Clothes Maketh The Man – Part 55.

Find Part 1 hereChapter list here

From my room I could see cars arriving, as I changed. From some of the cars a couple would emerge, from others two or three men and there were the occasional lone drivers parking in the courtyard.

I looked at the high-end vehicles and wondered what on earth I had got myself into. Below me I could see Mr. Butterworth who we’d bumped into in the town drawing up in his station wagon. This time he was with a severe looking woman, likely his wife, though his son was apparently not invited to the evenings event.

 At that moment I heard a knock at my door and 22 leaned in to chivy me along. 

“Ten minutes, 38. Get a move on,” she said. Her make up was perfect and she wore a tight black leather catsuit.

She disappeared back into the corridor, with a clacking of high heels and I heard her knock on another door. Dressing quickly I pulled on the suspender belt and then the tiny panties, black and sheer. They barely covered the shiny metal form of the chastity cage. It did seem terribly small now, I thought as I looked at it. And what it so efficiently enclosed also seemed a little emaciated.  I wondered if my dick would ever be as proud as once it had been. To my surprise I found I was not concerned about this. After all, the excitement I felt so strongly centred about me being used by someone else, and my masculine self seemed to be entirely in abeyance. There was no testosterone fueled urge to thrust myself to completion. No, I was thinking of being the object of lust, used and then cast aside. Was that not, after all, what I wanted? The thought was arousing, which in turn brought my mind directly to the confining nature of the cage. With each pulse it suddenly felt more constraining.

Pressing on quickly I slipped into the halter top and mini skirt, which afforded me no modesty at all, but did show off my freshly shaved legs, and the fishnet stockings that so beautifully accentuated their shape. By the time I sat in front of my dressing table mirror and started working on my makeup I found I was caught up in the excitement of the moment. I felt like I was getting ready for my part in a show, and I was going to look wonderful. 

A moment or two later 22 knocked once more and entered my room along with the girl called ‘30’, who I’d worked with in the stables that morning. She too wore a short mini skirt, and I could see the tell tale bulge of her chastity device.

I found myself mesmerised by her muscular legs, tanned and toned so beautifully. My eyes seemed drawn to her cage. I tried to look away, but she caught me staring, to my embarrassment.

“See something you like, 37?” she said coldly.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, looking away.

“It’s ok.  Enjoy it. I won’t need the cage soon. My operation’s coming up.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“You know about the operations, right?” she went on.

“What do you mean?” I said uncertainly.

A look of surprise drifted across her face but was quickly replaced by a colder smirk. Then she said quietly to 22, “She doesn’t know about the operation.”

“Shut up and get about your business,” said 22 firmly.

I was confused and knew I wanted to know more, but it was nearly our time to get down to the big hall. There clearly wasn’t time to get into this now.

30 laughed quite cruelly.

“Don’t you worry, sweetie. You’ll find out soon enough.”

22 told her to hush and then took us out into the corridor.

“Just play along and meet the guests for the first part of the evening. There’s going to be plenty of drink around, but don’t get drunk. Keep it light, so when it’s our turn on the stage you’re not missing anything,” said 22. “And remember to keep the audience happy. They want to see you, and they want to know you’re enjoying it.”

“But what are we doing,” I said, still confused about my role.

“Just follow along.  You’ll get the hang of it. If you’re not sure what to do just look at 30 and follow her lead.”

With clicking heels and feeling almost naked in the mini skirt, which barely covered the top of my things I followed 22 and 30 to the top of the stairs. Behind me there were several other girls, all dressed for the evening. As we started to descend the stairs people in the foyer below glanced upwards, their stares probing us and played over us like the breath of wolves surveying their next meal. Yet each of us descended that staircase with equal poise and confidence. Shoulders back and chins high.

As I glanced at the company I was descending the stairs with I realised something surprising. While we’d all looked quite different while working, now dressed in such sexually evocative clothes, we know all looked somewhat similar.

We were all excited. While I was puzzled about what lay before me, I felt no fear. Far from it. I was anticipating an evening that would be full of surprises, but I didn’t feel threatened. It crossed my mind that if each of us had had experiences similar to my own journey of these last few months, then we’d all be quite interesting people. Certainly not intimidated by the various men and their consorts gathered here.

