3 comments/ 21994 views/ 10 favorites Appearing For One Night Only By: steffen For the last few years, I have made a good living as a male model. Not a $5000 a day supermodel kind of male model. There are just a couple dozen of those in the entire world that make that kind of money. No, I was just an average working male model. Catalogs – which paid well; editorial – which didn't, and every year, fashion shows in Milan, Paris, New York and London. Those shows were a rush of auditions (called go-sees), fittings, make-up and then the runway itself. Though not as intense as the women's side of fashion, show season was exhilarating and lucrative. Booking shows with just a handful of designers could fund a month or more on an exotic beach; Bali, the Seychelles, Phuket. Working a fashion show is not for the modest. There are no dressing rooms – instead, there is simply "the back." Any model – male or female with any sort of privacy hang-ups is going to have problems. You come in, take off your clothes, put on whatever it is you're supposed to wear, take that off and put on the next outfit. Backstage is a crowded, tangled mess of hysterical designers, anxious assistants, frazzled make-up artists and always, the press. I had been in London for the week leading up to their season. The truth is, I hadn't been all that successful in booking shows. Was I getting to that age where I had to -- god forbid, think about going back to Dartmouth and finishing up my degree. And in what? I'd never exactly figured that part out. Which explains how I'd ended up in London. I had gotten into modeling during my sophomore year at college. I wasn't setting the academic world on fire although I was a productive member of the lacrosse team. I decided to -- well, it was more of a joke than anything else -- send a few photos of myself to modeling agency in New York City. I was surprised when, just a few days later, I got a call asking if I could drop by for a look and quick Polaroid. That was a hurried late night train ride and three years ago. The agency signed me and I booked work right away. At that point, it seemed like an easy decision to withdraw from the university. I rationalized that I could always go back and, with the money I'd managed to put away, pay for my degree and then some. At least that was the plan back then. In reality, I hadn't been all that good about putting money away. First-class air travel was a hard habit to break. And now my London season was shaping up to be a total flop. I had managed to book just one show. It was for a designer that was showing a collection of resort and swimwear. Typically, I never even got those sorts of assignments. Not that I didn't look good in swimwear. At 6'-2", I had a lean, muscular body with a flat stomach. No, that wasn't the problem. As one casting director put it to me after I'd gone in to audition for an underwear campaign, I was perfect for them except for one thing ... and this is where he paused and became suddenly tongue-tied. "No offense, but your... you know," looking down at my crotch and then shaking his head. "It's just too..." before trailing off, "I'm sure you understand." We both laughed but I didn't get hired. Feeling a small flush of anger tinged with embarrassment, I knew what he was referring to. Having a big package was usually considered a good thing. And certain photographers weren't against adding a bit of strategic padding to achieve the desired look for their client. But, what many people would consider an asset had turned out to be a professional impediment for me. As a drunk Irish girl once said to me, there are some men that are "growers." Except the way pronounced it, it came out sounding like "grewers." You really can't tell how big they are when they're flaccid. And then there are "teasers," men that look big flaccid but don't really grow all that much when they get hard. And then there are... "Fekking yuge," she'd said with a throaty laugh before rolling out of bed to pull a measuring tape out of her sewing basket. "Christ, what have I gotten myself into," she asked? Nothing it turned out because, if memory serves me correctly, she passed out a few minutes later and I had to let myself out of her cramped Dublin apartment. With that in mind, I was surprised when I booked this designer's show. During the casting, I had tried on a few of his swimsuits and done my model walk for him and his top staff. Among them was an attractive woman Asian woman in her early 30's. She seemed to be more on the business side than the creative but that was just a guess. They were all sitting at a long table at one end of his atelier; bottles of Fiji water, half-filled ashtrays and fabric swatches strewn about. I'd grown used to the discreet glance downward that lingered just a brief moment too long, followed by, "thank you but you're not quite right for this." It had gotten to the point where my agency stopped sending me to those sorts of go-sees. So, I was quite surprised when the designer said, "you'll be perfect, luv." A few days later, the show went off about the way they usually do – chaos, a few missed lighting cues, throbbing techno music and lots of hugs and kisses backstage afterwards. At one point during the show, I'd noticed the Asian woman who had been at the casting. She was dressed much that same as she had been the day of the audition. If I knew more about fashion perhaps I would have