5 comments/ 46777 views/ 8 favorites Easter Egg Hunt By: rikkitampa2014 Our elegant host, Mr. Sims, greeted me at the door with a hug. It was my—what?—sixth Easter Egg Hunt Party at his mansion? I was a grizzled veteran so to speak. (Actually I was not grizzled at all. My entire body was completely, freshly shaved or Naired, and I was wearing, under my slacks, lace panties and lace-top thigh-highs. And the backpack slung over my right shoulder contained other goodies, including my wig, makeup kit, fuck-me heels, a spare panty and various toys. I had learned from experience, you never knew what might be required of you at one of these events.) As Mr. Sims, arm still slung over my shoulders, steered me inside, he leaned over and whispered, "You may have to do double duty tonight. Or even triple. I've had two bottoms cancel on me this afternoon. And I'm not so sure about a third. Fucking wankers! I had to completely redo the eggs just now! Anyway..." And almost imperceptibly, as we exited the tiled vestibule and entered the mansion's cathedral-ceilinged livingroom, he slipped what turned out to be three hundred dollar bills into my pants pocket. "For all your extra work tonight," he whispered, before pulling away. I was not the first guest to arrive. Several other men were milling about on the lanai, this side of the kidney-shaped, waterfall bedecked pool sparkling under floodlights, sipping champagne. Real champagne. I joined them—eager for a glass of nerve medicine. I'd downed a couple shots of vodka from the freezer before I made the long drive, but that was by now wearing off a little. Besides, it was no match for my heart-thumping adrenalin at the moment. Beyond the incredible, gurgling pool was the floodlit backyard and the lavish garden that formed its back perimeter against an eight-foot-high mansion-enclosing concrete wall. It was in this garden that the six large plastic variegated eggs would be loosely hidden, each one containing a room assignment. The mansion had ten bedrooms and eleven baths, though it sounded like only three or four of them would be needed tonight. It was usually the other way around: too many bottoms and not enough tops. Tonight was an anomaly. I struck up a conversation with a well-heeled middle-aged guy. Or rather, he struck up a conversation with me. "And which are you?" he asked superciliously. "A bottom." He laughed. "No, which person are you? Your name." I told him. "I'm Reginald," he said, extending a plump hand. "I'm a top." "Oh." I really didn't know what else to say. "I've seen you before somewhere. Are you the...?" "Webcam performer?" reaching for a business card. Reg screwed his somewhat jowly face up. "No, I meant...Sims said at least one of you here was a crossdresser." I set my champagne flute down on the adjacent patio table, unbuckled my belt and peeled the waist of my slacks down a couple inches, baring some pink Olga lace. "Oh my,"Reg said, slipping his hand in. "You are indeed! Nice. Very nice. I hope my egg contains your room number," he added. "I love to pound a good crossdresser." "Hey, knock it off you two! The party hasn't even started yet," Tom shouted in mock complaint, as he swaggered over. Like me Tom was an Easter Egg Party veteran. Unlike me he was a top. And he'd fucked me more than a few times here—even over the course of the same Viagra-fueled night. Tom was in industrial lubricants or something. Anyway, like Mr. Sims he was filthy rich. And he, indeed, was grizzled. He put his arm around my shoulders. I kissed his stubbled cheek. "The sex part that is," he latently added, looking Reg up and down. "Indeed it has," Reg protested. "It just did." "You like them panties, hunh?" Tom drawled. "Indeed I do." "Tell me somethin'..." "Reginald. Reg for short." The two tops shook loose hands. "Reg. Do you put 'indeed' like in every sentence?" "I..." "Just jokin'! You fucked our boy here before?" "This is my first Easter Egg Hunt Party. I mean, since childhood..." "My boy here..," Tom said, giving my shoulders a hug. "I mean gurl—right baby?" "Yessir." "He...she's one hell of a fuck. You wearin' them thigh-highs like last year, baby?" "Yessir." "Hot damn! I hope to hell you're in my Easter egg. I got a hard on the size of a can of Foster's. Will have in a few minutes once this Cialis shit kicks in. You take any o' that shit, Reg?" "I don't require it." "He doesn't require it," Tom said to me, with another shoulder-scrunching hug. "Good for him. It's good to be semi-young, ain't it? Our boy here...," referring to me, and for the record I was in fact, this night, 33 years old, "...our boy's a webcam performer. Right son?" "Yessir." "Ain't that how you make your