Would my mother recognize me in this floor-length black silk dress? The deep neckline let the shadows between my breasts speak, more seductive than any rouge. Probably not. That was exactly the point. I didn’t want to be recognized. I wanted to be a stranger, a whore in silk, ready to let myself be taken by an unknown man, without name, without shame, without limits.
The Entry into the Sphere of the Masked
The villa on the outskirts swam in golden light. Through the ivy-covered entrance, I stepped into a world of velvet and feathers. Waiters in white gloves balanced champagne, the guests floated past—masks of lace, of plush, of glittering stones. My mask was simple, black, leaving only my eyes free. A diadem of rhinestones crowned my updo, a single lock fell over my shoulder. I was nobody. I was every woman. I was a cunt waiting to be fucked.
The music drew me in, a dark cello that swept through the hall. I let myself drift, past whispering groups, past tightly embraced couples. Then I saw him. He leaned against a pillar, a silver half-mask emphasizing his cheekbones. His suit was tailored, dark gray, his tie loosened. In his hand he held a glass but didn’t drink. His eyes—an indeterminate gray—fixed on me, through the crowd. His gaze devoured me, wandered over my breasts, my neck, my hips. I knew immediately: This man would take me. Hard and deep.
I held his gaze, let a smile play under my mask. Then I turned away and slowly climbed the wide staircase. With every step, my pussy throbbed hot and wet. I felt the moisture between my thighs, soaking into the lace of my panties. The corridors on the first floor were emptier, doors stood open, dim light spilled out. I felt his steps before I heard them: the soft creak of his shoes on the parquet. His breath was close, hot on my neck.
“Lost?” he asked, now beside me. His voice was deep, with a slight accent, maybe from the south. It sounded rough, greedy.
“Maybe I found exactly what I was looking for,” I answered and stopped in front of a half-open door. Behind it: a canopy bed with white sheets, moonlight falling through floor-to-ceiling windows. Perfect for what was to come.
He stepped closer. His hand lifted my chin. His fingers were warm, firm. “I want to fuck you,” he said. Not a question. A statement. His gaze burned through the mask.
“Then do it. Take me. Fuck me until I scream.”
His lips were warm, searching. His tongue swept over my mouth, demanding entry. I gave in, let him penetrate, while his hand slid into my neck and pulled me tighter against him. He tasted of whiskey and cloves. The mask pressed against my forehead, but I didn’t take it off. We were two strangers. That should stay that way. Two bodies that wanted only one thing: the heat, the wetness, the friction.
He pushed me backward through the door, which clicked softly shut. His fingers found the zipper at my side, pulled it slowly down. The silk released from my skin like a second skin. I stood before him in black lace, my breasts half-covered, nipples hard under the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Damn, you’re perfect. Your tits…” He grabbed without asking, massaged them, squeezed them together. His thumbs rubbed over my hard nipples, and I moaned.
“You’re horny,” he murmured, before laying me on the bed with a single motion. The sheet was cool under my back, his body warm as he leaned over me. His lips found my neck, the spot behind my ear where my pulse raced wildly. I clawed into his jacket, helped him open it, and then his skin was there—smooth and firm under my hands. His chest, his shoulders, the slight sweat that had already formed.
His mouth wandered lower, over my collarbone, into the valley between my breasts. He pushed the bra up, took my nipple in his mouth. A moan escaped me as he sucked, circled with his tongue, sometimes soft, sometimes demanding. I arched toward him, let him feel how much I wanted it. “More,” I breathed. “Lick my tits, fuck me. I want your cock.”
He laughed softly, a vibration deep in his chest. “Impatient? You’ll get what you need, you little slut.” His fingers found the waistband of my panties, pulled at them. I lifted my hips, helped him. Then I lay naked under him, his gaze wandered over me, over my wet lips, my gaping slit. He licked his lips. “Your cunt is already wet. You’re in a hurry, huh?”
“Yes. I want to feel your cock inside me. Now.”
He straightened up while freeing himself from his pants and boxers. His cock was long, thick, the head already wet, a drop of clear juice beaded at the tip. I licked my lips. I wanted to taste him, but he was impatient. He ran it over my thighs, made me wait, rubbed the head over my labia, dipped it briefly into my wetness, only to pull it back again. I pulled him by the hips toward me, rubbed against him, felt the heat. “Come on. Fuck me. Stop playing.”
He entered me, slowly, millimeter by millimeter. I felt every fold, every stretch, as he pushed into me. A scream would have escaped me, but I bit my lip, let only a shudder through. He paused, let me breathe, then began to thrust. At first a steady rhythm that grew firmer with each movement. I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulled him deeper. “Yes, fuck me. Fuck your little whore.”
He rammed his cock deep into my pussy so I felt the stretch all the way into my belly. With every thrust I got wetter, heard the squelching sound of our bodies. He grabbed my hips, pulled me onto his shaft while he fucked me. “You feel fucking good. So tight. So wet. Your cunt is sucking on me.”
His hand slid between our bodies, found my clit, massaged it with circular movements. The pressure built inside me, a wave that was rising. I closed my eyes, focused on the feeling: his cock inside me, how it filled me, his breath in my ear, the sweat on his skin. “I’m coming,” I panted. “Keep going, fuck me more, finish me off.”
He sped up, thrust deeper, harder. I heard him panting, his breath catching. My muscles contracted around him, and I exploded. A scream tore out of me as my pussy clenched around his cock.
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