Decadence

For all my sins, despite all my political ravings, I am at heart a decadent slut. That's what I thought to myself as I looked in the mirror, in a deep sapphire blue gown, decorated in shining silver lace and taffeta, layer upon layer of material combining to form this complex, ridiculously luxurious whole. A matching choker rest tightly on my neck, an old style of choker, trimmed with lace and studded with pure jade. My dark, thick hair is coiffed for the gods, sitting in a tower above my head held in its improbable formation by pins and clips and tricks of static - no wax nor hairspray to mar the texture of my much-envied hair. Tricks of the light dance over the unusual shape, shining here and darkening there, like an oak antique under an auctioneer's light. It is a chiaroscuro, a masterpiece, a sculpture in fibrous collagen. It took me 3 fucking hours.

I take costumes very seriously, and a costume is nearly always a character to me. I could have just done the white wig and be done with it! Sure, it would have looked more like the infamous Queen I took as my muse, la derniére reine de la ancienne régime du France, the incomparable Marie Antoinette. I flicked a fan before my face to hide my smirking ruby lips, but heavy-lidded eyes still looked over the delicate prop at me, dark and full of wry mirth. I knew I looked incredible; I knew I was going to be the Queen that night. My mirror, my vanity, showed one of the most powerful women in history, and icon of the public imagination. Of course, I knew there was some irony in my self-idolisation of the image of myself as the queen of decadence. Madame Déficit, they called her, selfish spendthrift depleting the great coffers of Mother France on frivolous enjoyments while the people suffered and starved. I scoffed at myself, and the idea that came into my head that in some 200 years, some queer and dramatic individual will stand as I did, marvelling in the looking glass at her impeccable Theresa May outfit, or worse yet Margaret Thatcher.

But in fairness, those women had all of Queen Marie's economic leanings, but absolutely none of her style. It remains one of my greatest failings, my attraction to glamour and extravagance. I do what good I can in the world, but was raised and will probably always remain, a champagne socialist. My loving boyfriend, Ryan, is much the same, and it's his great French Coffers I drain for my contentment; though I know for sure he often gets a great amount of pleasure out of my profligacy, my sometimes-reckless spending. We met at university, Cambridge naturally, both young and privileged, but also idealistic. We had a few similar interests, attended a lot of the same lectures and seminars, but out three greatest similarities were our passionate politics, our contrasting appetite for luxury, and our quite frankly degenerate sexual interests.

Yes, of course I'm going to talk about sex! I may have had my arms to my ankles entirely covered by a tent of heavy fabric, but the great deep panel on my chest displayed my budding cleavage, and I looked hot as fuck; Antoinette was also libelled as a great harlot, a promiscuous vixen, and whether true or no that was the energy I intended to channel tonight. Beneath the stunning gown was a corset tighter than the chancellor's purse-strings, accenting a lingerie set of such outrageous provocation, it truly could not go unpunished. I was a very, very bad girl.

In truth, I was already serving one sentence for my crimes, a kind of imprisonment. Standing bold against the many-fold black straps of the lingerie, my bright pink chastity cage restricted the freedom of my mind, soul, and of course, teeny tiny dicklette. It was truly a cruel torture, I could hardly think of anything but sex whenever I was locked! Most strangely perverse, I don't even enjoy the use of my dick at all anyway, though when I first bought it I admit I was a prolific masturbator. What can I say - Scorpio's are brimming with sexual energy. It was when I got to uni and finally had more freedom to experiment that I realised how much I hated other people touching me down there; it wasn't much long after I realised it was because of dysphoria. Even so, the cage still represented a certain submissiveness, it extended my libido beyond its natural lifespan, put fetters on my mind that held it securely in subspace.

It was one of those many impulse buys that I told you about, that I said my boyfriend got just as much pleasure out of; other such purchases included a Bad Dragon toy shipped all the way from America (Sleipnir's big thick horse-cock, which my boyfriend loves to see me degrade myself all over), an assortment of gags, an abundance of latex, anal beads, remote controlled vibrators, and endless plugs. Tonight I was filled with a sizeable toy, adorned with a shining green jewel on its base - it irked me somewhat that my favourite cage (the only one that fit my shrunken dicklette any more) was the completely wrong colour for the outfit, so remedied that in my other accessory. I felt it rub gently about, probing for that sweet spot as I swished my hips. I bit my lips and felt a groan come rising up from my throat, closing my eyes to the delicate ecstasy. Did I expect anyone to even see the accessories? Absolutely. The party we were headed to was one of the major events of the year, and although not officially a sex party, it gave permission to all sorts of extravagant behaviour. Originally the brain-child of spoiled, arrogant wealthy sons of families - testing, perhaps, if there was any behaviour truly forbidden for their sort - it has become revolutionised by the local queer community. I mean sure, it's still debauched and decadent, a celebration of excess, but the people tend to be nicer now. In fact, the very theme of this year was "French Revolution", hence my choice of inspiration.