living?" "Part of it," I replied, unable to forget the three crisp Benjamins currently lining my pants pocket. "It's a hot show, believe me." "Thanks for your support," I said preemptively to Tom, "I really appreciate it." "Of course!" To Reg he continued: "You oughta check it out. Watch our boy play with himself in his little panties, then go private with him and he'll put on a whole show for you. Whoo-wee! Play with his little cock and balls, bend over and put dildos up his ass...Sometimes I watch for a whole hour. What time it usually come on?" Tom asked, as if he didn't know. I needed another drink. "Um...three pm daily?" "Three pm daily," Tom parroted. My reasoning had been this: At 3 pm it would be like noon on the West Coast, but still only 8 or 9 pm in England and much of Europe. I was trying to maximize my international audience. So far, so good. But right at the moment I was more interested in snagging another flute of champagne off the tray carried by one of Mr. Sims' robotic waiters. "He invented them things," Tom said, with a belch. "Not invented but invested in 'em. Heavy." Reg said with uplifted chin: "Frankly I'd prefer a nice shapely young man with oiled body. Like some parties I've been to." Reg drank. We all drank. Tom blurted, lowering glass from lips: "Oh that's coming. Believe me. Want a permanently 21-year-old with beercan abs"—I think he meant washboard—"and a tight hole for you to fuck every night? Or a nine-inch cock and balls the size of peaches? Just program it in, put it on your special order. Like buying a Tesla. Custom-built. Course...," Tom said, thrusting his arms out in stretch, "...there'll be Walmart models too. You'll have your Lambos so to speak, your Bentleys...but you'll also have your fucking two-door Hyundais if you get my drift. If you want my advice you'll—" "Fascinating," Reg said unconvincingly. "If you'll excuse me..." "What's his problem?" Tom asked of me, as if I would know. "Uppity little faggot. I—" "Friends?" Mr. Sims finally orated from the center of the lanai. "Romans, countrymen. I believe we are all here now. May I have your attention please? Well, to be honest, my best-laid plans have gone slightly awry. I've had three cancellations tonight..." (Boos from the attendees.) "Yes. What can I say. All of them bottoms." (More boos.) "So those of you who are tops will be doubling up on the bottoms we have in attendance, which is not necessarily a bad thing. Is there anything hotter than a threesome?" (Muted cheers.) "So tonight we'll be emphasizing quality over quantity. And I assure you the three bottoms who did show up tonight—I know all of them, I've fucked all of them—will be able to please you in ways you've perhaps never imagined. Or maybe you have." (Laughter.) "At any rate here are the ground rules. When I fire the starting pistol each of you six tops will venture into the garden—there are trails—and search for one of the hidden Easter eggs. You are only allowed to pick up one. Six Easter eggs, one for each top. They are plastic. They pull apart. Inside is a room number which corresponds to the numbers I've tacked to the doors of six upstairs bedrooms—three I mean. While you six tops are conducting your Easter Egg search, I will assign each of our bottoms a room number. They will be waiting for you, right bottoms?" (We nodded.) "On bended knee, so to speak. The role of our bottoms," glancing from face to face on the lanai, "is to be utterly submissive to your top. Or tops I should say. HOWEVER. Let me be clear on this, any pain inflicted must be consensual. Spanking, whipping. Anything like that. And no blood. Please? Do I have everyone's agreement on this?" (Collective nodding.) "As far as fucking goes, and I'm sure this is the part you're most interested in..." (Hoots and hollers.) "As a condition for attending this party each of you has submitted bloodwork no older than two weeks. And each of you is proven to be HIV negative. You're all a healthy bunch of cocksuckers!" (Cheers. Whoops.) "So while safe sex is certainly advised, it is not deemed strictly necessary. If any bottom here," again glancing around the lanai, "objects to barebacking please make it known now. No? Good. Also, though not required, tips for our bottoms are, well, encouraged. Let me be clear this is for performance activities and not, NOT, payment for sex. Which is illegal. I'm certain there isn't a bottom here tonight who wouldn't appreciate, shall we say, remuneration for his performance services. Am I right?" (Multiple nods.) Mr. Sims lifted the starter pistol off the table. "I am the odd man out here," he said. "I am the seventh top. But it's my house, my party, and I'll cry if I want