‘Peepshow Slut Fantasy’, by Elk Vilianni

“Put on your shortest skirt and your sluttiest knickers; we’re going out.”

He says this in such a matter-of-fact tone, with neither menace nor amusement, that I cannot judge his mood. But I know better than to question his instructions.

Upstairs, I choose thoughtfully but quickly. Sheer, split-crotch or froufrou? Then I remember that I have a pair that ticks all three boxes, with frilly rear and sides and a pink see-thru front panel which is divided by a central open seam. I slip into them and gently pull at my labia, settling the split symmetrically against my vulva, so that my fleshy lips pout through the opening.

Having gone Slut-to-the-Max in my choice of knickers, I opt for a simple blue micro-skirt and, leaving my bra off, put on a loose-fitting cropped t-shirt. I check myself in the mirror. I reckon I could still pass for the cutest cockteaser at a Freshers Disco (which, a decade and a half ago, I was… although I was always more of a ‘pleaser’ than a ‘teaser’, if truth be told).

When I come down, he’s restlessly tossing his car keys from hand to hand and gives no indication of approval or disapproval at my chosen outfit as he ushers me out through the front door.

***

The car pulls up on the forecourt of a nondescript building on the industrial estate, activating a dazzlingly bright security light. As I get out of the car and follow him towards a door in the metal-shuttered front of the building, I notice a number of a solitary men, either sitting in their cars or standing beside them smoking.

The door swings open in answer to his knock and we enter a dimly-lit warehouse space. There is music playing that sounds as dark and as dangerous as the place looks. As my eyes accustom, I notice that in the middle of the dark space there is a wooden box-like construction, the size of a large room, and figures are gathering around it, male and female, but each apparently on their own.

He is talking to a huge man in a dirty black vest. The man looks over at me and nods unsmiling approval and money changes hands. Out of the gloom appear two leather-clad women. Deftly, they blindfold and collar me and, before I can speak, a ball-gag stops my mouth and I am lead away on a leash, stumbling.

Adrenaline courses through me but I remind myself that I trust him absolutely; whatever is going on here, he will let no harm come to me.

***

I am led into a space where the music – grinding industrial metal – is deafening. My leash is fastened to a pole and I am left standing. Despite the noise, I am aware of mewling sounds in the vicinity. There are others.

I am left there long enough to begin worry about what I would do if I need to pee. Then suddenly the din stops and, fearful of what will happen next, the muffled mewlings briefly stop and then resume, louder than ever. I remain silent.

“Quiet!”

All obey except one and, in quick succession, we hear her cries grow urgent then the unmistakeable sound of a hand smacking bare flesh, just the once, and she is quiet.

I hear my leash being unfastened from the pole and, with a tug at my collar, I am instructed to follow.

***

A door is opened. We pass along a corridor surrounded by the hum of machinery. Another door opens and we step into a space which is briefly silent before a cheer goes up which turns into a rhythmic chant – ‘Sluts! Sluts! Sluts! Sluts!…’. I provocatively swing my hips and, at the same time, I raise my arms and show two middle fingers to the unseen baying horde. Immediately, I hear the swish of a switch and a sharp sting of pain across the back of my thighs. Fuck. I am loving this.

Another door opens and, when we are all inside, my handler removes first the gag, then the blindfold and, lastly, unfastens my leash (but leaves me collared). Blinking in the sudden brightness, I look around and see about a dozen women, of all ages, shapes, sizes and colours, doing the same. Some have a look of something approaching terror while others are doing that ‘OMG! I can’t believe it!’ hand-to-mouth thing, as though they’ve been surprised by a celebrity makeover to their bedroom. But the majority share my own expression of wide-eyed bewilderment. All are wearing their shortest skirt and, I have a strong hunch, their sluttiest knickers.

We appear to be on the stage-set of every porn movie you’ve ever seen. Everywhere there are beds and couches. In one corner there seems to be the interior of a Bedouin tent with lush rugs and chiffon drapes. In another, a neon-lit bar-room, complete with 1950s jukebox and pool table. And across the whole of the back wall is an array of every imaginable harness, bench, fuck-swing, stocks, straps, belts, clamps, whips, floggers, plugs, dildos, wands and fucking machines. Fuck. I am really loving this!

A curtain that ran the whole length of the front wall slowly begins to glide aside and, amongst the roaring crowd on the other side of the revealed window, I see him, smiling at me.

A large grey-haired woman, who must be at least 65, claps her hands and starts to laugh but, before any of us can speak, another door opens, on the opposite side of the room, and, as the pounding music resumes, there enter… not men… like men but… bigger, each of them about eight feet tall, beastlike, naked but hairy, and each bearing before him a huge erect phallus.

Instinctively, my hand dips under my skirt and delves into my gaping slit. As I withdraw my fingers and raise my cunt-soaked fingers to my slyly smiling lips, the beasts, as one, raise their heads, scenting the air and – nostrils flaring, eyes bulging and cocks quivering – they turn towards me…

***

“Elspeth… Elspeth?”

“… Ooh, sorry Brian, love – I was quite away with the fairies then, wasn’t I! What were you saying, love?”

“I was just asking you what you might want for your birthday.”

“Oh yes… Oh, you know, love; I’m easily pleased… surprise me!”

[Image: Pixabay]

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