.»

"Well."

The door is heavy. I open it with my life's groceries.

The

My room is at the end. My room. As if I had a room. I have a room.

I look at the mirror. I don't want to look at it. I look at it anyway.

The girl in the mirror has disheveled hair. Her lipstick is smudged. Her mascara covers her face. The black lace clings to her chest, shoulders, and arms. The metal cage squeezes her cock. The red collar marks her throat. Tattoos on her skin. A cock drawn on her back as a mark. The scar on her lip is still there, small and white, like a comma.

It's not me. It's her. It's the little slut Madame Vivienne created. It's the one Mister Jones bought for a thousand dollars. It's the one who will serve twelve men on Saturday.

Tomorrow we leave. Saturday, a slave to twelve men. Sunday, you'll come back. Or maybe not. Maybe I won't come back. Maybe the weekend never ends. Maybe the birthday party is just the beginning of something I haven't figured out yet.

Preparation

Made of new fabric and plastic. On the bed, Madame has arranged everything in perfect order, like a bridal trousseau. Black hold-ups, still in their transparent packaging. A mini leather skirt that wouldn't cover anything. A sexy maid outfit, with a lace apron and high neck. Every item is there for a reason. Every item is there to make me look who I am.

I tear open the wrapping of the stockings. The paper gives with a sharp sound. The black nylon scrunches between my fingers, smooth and cold. I sit on the edge of the bed and slip on the first leg. The stocking rises up my thigh, taut against my skin, the lace edge biting into my flesh. I do the same with the other. The lace tightens, marks me. I get up and go to the mirror.

My legs seem longer. Smoother. Pale skin beneath the black nylon, the line of lace cutting across my thigh. I spin around. My ass tight in the stockings, the cage pressing against the nylon, the weight of the metal never leaving. I look like something waiting to be taken. I look exactly what Mister Jones wants.

I pick up the mini skirt. The leather is soft, it bends in my hands as if it weighs nothing. I slip it on. The zipper rises up the side with a distinct click. I turn in front of the mirror, and the skirt turns with me, rising, revealing the top of the stockings, revealing the cage pushing against the nylon. It's shorter than I thought. It's shorter than anything I've ever worn.

I observe myself from every angle. In profile. From behind. The skirt covers nothing, and maybe that's the point. Every time I move, every time I turn, I offer something. A slice of thigh. The edge of my ass. The line of my cage. I stop with my hands on my hips and look into my eyes. I don't recognize myself. I haven't recognized myself for a long time.

My waitress outfit is hanging on the hanger, still in its plastic lining. I pull it down. The lining slides off with a hiss. It's all black: the short dress, the white lace apron, the high collar that covers my throat but leaves my chest exposed. I put it on over my skirt, just to try it on. The fabric is light, almost transparent on my chest. My nipples are visible through them, my piercings poking through the fabric.

I turn around. My dress rides up, revealing the hem of my skirt, revealing my stockings. I look like a waitress in a porn movie. I look like someone opening the door in lingerie and asking if the gentleman wants anything. I look like a whore. And as I think this, I feel the heat rising in my stomach, that heat I've never learned to ignore.

I take off my dress and put it back on the hanger. The stockings stay on. The skirt stays on. I go to the box on the bedside table and open it.

Inside, on a bed of black velvet, are the pendants.

I pull them out one by one. The first is a silver chain with two small bells. I shake them. The sound is subtle, almost childish. Every movement makes them sing. Every breath, if I had them attached, would make them sing. I placed them on my chest, over my skirt, and felt their weight. Very little. Almost nothing. But I know what they'll do when I have them on.

The second is a small chain with two metal clips. I open them with my thumb. The grip is tight. I close them on the hem of my skirt, just to test it, and the bite makes me clench my teeth. On the skin of my chest, they'll be worse. On the skin of my chest, they'll bring tears to my eyes, and I know it, and I want it.

The third one is the one that stops me.

Two dick-shaped pendants, in silver, with engraved details: the head, the groove, the veins. They're small but heavy. I hold them in the palm of my hand and look at them. I place them on my chest, one on each side, above my nipples. The metal is cold. The weight pulls my skin. They seem to want to tell me something, these two little silver dicks hanging from my chest, and maybe they are: that I'm made for this, that every part of me needs to remember what it's for.

I'll put them back in the box. Not yet. Not now. I'll put them on tomorrow, in front of Mister Jones, as Madame ordered. I'll wear them and keep them on all weekend, and every time I move I'll feel the weight swinging, pounding against my skin, reminding me who I am.

At the bottom of the box is another case. I open it.

It's the tongue piercing.

A silver bar with two balls. I pick it up. It's smaller than I thought. I slide it between my fingers, feeling the smooth metal, the threads at the ends. The thought of the hole in my tongue sends shivers down my spine. But I know why it's there. To massage a man's cock. To make me feel something extra when I take a cock down my throat. To make me better, more desirable, more useful.

I put it back in the case and close it.