My boyfriend snuck up behind me while I was still writhing in a semi-orgasmic trance, and slapped me firmly on the backside. Of course, I didn't feel much, the blow largely cushioned by a shield of crinoline, but his hand remained firmly in its position and my cheeks glowed warmly. He smelled of Oak and Hazelnut, I breathed him deeply in.

"Come along, bourgeois swine," he grunted, himself having opted for the crisp and smart, but plainer, garb of Robespierre. I never would have expected him to be my King Louis, though he has tried my stockings and heels before and he certainly does look a treat in them. But no, the fiery statesman suited him much better than the effete prince, especially as he growled in my ear. "Do I have to make you squeal, piggy?"

Dirty talk like this is a taste of mine almost as shameful as my decadence. I was putty in his hands, and in such an excess of submissiveness, I dropped to my knees right then, and buried my face in his crotch. He laughed, and I felt the warmth of his dick as it swelled just slightly, rising to meet the softness of my cheek; but he pulled me up and gave me a peck on the cheek.

"Come on, you dumb slut: there'll be plenty of time for that later." He laughed.

"Lead the way, Citoyen," I replied. He took my hand, and we were on our way.

The party itself was in some great manor house in the country: you could never be quite sure with these parties whether it was one of those buildings that does this sort of thing for hire, or if it was some wealthy guests ancestral home. The décor, as usual, was impeccable. In amongst what must have been the usual furnishings of the home, art pieces of the period had been hung up or displayed on easels in artful lighting - I passed the Le Brun 1778 portrait and bowed at the muse. Some of these, I believe, were actually originals! I forgot about my lustful imprisonment for a moment to admire the dedication. The costumes of the others were incredible too, girls in elaborate period pieces and men in either royal garb or citizen's suit. Some were of course dressed like Les Mis characters, and it was all my boyfriend could do to restrain me from informing each one I saw that actually, that's the wrong period, the July Revolution was in 1830 and is a different thing to the French Revolution of the late 18th Century - I was whipped away before I could even say "You know," and into the ballroom.

Yes, the ballroom! Some were taking the roles seriously, dancing full waltzes and gavottes in the centre of the room to the artful melodies of the great masters: Beyoncé, Charli XCX, Blondie. Others stuck to the usual bop and grind, which was not easy with a petticoat. I had no doubt that I was not the only girl there tonight with a litany of debauchery hidden beneath their antique dress. In the corner stood the most impressive prop of all: a giant guillotine, menacing the decadence with the threat of retribution. I shivered to see it: was it real? No doubt some safety measures had been taken: a whole party of drunk, wild, high, ecstatic young people could not be trusted with a functioning execution device, I'm sure.

I grabbed my boyfriend's hand and steered him over to the drinks table. It was piled high with bottles of champagne; I'm usually more of a prosecco gal, but tonight could it be anything else? A friendly girl with the sweetest dimples handed us a bottle.

"No-one's really been bothering with glasses," she smiled, "I absolutely love your look by the way."

"Oh thank you! The hair took three hours! I love your look too" We exchanged a look and a wink; we both knew what we were actually saying was "oh, so you're trans too?"

I was distracted by a mighty pop as my boyfriend sent the cork flying and white foam came flooding out the neck. Without thinking I dropped my whole mouth over the top of the bottle and began drinking. I came up gasping for air a moment later.

"Come on Ryan!" I smacked him lightly on the shoulder "You should know how to open a champagne bottle by now." The girl with the dimples laughed.

"Well, it's been nice to meet you, I hope you have a lovely evening."

"Wait, what's your name?"

"Helen. Named myself for the beauty who launched a thousand ships."

"Very nice! Rosa - for um, Luxemberg." This made her laugh, and she leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek before turning to go back to whatever friend or lover she'd left to grab a drink for. She smelt like spiced rum, vanilla - or perhaps something more fruity?

It was intoxicating, perhaps even more so than the booze, though that wasn't helping. I suddenly remembered how much I had drunk so quickly and felt a little woozy. Didn't stop me drinking more though, a lot, and quickly. I'm no lightweight, but by halfway through the second bottle between us, my pace was working against me. I was singing Killer Queen from a table top, and teasingly showed off a little ankle for the crowd.

