I looked about the hall, and from this elevated position I could see that everyone in the room was watching the surreal form of Mr. Butterworth complete with goat headpiece, held firmly by eager hands beneath me. Beside the massage table among the masked faces of the audience was his wife. Nothing seemed to conceal her glee at seeing her husband subjugated in this way.
I saw her laughing and one of the other female guests leaned over and said something in her ear and she laughed heartily. All the while I could feel 22’s hand on my thigh urging me to slide deeper down on the poor man beneath me. I could feel him hard, pressing against me, as reluctant as he may have felt. He squirmed this way and that, but could not escape either me or the crowd who so clearly wanted their fill of this scene.
As I settled down on him once more Mrs. Butterworth stepped forward and holding her camera snapped away. Beneath me I could see Mr. Butterworth’s chest shuddering, as though he was sobbing, and there was 22, shouting something to the crowd who were jubilant at the spectacle.
“Look,” shouted 22. “See how the goat loves it!”
A chorus of bleats came derisively from the audience.
Mr. Butterworth twisted left and right in vain beneath me, but held firmly from all directions this served to do nothing but move him within me in a manner that I found most exciting. I barely needed to be urged on, though I could feel both 22 and 30 urging me to do so, their hands on my hips and buttocks.
‘In for a penny, in for a pounding’, I thought to myself and began to work my hips against the reluctant form of Mr. Butterworth.
With exaggerated circular motions I rode the stiffness of the poor man. I have to say I enjoyed it, too. With each gyration I felt him more deeply within and rocking forward and back with increasing speed I felt him begin to respond, as he surely must.
His cries of resistance smothered by the goat headpiece he began to shudder and I knew what must be coming. I watched as 22 stepped back, the crowd surrounding the massage table swallowed her a moment later, surging in to fill the space she’d left, eager to be part of the unfolding scene.
With renewed vigor I worked Mr. Butterworth into a state of complete frenzy, my hips driving him on like a jockey on a horse as it races toward the finish line. He now showed no sign of resistance, and in his own pathetic way tried to perform his manly duty, to the derisive cries of laughter from his wife.
“Oh, look at him,” she laughed, her aging middle-aged face cracked with mirth. “He’s like a little boy!”
I felt his body arching beneath me and held on. He was completely enslaved by his lust by now, not capable of doing anything but racing onward toward a finish line he was fixated upon now. He could no more stop himself than an apple can stop itself yielding to gravity as it falls from a tree.
As I watched 22 returning through the crowd I saw her hand Mrs. Butterworth a harness and strap on dildo that would have done any of the horses in the stables outside proud. She hugged 22 and kicked off her shoes then pulled the harness up her stockinged legs, laughing ostentatiously all the time. She’d handed her camera to one of her friends, and looked thrilled as her part in the ritual became obvious. As Mr. Butterworth bucked and writhed beneath me I realised that once I was done, it would be his wife that would complete the act of Mr. Butterworth’s final humiliation.
Within me I felt the inevitable completion of Mr. Butterworths entertaining but rather sorry efforts. My knees were a little stiff as I climbed from the table, only to see 30 grasp both Mr. Butterworth’s ankles and press them apart, pushing against where he lay held on his back. I could see his wife, her mask failing to obscure the broad smile on her face as she squirted some lube on the swinging appendage between her legs.
I felt someone touch my shoulder as I was moving away from the massage table, and turned to see Mrs. Gravely leaning toward me and then saying close to my ear, “Good job, 38.”
I smiled back at her, not wanting to compete with the noise of the crowd. I was a little shocked at myself, for this, but I had to admit I had enjoyed the process.
I motioned to Mrs. Gravely to say I was going to go and have a wash and that I’d be back down in a few minutes, and then made my way to the back of the crowd, and then to the door back into the main reception hallway. As I left the hall I could see all faces and eyes were firmly on what was happening to poor Mr. Butterworth. Even Mrs. Gravely seemed absorbed in his humiliation.
My heels klicked as I headed toward my room, my route taking me straight passed Mrs. Gravely’s office. On an impulse I tried the door, and to my surprise found it unlocked. Checking over my shoulder I realised I was completely alone and unseen.
Realising I may not have such an opportunity again I slipped into the darkened office and quickly reached for the desk light. I turned it on and reached for the draw in which I’d seen her place my phone. I tried it, but it was evidently locked. I guessed that was quite predictable. With an exasperated sigh I was about to leave when I noticed Mrs. Gravely’s blotter.
It was unsurprising that a woman of refinement would use a fountain pen, and as with all fountain pen users she had a large piece of blotting paper on her desk. I looked at it with interest and a reversed number noted in her smooth hand caught my eye. It was a phone number. A San Francisco number. I stared at it.
It was the only 415 number I knew by heart. But why would Mrs. Gravely have my sister’s phone number?