recognized her outfit as something from the designer's women's collection. She'd spent most of the show doing nothing but seeming to keep an eye on everything. From time to time, she'd talk to someone in the press but mostly she just watched. At one point during the show I was between outfits. What I mean by that is that I was standing there stark naked as my dresser pulled the next look off the rack. As I said earlier, fashion shows aren't for the modest. The Asian woman's glance was nothing unprofessional but I clearly felt her linger for just a fraction of moment too long on what hung between my legs. And then there was, perhaps, just a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth but maybe I had imagined that. I think she saw me looking back at her and she quickly turned to speak to a reporter from the Herald Tribune. After the show, I'd slipped into my own clothes, said my good-byes and was out the door in just a few minutes. I was on the damp sidewalk and wondering how I was going to get back to my hotel -- cab, tube or just walk through the chilly London night, when I heard someone behind me. "Excuse me." Which is a long way of explaining how I ended up where I am tonight -- sitting alone in a small dressing room. Naked. Other than the fact that I'm in London, I have no idea where I am and only a vague idea of what is going to happen later this evening. "Call me Amelia," she said offering her hand. Two nights later the hired car picked me up in front of my hotel at 10pm sharp, just as she'd promised. After a 20 minute ride, the car dropped me off at the back door of what seemed to be a club, maybe a restaurant. A small woman with a clipboard opened the door before I'd even had a chance ask the driver what do next. The woman didn't offer her name or even a hello, just a crisp, "follow me, please," and led me down a narrow hallway to this small dressing room. A table, a chair, a few hooks. She pointed at the chair, told me to sit and put my head back. "This will sting a bit." The drops she put into my eyes really did sting. "Just like at the eye doctors, you know." That was over an hour ago. At least I think it was an hour ago. As instructed, I had come without a watch or a cellphone. I'd done as she'd directed and took off all my clothes "and I mean everything," she'd emphasized. "Someone will come for you," before closing the door behind herself. A moment later, she popped her head through door and added, "everything will go back to normal in a few hours." I hope she'd meant my eyesight. I waited patiently but with a frisson of excitement knowing what was going to happen this evening. Beyond the walls of my little room I could hear women's voices. Many of them. "Can I talk to you about something," call-me-Amelia had asked with a directness that seemed totally in keeping with her professional air and appearance. Although her crisp British accent didn't exactly jibe with her sleek Asian looks. There was a hotel just a block away. They had a small bar off the lobby where we could talk. We found a quiet spot on a curved banquette. Actually, the bar was nearly deserted so any place was going to be quiet. As she slid in, her skirt made a pleasing swish sound, not unlike a zipper being unzipped. "I'll have a Laphroig – the 15 year old," she said to the young waitress. No girly drink for Amelia, she was all business. "And my guest will have?" leaving no doubt about who was in charge of our tête-à-tête. There was a small group of women with a very particular set of interests. "I suppose you could call it a club," she said with more of a smile than I'd seen from her all evening. They met just a few times a year and sometimes the gatherings were held on short notice. Membership was strictly by invitation only. All of the women were successful and accomplished in their fields. Some were in business, others professionals, a few academics. There were even a few creative types; an art director at a large ad agency and a couple of well-known writers. "What is paramount to our group is privacy and absolute discretion." There was one rule - strictly enforced: no cell phones, cameras or any other device that could be used to record the evening's events. And no dropping into the loo to make a quick call to the sitter to check on the kids. "Yes, we even have a few mothers," she said in response to my raised eyebrows, adding, "more than a few, actually." Members in this group ranged from their late twenties to early fifties though most were in their thirties and forties. "And they're quite a stylish bunch, if I do say so," she said as a way of re-assuring me that what she was proposing was, what? Safe? Legitimate? Did it even matter? It hadn't taken long for the drops to turn the dressing room into a smudged blur. The only interruption had been a brief appearance by the woman who had met me at the door. I recognized her voice as she slipped in. "They're running behind and asked me to bring you something." From a tray she placed what looked like a champagne flute and a small plate on the table in front of me. "It's a Pehu-Simonet Brut," as if that meant anything to me, "quite lovely." Maybe the champagne was lovely but in my state of slowly mounting anxiety I barely tasted it. I finished the contents of the flute in three big gulps. It could have been a glass of sparkling cider for all I knew. It wasn't long afterwards that the door opened again. This