I’m one of fifteen naked women around a table. The table is round, and one of many such tables of naked women, as far as the eye can see in a great hall. The atmosphere is one of decadence and banqueting. A feast for all the senses, especially sight and taste. The noise is like the sea crashing on the shore; a rise then ebb of ecstatic murmurs and whispered encouragement reaching crescendos of peaked pleasure which give way to the low murmurs once again.
Our seats are men’s tongues. The men are on their backs, their heads between the women’s spread thighs, their hands holding on to the women’s waists, their legs emerging beyond the women’s bottoms. A chain crosses the girls’ tummies, attached at each end to a restraint around the men’s wrists. Locking them both together. This chain mirrors the chains higher up the women, connecting each of her breasts to the woman next to her. Her left nipple pierced and chained to the pierced right nipple of the woman to her left, her right nipple pierced and chained to the pierced left nipple of the woman on her right. Underneath the table, this perverted locked connection continues. Each woman is wearing ankle cuffs also connected by a chain. But her left foot is chained to the right foot of the woman next to her, and her right foot is chained to the left foot of the woman on the other side. All round the table in a perfectly bound circle. Locked together. Each movement causing rippled sensations.
The male ‘seats’ have their legs up, so that with their hands on the girls’ waists it makes them seem like upturned turtles or crabs. If they were flipped over they’d be on all fours. The reason they have their legs up in this position is because they are being invaded by another woman behind them. The women behind the male ‘seats’ are dressed only in one item of apparel: a leather strap on harness. The dildo expertly secured in each strap-on’s O ring is buried deep inside each male’s arse.
With each thrust of the Dominant women behind them the men give a loud groan; of pain or pleasure the viewer cannot be sure. What is certain is that the noise combined with his tongue buried deep in the pussy of the woman on his face gives the women at the table even more reason to writhe and murmur in sexual excitement. Wriggling on each man’s face they reach orgasm all at different times, but always with that unmistakable look of contentment settling over their faces and with the unending ability to orgasm again in just a few moments.
The round table is covered firstly with a white tablecloth and topped with so much food. Mostly desserts. Chocolate cake and trifle and jelly and icecream and creamy sundaes and large bowls full of tiramisu and jam sponge and more. The women feed each other without cutlery, using their hands to daub the chocolate-rich, creamy messes both into each other’s mouths and over each other’s breasts and bodies. They push food on to each other with increasing speed, much too fast for the receiving woman to be able to eat it. It spills messily down, over her already coated sticky breasts and gathers in what would be her lap. Except there is no lap to catch the mess. Each woman’s legs are spread to connect each one’s ankles to each other, and the mess splats down to cover their waxed smooth vulvas and completely obscures the eyes of the men underneath.
The scene continues repeating in my mind like an extended Vine. Naked writhing bodies. Pulled, teased skin from cruel bondage. The predicament of the girls, of myself. The pain and suffering of the men and the women who are enjoying making them suffer. The sexual and physical hunger being attended to by the visual and physical feast, yet never sated. Urging my imagination to craft even more illicit and perverse images to tease my mind and body. Slipping my fingers down until I find that slippery, wet place; imagining suffering boys’ tongues, tweaked nipples and gateau. Imagining being naked, being watched and being bound. Until I am satisfied – for the moment, at least.