On the bed, next to the box, is the last thing.

The electric cage.

It's different from the one I'm wearing. It's smaller, narrower, made of shiny metal with two electrodes inside. I pick it up. It's cold. Heavy. The metal is smooth, but the electrodes are rough, ready to touch my skin. I turn it between my fingers and feel the weight of the metal, the weight of what it means.

The cage I'm wearing now is just a cage. This is a promise. This is a threat. This is what Madame chose for me, for the weekend, to keep me quiet even when there's no one watching.

I put it on the nightstand. I'm not wearing it. Not yet. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm leaving with Mister Jones, and I'll wear all of this: the stockings, the skirt, the charms, the electric cage. And I'll be his. All weekend, I'll be his.

I return to the mirror. The black stockings, the leather skirt, the bare chest with the piercings shining. I run a hand through my hair, smoothing it. I look into my eyes. They're blue, as always, but they seem different. Empty. More ready.

On the nightstand is the red lipstick. I pick it up. Unscrewing the cap is a gesture I've learned to do well. I apply the color slowly, following the contours of my lips. The red is bright, almost violent on my pale skin. I look in the mirror and press my lips together. The color spreads. I look like someone ready to be kissed. I look like someone ready to be used.

I run my tongue over my lips. I taste of wax and something sweet. My lipstick leaves a stain on my tongue, and I think about my piercing, about what it will feel like when I have the silver bar there, about how every man will feel it when I open my mouth.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor stops me.

Stop. Heart in my throat. Lipstick still in my hand.

The footsteps are approaching. Slow. Heavy. They are not Madame's footsteps, which are sharp and decisive. They are not Marcus's footsteps, which are feline and measured. They are footsteps I don't recognize. Footsteps I've never heard in this corridor.

I look at myself in the mirror: the stockings, the skirt, the lipstick, the cage pressing against the nylon. I look like someone waiting for someone. I look like someone ready.

The door opens.

The handle turns with a sharp click that I feel in my back before it hits my ears. The lipstick slips from my fingers, falling to the floor with a dull thud. I don't move. I can't move. The mirror reflects back to me the image of someone waiting, and the one waiting is me.

The door opens silently. No creak. No announcement. Only the air shifts, growing heavier, thicker, as if someone had filled the room with presence before even entering.

It's not Madame. It's not Marcus. I can tell by his scent, even before I see who he is: a familiar scent. I've smelled it before.

Hi slut, do you remember us?

I recognize them immediately. The old Egyptian cook, and two assistants.

We heard you'd be working for Mr. Jones all weekend tomorrow, so we asked Madame Vivienne if we could stop by and say hello. She said yes.

« I see you prepared yourself.»

The two assistants enter and close the door. Then they sit, one on the edge of the bed, the other on the chair. The cook. He's approaching, and I'm still there, standing in front of the mirror, my stockings tight around my thighs and my skirt covering nothing.

«Turn around and let me see you.»

The command is curt. It leaves no room. I turn slowly, feeling my skirt rise, feeling the cold air on the bare skin of my thighs, feeling the weight of the cage swinging against the nylon.

“Did Madame Vivienne tell you to get ready?”

"Yes, sir." "Madame picked out the clothes. She said I need to be ready by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." He repeats the word as if tasting it. "Tomorrow is a long way off. Tonight you're here. Tonight you're already dressed."

"What are those?" pointing to the nipple pendants. Piercings I'll have to wear tomorrow, sir.

Take them off and show them to us.

It's not just a request. It's an order.

I take off my skirt and blouse and stand naked. I take the bells and insert them into my nipple holes. The cook comes over and starts ringing them, and the young cook does the same. They laugh in amusement.

"Very funny. So when you get fucked in the ass, these keep playing."

“Yes sir, my masters have a lot of fun when I wear them.”

The cook caresses my ass.

"I think you have a really nice ass, little slut, even better than when you first came to school. Now it's firm, high, and open. Obviously all the cocks you've taken have done you good."

and everyone bursts out laughing.

Now get down on all fours, let's make a nice "skewer"

Do you know what it is?

«Yes master, a cock in the ass and one in the mouth. » and a spit. » I get on all fours, the plug has already been removed, I'm open behind, and in front with my mouth wide open.

The cook, without further ado, takes out his already hard cock, places it on my already open sphincter, and with one thrust he inserts it all the way to my balls. The young man, also already excited, starts fucking me in the mouth. He stops, leaving only the glans in. The old man behind me, with some thrusts, makes me swallow this one too, all the way to the balls. Now I can swallow even very large cocks. Without any problems, with twenty centimeters of cock in my throat I can stick out my tongue and lick the balls.

In fact, both of them are already coming inside me. The third man is filming everything on his phone. Last time in the canteen.

«The canteen videos have been a great success with thousands of views.» Many have asked us to make new ones.

Finally they leave leaving me on the floor with cum dripping from my ass and mouth.

«have fun for the weekend slut see you when you come back