time, two women slipped inside my room. Even with my blurred eyesight, I could make out shapes and colors -- just no details. From what I could see, I had been joined by two identically dressed women. They were clad entirely in shiny black latex: high-heeled boots that came up above their knees, tight bustiers that cinched their waists and supported bare breasts, a leather collar and masks that covered their eyes. Beyond that, I could see that one of them had full breasts that rested heavily on her bustier while the other had more of an athletic build. I tried squinting as a way of seeing more detail but it was pointless. It's was all a mélange of blurs and vague shapes but the details were missing. As one of the girls moved I saw a sharp flash of light glint from a place between her legs. I wondered if her clit was pierced. Other than that, they were both naked from the waist down. "Stand up, darling," said the one with the larger breasts. I detected an accent. Not British -- maybe South African or Australian. I couldn't tell the difference. She fastened a collar similar to the ones that they were both wearing around my neck. "Not too tight is it," she asked. What shall I call my two loving attendants? Jane and Jane, perhaps. The more slender of the two clipped a chain to the collar. As she pressed herself against me her soft skin was punctuated by a tiny hot dot where her nipple pressed against my biceps. "Don't worry, they're going to love you," she said. My cock, mostly flaccid but ever the independent thinker, stirred against my thigh in response to her kind reassurance. I was lead out the door and into the dark, narrow hallway. The muffled sounds that I had been hearing through the dressing room's wall became louder and more distinct; women talking, laughter and an occasional clink of crystal against china. I felt woozy as I followed my leash leader. I doubted if it was the single glass of champagne. Instead, I suspected it was due to my blurred eyesight, the dim lighting in the passage and not being able to see the floor beneath my feet. Luckily, the other Jane was behind me and placed a steadying hand on my shoulder. We made a quick right turn and then stopped behind a heavy velvet curtain. It was ringed by a bright corona of light. And beyond, I wondered what awaited me? "The gathering's vary in size -- I should think 15 to 20 ladies on average," By then, call me Amelia was well through her second Scotch and I was weighing her offer. Doing what I did for a living, I'd never had any hang-ups about being looked at or photographed. But was I an exhibitionist? That was the question Amelia asked me to consider. "Of course I was drawn to your size," she stated with matter of fact directness. But she added that I seemed ever so slightly aroused when she saw me backstage at the show. "Frankly, most of the boys back there are a bit shriveled." And who wouldn't be, she asked rhetorically. With the pressure and everything else that goes on. "Bloody chaos is what it is. But you on the other hand," letting her voice trail off. Was I an exhibitionist? I had never considered the question. After an early morning shoot that took place on a large sailboat in San Diego harbor, one of the girls suggested we all go to a place called Black's Beach. On the drive up I learned it was the largest nude beach in the US. Think of it as "going skinny dipping with 100,000 of your nearest and dearest friends," she'd explained. It was a sunny, mid-summer day and her description of the beach wasn't far off. Seen from the cliff above, the beach was a near-endless sea of flesh. Apparently there was a gay section and a straight section. Though we were in the latter, the boundaries weren't well defined. Not surprisingly, I received my fair share of looks – some veiled, some obvious. And while it was nice to swim naked in the ocean was I turned on by being nude in front of so many people? I didn't think so. Not at the time, anyway. But later the same night our group had gone out to a dance club in Solana Beach called Belly Up. For some reason, I was feeling extra horny. Was it the residual effect of having shown my body off in front of thousands of people earlier that day? While everyone talked about how non-sexual the beach was, I was well aware of the stares I'd been getting all day - from men and women both. And at the club that night, I found myself drawn to a model that I'd worked with in the past but never much liked. No, drawn isn't the right work. I just wanted to fuck her. Needed to fuck her. She followed me somewhat willingly into a men's room stall and didn't seem to mind when I pushed her forward and lifted up the back of her pretty polka dot skirt. "We'll be going out in just a minute," said the Jane with the accent. Maybe it was New Zealand. But this... this was altogether different. I'd been with lots of girls but it had always been sequential. Never more than one at a time – not that I hadn't hoped to get lucky with a threesome. I even contemplated whether or not I'd had an erection in front of more than one woman at once? Oh yes, one time. There was a girl – a smart waitress at a bar I used to go to on the Lower East Side. Babette. She claimed that she was related to a family of famous French perfume makers. We'd been together a few times but always at my SoHo apartment. This one Sunday night, however, we went back to her place with a warning that we