to..." (Laughter.) "No. I joke. I'll be circulating to each of the three rooms, watching, joining in perhaps, perhaps taking some pics or videos, which will remain strictly private. So. Are there any questions, issues, before the Hunt begins? No? Good. In the immortal words of Gary Gilmore...'Let's do it!'" Mr. Sims fired the pistol into the air. As the six tops scrambled into the backyard, we three remaining bottoms went over to receive our marching orders. Our numerical room assignments. The one bottom I vaguely recognized, the other was new to the April party. Mr. Sims handed each of us a folded piece of paper, inside of which was a room number. As the other two bottoms hurried to the staircase and their assigned rooms, Mr. Sims once again put his arm around me. "You saw Aaron, the big guy?" "I...think so." "On the chubby side? Very chubby." "OK." "I rigged this a little bit. Told him to pick up the pink egg. Your room number. He's going through a divorce. Bitch of a wife is demanding like a hundred thousand a month. Gold-digger. Pure and simple. Anyway," walking me toward the staircase, "he's going to need some TLC tonight. A long, slow suck? Get him hard. I know you don't mind big-bellied guys that's the reason I...Anyway, he likes CD's. That's what got him in trouble with his wife. Used to be an NFL cheerleader—can you believe it? Her, not him. A grown woman? Anyway..." "I'll take care of him," I said, leaving behind the weight of Mr. Sims' arm and beginning my ascent. "I know you will," he said from the base of the stairs. "I'll be in later. Gotta get my own fuck in tonight. Right baby?" "Yessir." I'd been assigned bedroom number 2. The one in the middle. I entered. Closed the door. Removed my outer clothes. Carried my backpack into the clean, well-lit bathroom and went to work: blonde wig, red lipstick, green eye shadow and some neutral-colored rouge, B-cup bra. I was ready. Was I? Distantly, a floor below, the starter pistol sounded again. This was our signal. The tops were coming up. Get in a submissive position on the bed. Get ready. Be prepared (like a sexual Boy Scout). My heart was racing... The Easter Egg Hunt was over. Now six horny tops were ascending the mansion stairs assigned to one of three bedrooms. I awaited the not-so-chance pairing with trepidation. I knew who the one guy would be—Mr. Sims had tipped me off about that—but who would my second sex partner be tonight? Reg? Tom? One of the remaining three...? At the second firing of the start pistol I'd climbed onto the center of the cushy queen-sized bed and positioned myself on my elbows and knees, legs spread apart, shaved white ass perchedin the air, head to the mattress. Fuck me. Ready. I was wearing my blonde wig, makeup, my black bra and matching black lace-top thigh-highs. My silver fuck-me heels lay side by side on the rug, beside the bed. On the night-table I'd laid out two dildos, one bigger than the other, and a butt-plug. And K-Y jelly. I was ready. What else could they want? Oh, and from my backpack, I'd also pulled on, up my slender left thigh, a pink garter that held, folded over but still crisp, the threesome of Benjamins our host Mr. Sims had bestowed on me upon my arrival. I hoped more "tips" would shortly be forthcoming. Everything about me said: Fuck my ass! The door opened and I braced. What would he—they—want? You never knew. Not everybody, for instance, liked CD's. No problem. I could strip—naked. I didn't care. I just wanted to turn my lovers on and give them a good time. And hopefully be remunerated for my troubles. "Hey," I heard, face to the mattress. "You're in here?" "Yeah." "Would you mind giving me like fifteen minutes alone with this piece of shit? Then she's all yours?" "That's not the way it's supposed to work." "I know," the guy with the deep basso voice said. "Fifteen, thirty minutes alone, then this bitch is all yours." "Now it's thirty." "So?" "I didn't come here to get shut out like this," the second guy said. "I came here to fuck the shit out a bottom. I'm horny." "I know. Bear with me, OK? I'm not shutting you out. I just want a few minutes alone with this fucking piece of shit before I turn her over to you." "What are you going to do?" "You'll find out." "Fuck, man. