I knelt between him and my Mistress, wearing my skirt and sweater, the bunny tail of my pom-pom tickling my cheeks. I kept my eyes down out of respect, but I had already learned the trick of seeing others peripherally, and used this moment to steal a glance at the man who would claim my anal virginity tonight.

       He was tall and lean, with a deeply lined face. His features were strong, and displayed the same implacability that I had learned to love on the face of my Mistress. His hair was thinning, but time had not dimmed the cold light in his eyes. It had not effected his virility either. The bulge that strained the seam of his pant leg suggested an organ of truly frightening proportions. I was suddenly grateful for the thick plugs and training exercises that had prepared me for him.

          “Stand up, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Let me have a look at you.”

          I did not trust his kindly manner. It was a mask. There was cruelty lurking within. He planned to lull me with tenderness, and spring upon me when I was no longer wary.

          Yet his manner was seductive. I had known such coldness here, even from my beloved Mistress. When he stroked my cheek with a strong hand, I leaned into the touch, hungry for the affection it promised.

       His hands moved down to caress my throat. “You would be lovely in a collar,” he murmured. He frictioned my nipples through the rough wool of my sweater, and they stiffened appreciatively. His hands circled my waist before he lifted my skirt to cup my mound and slip a finger into my slit.

       “She’s already wet,” he commented.

       “I told you she was born for this,” said Mrs. Hobbes, behind me.

       He lifted my sweater, and I raised my arms and leaned forward so that he could slip it over my head. “I think you know that it isn’t your cunt that interests me.”   

       “Yes, Master.” No one had told me that I should address him that way, but it came naturally to my lips. He smiled and tugged my skirt over my hips. I stepped out of it.

       “Present,” said Mrs. Hobbes.

       I turned my back to him, spread my legs, and touched the floor with my legs straight. He grasped my bunny tail and twisted, twirling the plug inside me. I tightened against it. There was no chastity strap to hold it in, and it had been heavily greased. I feared that it would come shooting out of me. “There is a bow on my gift,” he chuckled.

       Mrs. Hobbes turned to Mrs. Griswold. “Is dinner ready?”

       “It’s in the oven,” said Mrs. Griswold. “Shall we serve it?”

       “Yes. Take Nymph to the bath first. I’m sure that Mr. Hobbes will want to enjoy her after he eats. Her ornament has served its purpose.”

       I scooped up my costume and followed Mrs. Griswold down the hall. She had me bend over the sink in the bathroom while she jerked the plug out. She seemed more brusque that usual, twisting the tassel off the plug impatiently. I thought that she was resentful, because tending to me was taking her away from the party. I looked down at the brass faucets and mumbled.

       “I’m sorry to be so much trouble. I didn’t want to take you away from the fun.” I hoped that she wouldn’t read unintended sarcasm in my tone.

       She smacked my ass with a hard palm, sharp enough to bounce my hips off of the sink. “No trouble at all,” she said. “You are the fun.”

       In hindsight, I realize that she was just getting into the mood. She threw the pom-pom into the trash and tossed the greasy plug into the sink. “Clean it.”

       While I washed the plug, I could feel her behind me, spreading my cheeks and working a fresh dollop of lubricant up my ass. She used two fingers and twirled them around until I stood on my toes.

       “You’re tense,” she muttered. “Nervous?”

       “A little,” I admitted. Was she being sympathetic?

       “You should be,” She grinned, “Corner.”

       I stood in the corner while she washed her hands. My mind was blank, numbed by fear. I saw a spider up near the ceiling. She was patiently beginning her web.

       I could feel the lube, slippery between my cheeks, as we carried platters of food into the dining room and set them down. Stark naked now, I filled glasses and carried the food from place to place until every plate had been filled. My stomach was growling. I had been allowed nothing since breakfast.

       When everyone had been served, I was directed to kneel between Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes. Their dinner conversation was animated, but none of it was about me. The young guests had just returned from a ski trip, and were full of tales about their adventure. The woman used her video camera to record the festivities, chattering into the microphone to provide narration. She had me stand and turn while she told the camera: “This is Harry’s gift from Temi. Maybe he will be good enough to share his little package with us later.”

       “I’m not greedy,” said Mr. Hobbes. Everybody laughed except me.

       Kneeling again, I waited through the meal. From time to time, Mrs. Hobbes reached down to me with a scrap from her plate, tiny bites of gristle, potato skins, bread crusts. I licked her fingers clean when she was finished.

       “Clear the table, Nymph,” she said. “Then you may ask Mrs. Griswold to prepare you in the library. You can wait there while we have coffee.”

       It took all my courage to stand up and follow Mrs. Griswold out of the room. I knew instinctively that tonight would mark a turning point of some kind. I would enter a new phase of humiliation and terror. My abasement would be total. My limits would be tested. It was going to hurt.

       The library had been rearranged. The desk had been moved aside to make room for an apparatus similar to the ones you may have already seen on Domain. It was a metal framework, like a carpenter’s horse, with a wider, sloping top. Semi-circles and holes had been cut out of the top, which was padded and upholstered with black leather. A padded bolster had been added at one end. Rings dangled from the struts supporting it.

       Before we started, Mrs. Griswold had me help her bring things in from the kitchen, ice buckets filled with wine, trays of snacks. We set them on end tables beside the chairs and sofa. She had me bring a bar stool in and set it near the frame.

       “In the bathroom,” she said, you will find a box of items that will be needed tonight. You might as well piss, too. Don’t forget to wash yourself after, and don’t dawdle.”

       “No, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

       When I used the bidet, I was careful not to wash away the lube on my bottomhole. I suspected that I was about to need all the help I could get back there. Drying myself, I caught my hands lingering with the towel. My pussy hadn’t forgotten why I was here, and was enjoying the friction of the rough terry cloth a bit too much. I placed the towel over the bar with shaking hands. Could I bear this? All I had to do was tell Mrs. Hobbes that I wanted to leave. She had promised me that the door would always be open.

          Was it love, really, that kept me here, or only my raging hormones? Had I already passed the point of no return? Could I really ever hope to be happy with a normal life?

        The box had no cover. I was meant to see the things inside. I carried it into the library. Mrs. Griswold had placed a table beside the frame, and told me to unload the box there.

          I took out several condoms, a tube of liniment, and another of lubricant, an inflatable plug, two pair of spring clips, a penis gag, and a collection of dildoes. Some were ribbed, some covered with warts, some were designed to vibrate or squirm, and all of them were thick.