needed to be quiet because her roommate was a light sleeper. She had a way of grinding her hips when I was on top of her that I really liked. We were hard at it when she asked softly, "Is it okay if Jonelle watches?" I hadn't even noticed that the bedroom door was ajar. Nor had I noticed the pajama-clad woman leaning against the wall. "She just wants to watch, okay." Which she did except for the one hand that disappeared inside the waistband of her bottoms. I asked Babette if she wanted to join us. "Trust me, she more into watching me than you," Babette responded before adding more loudly, "right, Jonee?" and they both shared a girlish giggle. Knowing that I... that we... had an audience changed the dynamic. I was aware of sight lines; moving a leg, re-positioning us on the bed, pulling myself almost all the way out and lingering for a moment longer than I normally would. It added to the excitement. I became more vocal, dominating, and aggressive. Thrusting harder than I had been, turning her over on to her stomach and asking as I pressed against her, "do you want it there?" And when Jonelle's knees stiffened and she pressed up onto the balls of her feet, I, too, felt myself holding my breath. Was I reacting to watching or being watched? Based on that very limited experience of performing in front of an audience, I assured Amelia that I was quite confident I wouldn't disappointment her or her friends. "Oh darling, you've misunderstood," she said with a light laugh. As much as the idea sounded intriguing, it really wasn't her thing. No, she was much too reserved. She was more of, well, "think of me as a talent spotter for the group." We both laughed and I told her that, yes, I had misunderstood. And that I'd actually thought at first she was interested in me. "Not that you aren't a gorgeous boy," she responded but, "if I was going to go home with anyone tonight it would be her," tilting her head slightly to the waitress behind the bar before adding dryly, "hough she's not really my type, either." As I stood waiting behind the curtain with my two Janes, the music level dropped and soon after, the voices in club softened, too. Then, a new music track started -- this one more rhythmic, the bass line stronger. The light that I saw around the edges of the curtain had changed, too. What had been a cool blue became a warm red. The Janes seemed to react, as well. They both moved in front of me and took hold of the leash together. The intensity of the music built and the volume of the voices beyond the curtain grew with it. I briefly wondered if there would be some sort of an introduction. "Here we go!" They push through the slit in the curtain with me following close behind. We stop near the front of what I can now tell is a small stage. After a moment, they move to either side of me and I am immediately struck by how bright it is. It must be because my pupils are so dilated. I can sense more than see the women beyond the lights. As I stand there flanked by my two companions I hear muted comments, a few giggles and other approving sounds. Naked, I am feeling vulnerable and exposed. For the first time, I really do wonder if I am going to be able to perform. What have I gotten myself in to? The five thousand pounds that sounded so enticing two nights ago now seems like maybe not the best idea. How embarrassing would it be to not be able to get it up in front of a room full of women who have come to see just that? My Janes start to caress me softly; running their hands all over my body, planting kisses on my neck, teasing me with their fingernails, lightly pinching my nipples and dancing close to my cock but never quite touching it. Appearing For One Night Only Questions I have about performance begin to dissipate. I concentrate on the attention from these two latex sheathed wraiths and I begin to react. My cock, which until now had been hanging limp, starts to thicken. It's in a state, not even semi-erect but engorged. It hangs half-way down my thigh but as it fills with blood it starts to lift away from my body. That seems to create a wave comments from out beyond the front of the stage. "Is that thing real?" was one that I heard over the music. I had almost forgotten my barely-seen audience. How strange to be the direct and unveiled object of attention from so many women. Now, one of Janes, the fuller-figured of the two, moves behind me and presses her heavy breasts against my back. She smells vaguely of lavender. She wraps one arm around my waist and pulls herself tightly against me. I concentrate on the sensation of her lips on my shoulder blade. Meanwhile, the other Jane takes the slender leash that is attached to my collar and wraps it -- one loop around the base of my penis and then another at the top of balls. It's tight enough to cinch me firmly but not so tight that it hurts – not yet, anyway. Then she hands the end of the leash to the Jane who is behind me. She threads it between my muscular cheeks, up against my spine and finally, attaches the end to a ring on my collar. Every time I move, the leash tugs on my cock and rubs between my cheeks. My cock is now standing straight out in front of my body – still not fully erect but red and heavily veined. The more athletic Jane kneels in front of me and pantomimes fellatio. I try to find her mouth but she bobs her head out of the way. That produces titters of laughter from the audience. Her