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?" "Have another glass of champagne? Watch? Whatever..." In the meantime I'd sneaked a peak. The guy with the deep voice doing all the demanding was, undoubtably, the big fat divorcee Mr. Sims had warned me about. Told me about, I mean. He was, ominously, snapping a pair of red-handled wire cutters. "Uh...," Top number 2 said, "what are you going to do with those?" "Just watch." A fat hand slapped my right cheek, driving me further into the mattress. It hurt—it hurt but not a tenth as much as the second slap in the same reddening spot. "Bitch!" he said. "You want to steal my money? You want to fuck me over? Fuck you!" another blistering slap. He climbed on the bed behind me, flexing his cutters. "You want everything I own? I'll give you everything...!" His wire cutters pinched the flesh of my ass in the crease just above my right thigh. I screamed. Before I could even react he'd pinched my left buttock, eliciting another frantic scream. Hot liquid was running down the backs of my thighs. Blood. My blood. The pain had driven me off my elbows face-down onto the bed. I was writhing, crying. Sobbing. He found the back of the top of my ball sac with his cutters and squeezed. I screamed a third time. Now blood was not only streaming down my thighs but dripping to the sheets from my pendant balls. Drip, drip, drip. I watched—partially in horror and partially in erotic fascination. Drip, drip. Would it stop? What next would he do to me? The bedroom door burst open. Mr. Sims accompanied by my ostensible second sex partner in room number 2. The fat guy looked around and snapped his wire cutters in the air. Mr. Sims pointed his pistol. "Get off of him!" he said. "I'm not on him." "Get off the bed." "What, you're gonna shoot me with your starter pistol." "This is a .45 caliber Glock XXX and it'll blow your head clean off," Mr. Sims said, channeling Dirty Hairy. "And I'm standing my ground right now against your sorry ass." "Be cool, man," the fat guy said, exiting the bed and raising his chubby arms. "Fuck you. Get out of my house. Now!" "I'm going." Mr. Sims gave his wide a ass a parting boot, Glock still pointed at his head, before running over to me. "You OK, baby?" he asked. "Yeah," I replied. The pain was gradually wearing off. And frankly, I'd kind of enjoyed it. All the blood, though, was a different matter. Would it ever stop? "Christ," Mr. Sims said. "I'll get some alcohol and some bandages. If we can stop the bleeding, would you still be willing to...?" I was a sexual trooper. "Sure," I replied. Mr. Sims gave my left hip a pat. On his way out he passed Top #2 who was, pants now off, stroking himself. The other remaining four tops, and two bottoms, crowded the bedroom door. My screams had been effective, I guessed. Number 2 came forward. "You OK?" he asked. "Fine." "You don't look fine." On my back now, lying on the bloody sheets, legs spread apart, I shrugged. "It's kind of a turn-on," number 2 said, without being more explicit. Climbing on the bed, his right hand went from stroking to guiding his unlubricated cock towards my hole. I lifted my bloody legs, wrapped them around him. He fucked me drily (more pain, but not much). He came quickly, shot his load deep inside me. Mr. Sims reappeared, just as a sated number 2 was climbing off of me.. "Roll over," he said. Then he went to work applying stinging alcohol to my pincher wounds, before daubing them with gauze. "Could someone get me a towel, from the bathroom?" he asked. There were six volunteers (Top number 2 had disappeared). After wiping down my thighs and balls Mr. Sims asked, "How do you feel?" "Fine," I lied. (My asshole was raw from the fuck.) "I have some Vicodin." "Sure," I said. "You won't feel a thing. Cool?" "Thank you." "No, thank you. By the way, in case you haven't noticed, there's like five tops—me included—looking to fuck you right now. I guess your blood's an aphrodisiac." "I'm ready," I said, rolling onto by back again. The sheets soaked in my blood. "Bring 'em on!" "Let's fuck this bitch!" Mr. Sims declared to the others. (Applause from the doorway.) Around two a.m. and exhausted, I was driving back home. The sperm of no less than six lovers leaking into the panty-liner from my dilated asshole. Despite the pain of the sadist's pliers I had never felt so fulfilled. So feminine. So...needed. Also, I now hoped I had five or six new paying customers for my daily webcam. My gartered left thigh bristled with Benjamins. Last count it was pushing $1,000 for a night's work. Thanks, guys! Four days after Mr. Sims' annual Easter Egg Hunt Party I received an email from the fat guy. Turned out his name was Mark. Did he send it at Mr. Sims' urging? I suspect so. He apologized profusely for violating the rules of the party and inflicting non-consensual pain on me. And drawing blood. Lots of blood. After thinking about it for a day I replied back. I thanked him for his concern and told him my three wounds were quickly healing. Everything was A-OK. Then I took a deep breath and invited him over. "Bring your pliers," I said in the email, perversely.