I lifted my chin a little higher, and let my hips swing with a little more emphasis.

Yes, whatever lay ahead tonight, I could handle it.


As we entered the I saw Mrs. Gravely across the room raise her hand and catch 22’s eye. She beckoned us over and we made our way through clusters of people chatting. As we did so people turned to look at us. Some approached the gurls, but we ignored them to go to Mrs. Gravely.

“Very nice, 22. You look very acceptable. And you, 29, your hair is very nicely done.  Game faces, everyone. Now, go and mingle, and when it’s your turn just follow your leaders,” she said and smiled a warm smile as might a headmistress on learning that the grade 11 class had excelled in the SATs.

With that the gurls began to disperse, being snapped up by passing couples and singles and groups, until it seemed there was just myself and number 30 standing there.

“I don’t know about you,” said 30, but I’m going to have a drink. With that she made for what appeared to be a makeshift bar, and returned a moment later with a huge gin and tonic in each hand. Pushing one into my hand she took a long draft of her drink, and then glanced about the place.

“Good crowd, tonight,” she said.

I gingerly took a sip of my drink, and finding it was mostly gin, and very little tonic I decided I might need to find a diet coke. A moment later a young man who must barely have been 20 walked up to me and started talking. I smiled and tried to listen but as I looked down on this puppy from atop of my heels I felt a little sorry for him. In his innocence he was talking to me as though I might have been one of the local virgins he might have met at the church social.

I decided to smile and listen attentively. After all, who knew where it might lead.


At intervals there would be announcements. Mrs. Gravely announced that there was to be a couple of poker table in the back room for any guests who felt they’d like to try their hands at cards, and as a few men sauntered off, they were accompanied by gurls sure to bring them good luck.

Another member of the staff let people know that there was a hot tub in the garden, and any one that felt they’d enjoy the fresh night air need not trouble to wear anything as none of the gurls already out there were. Once more the crowd thinned as several of the guests filtered out to starlit night.

And then 22 was tapping me on the shoulder and telling me to make my way to the front of the hall, and then I found myself and 30 being shepherded up onto the raised platform that served as a stage, and placed sitting on a chair either side of where 22 now stood before what looked like a massage table.

“And now the centre piece of the evening,” said 22. “As you know we have placed all your phone numbers in a bowl here, and one of you is going to be tonight’s lucky winner.”

A few people in the crowd looked almost overcome with excitement, though I noticed a few glanced at one another nervously.

Mrs. Gravely came forward at this point and handed 22 a large bowl with what appeared to be cards in it, and looking away but with a flourish 22 drew out one card. She stared at it, and then with masterful showmanship smiled at the audience.

“Now, you all know the rules.  Whoever this is, they must come forward to collect their prize.”

The room had fallen silent but this point and all eyes were on 22 as she took a cell phone and dialed the number on the card. A moment later I heard the chirping of a phone, and all eyes turned to the front left of the hall, where several guests were staring at one another. In a moment it was clear whose phone was ringing, and suddenly hands grasped the unlucky winner, holding him so no escape was possible.

It so happened that the winner of this particular game was none other than Mr. Butterworth.

To my surprise this realisation was not met with smiles and congratulations. Far from it. Mr. Butterworth looked positively frightened. Taking in the scene as swiftly as I could I did notice the smile of what appeared to be satisfaction coming from his wife. I caught the look in her eyes, though I think many others might have missed it, but she seemed positively jubilant that her husband had been chosen in this way.

He pulled back from the hands that now grasped his jacket, his shoulders. The men around him, and several of the gurls, all held him tight, as although he struggled for a moment, it was clear there was no escape.

I looked round to see that this audience were all drawing out masks from their bags, as though having waited for the cue. Some of the masks were simple patterned eye coverings, while others were more extravagant. In a few moments though, the hall had switched from a room filled with chattering guests with the chink of glasses, to a room of masked participant of something far more sinister.

Quietly the guests parted and Mrs. Gravely, wearing a dark mesh mask, walked solemnly up to Mr. Butterworth. She carried an ornate cardboard box. I’d have guessed it was a hat box, and it was really quite beautiful.