tongue flicks towards the underside of my big head yet never quite makes contact. But even without real contact, my cock spasms and jumps. The Jane behind me tugs on the leash. As she pulls on it, my cock, getting longer, begins to dance up and down. The Jane kneeling in front of me re-positions herself so that my cock lands on her face with a light smacking sound. This seems to inspire the girl behind me and the tugging gets firmer and faster. But instead of moving away the kneeling Jane seems to relish that contact. My cock lands heavily against her face over and over again. I hear her moan slightly. Soon however, my cock has become so hard that it no longer moves. Instead, it just stands there, fully erect. "It's almost as big as my arm," says a voice from the audience. As if to validate the point, the kneeling Jane bends her elbow and places the crook of against my balls while laying her arm along the underside of my cock. "God, it almost reaches her bloody wrist," I hear from off to the side of the stage. "Call me a taxi," says another woman, followed by a roomful of laughter. Although I can't see it, the kneeling Jane places a single finger on the tip's opening and begins to smear thick pre-cum over the head. It glistens in the red light that illuminate the stage. Now what had been pantomimed becomes real. In front of me, a warm mouth engulfing the head though not much more. From behind, one hand wraps itself around my shaft, stroking me. Finally the touch I have been aching for! I feel another hand exploring between my cheeks. A slender finger – dry at first, but returning a moment later moist and slippery, seeks out my anus. Pushing the chain aside, she slips it inside but just barely – giving me time to get used to the sensation. I involuntarily clamp down on her and she responds by wiggling it a bit. I stop moving and soon it is joined by a second finger. Tight but not painful, the intrepid full-figure Jane presses them in more deeply – first to one knuckle, then a second and then it can go in no further. I am aroused but also slightly humiliated that my ass is getting fingered in front a group of women. By now I can see that the stage is a small semi-circle with chairs and tables arrayed around it. Still, most of the audience is clustered near the center. Using a skewed logic, I tell myself that no one can see the fingers in my ass – it's our own shared intimacy, like a whisper between two actors on stage. But soon enough, even that illusion is erased as the Janes move me so that I am now facing the side of the stage. Out of my peripheral vision, I see that the curtains that once lined the stage have been pushed aside to reveal large mirrors. I'm fully visible from all angles. It is odd to see the blurry shape of someone who could be me. I am disconnected from the image while totally attuned to the sensations that the image is experiencing. I moan involuntarily as she starts to move her fingers in and out of me. I react by pressing my hips forward and the kneeling Jane gags as I fill her throat with my shaft. Still, she hasn't come anywhere near to taking all of me in her mouth. That only happened once. A slender girl named Kim who claimed that her mother had had some sort of vitamin deficiency while she was pregnant with her. The vitamin deficiency had left her without a gag reflex. I don't know about the vitamin deficiency but I can vouch for the absence of gag reflex. Later, over coffee, she told me her husband was even bigger than I was. So big that normal sex was out of the question. It bruised her ovaries so badly that her gynecologist ordered her to stop. "It's either anal or oral – though not in that order," she said with a laugh. As the kneeling Jane adjusted to me – by now we've all reached some sort of rhythmic understanding, I hear an "oh my god" from the audience in a light girlish voice. I can't tell if she's attracted or repulsed. Soon, the stiffness of my cock and the chained armature make this impossible to continue. Though fully up on her knees, my kneeling Jane can no longer pull my cock down to reach her mouth. It's too stiff and engorged. And then, suddenly, everything stops. The chain is unthreaded, fingers are removed and the throbbing music is replaced by something more sedate – something more appropriate for conversation. My hands are pressed against my side. "Don't move." From somewhere a mask is produced and placed over my eyes. I'm now plunged into a deeper state of blindness. Not completely without vision but what had been blurs turns into mere smudges. A ring is tightly snapped around the base of my penis. Where did these items come from? Neither of my stoic attendants has a pocket. The ring is tight and forces the blood in my cock against veins that throb and pulse. "We're going to lead you down," says the Jane with the accent. "Here's a step, my love." At this point, the girls lead me by the arms out into the audience. Now conversation has resumed and the club members have gathered in small groups. I'm introduced to each club member. Well, not exactly introduced. No one says my name. Nor is a hand proffered in greeting. Because it's dark off the stage, I only have the vaguest sense of who I am meeting. Some of the women barely acknowledge me and decline to give their names while others toyingly caress me. A few, the ones who seem most interested, press themselves against me. A few kiss me and others stroke my cock. Other members make little comments as they do this. Things like, "Oh, I think he likes you Vicki," or, "Danielle, you bitch, give someone else a chance." Of course, I hear many comments about my size. Comments like, "No way that's going anywhere near me," and "did anyone bring a tape measure?" followed by someone else shouting "how about a yard stick." Lots of giggling and laughter. If anything, all of the comments and contact have made my cock even harder. And because of the ring around the base of my cock, it aches.Though I'm being treated like an object, the entire experience is utterly arousing. After I have been led through the club and "introduced" to everyone who wanted to meet me, I am taken back up to the stage. In my absence, a bench of some sort has been placed in the middle of the stage. It's actually higher than a normal bench, a bit wider, too and, as I would learn later, comfortably padded. Now back up on the stage, my mask is removed. One of the Janes tells me that I now get to pick one of the members to join me on the stage. It is the one -- and only aspect of this evening that I have control over. Other than the obvious, which is that I am here voluntarily. Once again, the women beyond the lights are blurs of cocktail dresses and well-coiffed hairstyles but little else. I try to remember whom I liked the most? Was it the one who playfully nipped my ear lobe – I think that was AnaLee? Or was it the one who wrapped her big soft breasts around my cock much to the amusement of some of the other club members. I tried to guess if they were natural or fakes. That was Sarah. And there was one woman who was quiet but also very direct. Even without the benefit of sight I got a sense that she was confident and very sexual but wrapped in a discreet sophisticated package. And there was something else. It was her perfume. It was a little spicy with a hint of warm jasmine behind it. "Beth," I say to my attendant, "I want Beth." Her name is announced and there was a small around of applause with shouts of "Go for it, girl." I sense I've been joined on the stage by someone else. I hope it is Beth though I really have no way of knowing. As she comes up on stage, she is handed something. It is one of the same eye masks that my two Janes also wear. I hear the quick swoosh of a zipper being undone, falling fabric, a snap being released. And from someone in the audience, "I'd die to have tits like that." Beth lies down on the bench and lets her feet fall to the floor. She spreads her legs and my attendants push me down to my knees. She guides my head towards her; I can feel the heat of her pussy right in front of my face. I breathe deeply and again, I can smell that perfume but this time it is mixed with a different scent; more full, deep and so feminine. I'd wondered how this part of the evening – of the entertainment was going to work. Would there some sort of foreplay? Kissing? I'd asked Amelia if that permitted. "God, it's not like going to a prostitute," she exclaimed. I let my tongue find her and she moves -- first away then closer. Then much closer. Soon the room is quiet and only sound heard is Beth's moaning. As I use my mouth on her pussy, my hands roam over her body. A taut stomach and, though she is laying flat on her back, nice breasts and tight nipples the size of pencil erases. I play with them, rolling them between my fingers and, as I do, Beth's back arches. She draws her knees up and back to give me better access. One of the Janes gently pushes my head tighter against Beth's vulva while the other has taken hold of her hands and pulled her arms overhead. From out in the audience, I start to hear other soft moans as dresses are re-arranged, silk pushed aside. These are more discreet that the sounds that Beth is making but they are there all the same. And then it is me who is lying on the bench. Warm lips circling the tip of my cock, then the head and then nothing. Cool air on my moist shaft. Then warm and warmth sliding down. First tentatively, then with that same directness I sensed when we met. Then further down even more before a pause, maybe a deep breath and deeper still. And soon there was a rhythm. Hands and mouth grasping me, up and down, smoothly and deeply and then a pause and something else. Another mouth perhaps. Tongues. More than one. It was hard to tell. Now I'm standing and I feel Beth being placed face down on the bench in front of me. One of the Jane's spreads her cheeks and the other grasps the base of my cock and puts me inside of her. I press in and feel her stiffen. "Oh!" Pleasure or pain, I wonder? I get my answer when she whispers, "Slower." So I wait... and wait some more. Still stiff and anxious I feel Beth press her hips back towards me. It's a small movement, almost imperceptible. Then she exhales slowly but deliberately, and my cock glides deeper inside her. She pulls away from me, pauses for a moment and then pushes back. Then again, but with more energy. And then again and again. Still, I am taking care not to go too deep, instead letting her determine the pace and my depth. I want to meet her thrusts -- to bury my cock deep inside of her, but I know that this isn't possible. Some men – okay, make that many men; wish that their cock was bigger. But they rarely stop to consider that when you get past a certain size, you can't fuck as freely. Yes, women's vaginas are elastic but only