Still held by firm hands, Mr. Butterworth backed away from the form of Mrs. Gravely. I stared and watched with secret curiosity the way in which Mrs. Butterworth was reacting. She was trying to suppress her smile, and look sombre, but I could see the way her eyes betrayed her. She was excited to see things unfold, and her joy seemed the reverse of her husband’s resistance.

“I really just like to watch,” said Mr. Butterworth to Mrs. Gravely. His voice was almost choking. “Please. I just like to…”

Mrs. Gravely opened the hat box, and in a swift motion drew out what I at first took to be a very elaborate mask. Her movement was a flourish, and the audience seemed to appreciate the spectacle. In a moment I realised I was mistaken as what I was looking at revealed itself to be far more than a mask. This was an elaborate headpiece in the form of a goat. Mrs. Gravely lifted it and then placed it over Mr. Butterworth’s head, in spite of his renewed struggles. Several of the men holding him immediately started bleating, mocking the man.

As he struggled Mrs. Gravely secured several leather straps, and Mr. Butterworth found his arms pinned to his sides and then secured behind his back with a pair of secure leather cuffs.

Mr. Butterworth forced a nervous laugh.

“Mrs. Gravely,” he appealed. “I just like to watch really…”

His voice was almost cracking, choking in his fear.

The guests laughed loudly at this and started their derisive bleating noises more loudly. A moment later 22 stepped forward and took him by the arm and led him up the steps, aided by several guests determined he might not be allowed to find a way to escape the entertainment.

To the delight of the audience 22 now took hold of Mr. Butterworth’s belt and unfastened it. His pants fell to the floor, and he moved awkwardly to conceal his boxers. Pressing his knees together he seemed to twist awkwardly and turn away. It was only then that I realised the goat’s head mask was denying Mr. Butterworth of any vision. In his panic he was turning this way and that, with no idea that he was making a spectacle of himself for the entertainment of the entire gathered audience.

It was then that 22 turned to me and told me to help her lift the struggling form of Mr. Butterworth onto the massage table. Still held by a few volunteers eager that their quarry not escape, Mr. Butterworth found himself lifted and placed flat on his back before the assembled audience.

At this point 30 climbed up onto the massage table, and sitting astride his chest, lowered herself onto his face. I watched the leather miniskirt fall about his face as he found himself pressed under the powerful body of this antagonist, her chastity cage pressed to his panicked face. 30 told me to hold his ankles while she removed his pants, socks and shoes, and then with a flamboyant flourish his boxer shorts, revealing the poor mans small, and definitely frightened penis.

As he struggled 22 ran her fingers over his genitals, taking some oil and squirting it liberally on his partially naked form.  As she touched him now, despite his struggles, his arousal was evident for all to see. Although he cried out and struggled as well he might, his body would not deny it’s excitement, and in a moment he stood proudly erect under 22’s hand.

I should say that at this 22 gave a grin to the audience that seemed to egg them on in their bleating sounds and their laughter. Mr. Butterworths cries of distress were quite lost in the roars of laughter.

As this scene played out I caught sight of two small but important details within the crowd.  Mrs. Gravely was enjoying the comedy of the scene, and smiling quite cruelly to herself. No one seemed to notice her, but I could see behind the mask the hungry look in her eyes.

As her husband struggled on the stage, pushing against the restraining hands, the other set of eyes that seemed to devour the details of the moment were those of his wife. Even the mask could not hide lascivious joy she was deriving from her husbands discomfort.

His struggles lost in the sound of the audience, 22 was now actively stimulating Mr. Butterworth, and then leaned over where I was holding one of his ankles firmly and whispered in my ear, “OK, now it’s your turn. I’ll hold him while you straddle him.”

I stared at her for a second or two, but in the heat of the moment realised I was not here to argue the point, and found myself climbing atop the massage table, and as 22 held his erect manhood beneath me I slowly lowered myself onto his struggling form. As I stared at the head of the goat 30 raised one arm and reached out to my neck and drew me forward and to my surprise kissed me, her gin soaked breath hot on my face. I felt the heat of Mr. Butterworth’s reluctant cock sliding into me as I settled down on him, feeling his struggles beneath me. I began to gyrate my hips and watched the delight of his wife who gleefully stared, camera in hand, as her husband was pressed into service before the many onlookers.


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