up to a certain point. So, instead, I am letting Beth guide me into what she can take. While her pussy is wet it is so tight it is almost making my cock sore. Now she has paused and I hear her say, "It's okay now." I push into her pussy – maybe not all the way but deep. She moans but doesn't sound uncomfortable. So I do it again. This time, I push inside further and a moan is replaced by an aspirated, "yes." Again, I thrust, filling her deeply and again and again until there is no more of me left. Now it is me who is lying on my back. The bench is warm and comfortably padded. As I'd suspected, there is a mirror suspended over the stage. It is angled so that people in the audience have the best view. Beth straddles me while one of the Janes holds the base of my cock so that it is pointing straight up. She lowers herself slowly onto the head and I enter just inside of her. Placing both hands on my chest, she leans forward to support herself. Moving further forward, she lets her lips brush mine for the briefest of moments. It is the most chase kiss I've ever received from someone that I am fucking. I tell her – whisper it, actually, because our faces are so close that, "You feel good." Because she is so close I can see her smile but she says, "Don't talk, okay." But at the same time she says it, she drops her hips on top of me and I slide deep inside her. As if channeling what Beth is feeling, I hear someone from the audience say, "Oh, God." Beth, responds with an "Oh, God" of her own and someone else cracks wise that she doubted if God would approve of what was going on here so we'd best leave him out of it. This cracks up everyone, me included. Beth pushes herself up again and presses her hands against my chest. She begins to rock forward and back and I see one of the Janes behind her cupping her breasts. Soon, the levity of the moment is replaced by something more animal, more primitive. I use my feet on the floor to gain leverage – to steady myself against Beth's rocking hips. The sounds of pleasure that she has been making begins to change. Over and over again she says, "fuck me" with an intensity that I hadn't expected. Direct soon becomes guttural and then almost crude. The pitch of her voice changes and soon enough, the sensation -- good to start with become almost too much to bear. It doesn't take more than a few more seconds before I feel her climax begin. Just as her own climax is ending mine begins. The cock ring is quickly unsnapped and discarded. Beth quickly wiggles off of me and the two Janes take hold of me. One is vigorously pumping my cock with both hands while the other squeezes my balls. I explode. The only sounds I now hear are my own loud moans. Rich, thick ribbons of cum erupt and fly up, some landing on my chest, others on one of the Janes and, from the sounds of someone who lets out a surprised shriek, maybe someone out in the audience, too. I have barely uttered my last moan before the light on the stage changes to a ghostly pale blue. One of the Janes quickly leads Beth away and, still panting, I am lead back to that small room off the side of stage. I had a moment of wondering if there was going to be applause at the end. After all, what had just happened was a performance of sorts. The audience had definitely added to the experience. It brought everything into focus, somehow magnifying every move, every thrust. Sometimes being naked is just that - naked. But being naked in front of a room full of dressed women made it something all together different. As if I had worn a cloak of sexuality and carnal intent. My Jane, the fleshier of the two, gives me a small kiss and tells me, "You were great." She whispers, "I'm not supposed to tell you but it's Erin – my name is Erin." With that she pushes me into the dressing room and asks if I can see well enough to manage on my own? "Just barely," I answer. "Okay then," and she hands me my jeans before leaving the room. She tells that someone will come get me in just a few minutes to see me out. Just before leaving she takes hold of my hand and thrusts it between her legs. "You made me wet." From beyond the dressing room, I once again hear music and voices, though more subdued than earlier in the evening. Minutes later, the small woman who first met me, opens the door and leads me to the waiting cab. Just as I am getting into the cab, she hands me an envelope. "Take care with that," she says to me before closing the cab's door. And to the cab's driver she says, "From whence he came." It's only later, after I have had a shower and opened a bottle of Bass Ale from the hotel's mini bar that I think to count the money. I have a towel wrapped around my waist and I fish the envelope out of the front pocket of my jeans. Five thousand pounds in crisp 100 pound notes. That will buy a stay in a nice villa somewhere. Goa, maybe. I've heard that's supposed to be fun. As I fold my jeans before hanging them in the closet, a card falls out of the pocket and onto the floor. It's a card for a club somewhere in London. It's not an address or place that I remember visiting. Could it be the club where I was tonight? On the back of the card is, not surprisingly, a phone number. Which, though still a bit blurry, I not surprisingly, dial. After two rings a voice that is just a little bit familiar answers. I struggle to place accent. Australia? South Africa? New Zealand? "I was hoping you would call."