"She keeps her Moet et Chandon, in her pretty cabinet," I purred, as I made eyes at a dashing peasant-boy a few rows back. I had amassed quite the audience. My boyfriend looked on adoringly from the wings, ready to catch me if I fell. He knew how to gauge my level of drunk, and this was perfect for him; he knew that the first draught made me a drunk jester, the second made me a horny drunk, and the third a sad drunk. I was on the precipice of the first and second. At the end of my song, I took a bow, and Ryan joined me on the table-stage. He clasped my hands in his cheeks, and kissed me deeply. From his soft lips, along his probing tongue, I felt a great mouthful of dry-sweet champagne flow into my mouth. I greedily drunk it down and melted into his arms. I barely noticed the cheers of the crowd, so deep in lust and love I'd fallen; I was throbbing in my cage.

"Oh, he's my boyfriend!" I informed the crowd, when I realised they were cheering; if they didn't know I was with him, I'd just given the impression any random man could just come up and snog me!

"Would it matter if I weren't?" Ryan smirked at me. Of course, that impression was not wrong. "How about we give them a show?"

Ryan lifted my skirt high, exposing myself to the crowd - with all those layers I had felt no need to wear underwear, so my cage shone clear and bright for all to see. The crowd went wild, a frenzy of cheering! I was so humiliated, but it was so hot at the same time.

"What a depraved slut, the Queen is," my boyfriend began, getting into character "the whore of the King gets off on her own degradation! Who are we, if not loyal citizens, to give it to her?" The men all cheered their assent.

"Here, catch," He said. The crowd all rushed beneath me, and when he saw it would be safe, Ryan pushed me. It felt like I was falling forever, but all so suddenly I was in the warm hands of about 20 or so men. In no time at all, my dress was off, discarded to the side. Luckily, my dark lingerie was just as much part of my outfit - I always knew it would end up like this. Their hands groped and grabbed at me body. One hand started pulling gently on the jewel firmly planted in my ass.

"This slut has been wearing a plug the whole time!" He cried, and I cried too as he yanked it out and began to explore the cavity left behind, at first with his fingers, then his tongue. The plug was passed, hand to hand, up to me and placed in my mouth. I moaned around its warmth as hands explored every inch of my body, except, thankfully, my crotch. Some of these men had no idea what to do with a dick, let alone a locked up one, so thankfully let it be - though they had to admit to themselves, it looked hot as hell. Fingers pinched at my puffy nipples, as hands fondled my milky-white breasts. A fierce slap landed on my ass, and red roses bloomed in an instant. Tongues and wet kisses ran up my smooth-shave legs, and every part of me trembled with ecstasy; I was raised into a symbol of worship - I was the queen! Sure, they were using me, but they were caressing my body as if I were the most precious and delicate lace in the world. My darling Ryan just looked down on me from the table, smirking at my debasement, my perverse lust. Suddenly we were interrupted by a call from the doorway.

"What do you think you're doing?" My heart sank - this was unexpected at this party, who would think to judge anyone this way? I craned my neck to see, and the dimpled girl, Helen, stood with crossed arms and a stern look on her face. All was still, a tableau of confusion. The scowl changed imperceptibly, but meaningfully, into a smirk. "You debase yourselves worshipping the pampered limbs of this decadent slut. It's a marvel she walks free. Follow me, we'll give her the punishment she deserves."

The crowd cheered again, and Helen came and pulled me, firmly, from the mass of bodies. From round her waist she removed what I had thought to be a cord belt, but turned out to be a whip. She cracked it, and told me to move. I was paraded through the house by her, the crowd of men and Ryan hot on my tails. Onlookers of all genders and inclinations came to watch my debasement. I was led back to the ballroom, which at this point in the night had devolved into the epicentre of the orgy. I stood in the centre, exposed for all to see. Of course, most of the people in that room were exposed, but still they could tell something of a spectacle was happening; I wasn't the only one with a flair for the dramatic. Helen directed Ryan and another of the men to grab me, and they dragged me over to the guillotine. Holy shit. She loosened all the pins and clips from my hair, which fell in disarray around my face. I was thrust into the stocks, and locked securely in place; she grabbed a fistful of my soft, thick hair, and slowly pulled me upwards to face her. A wad of warms spit landed right in my face.

"Filthy pig," she smirked, "time to pay for your decadence." She dropped her dress to the floor, over her shoulders. Like me, she had a truly sinful get-up of lace and silk underneath, dark and accented in scarlet. Unlike me, a smooth and slender cock of about 4 inches, semi-hard, dangled from her hairless crotch. She slapped it a few times against my spit-soaked cheek as I stared, mouth agape and eyes vacant. I felt it harden with each slip. Without fuss, in a swift motion, she thrust forward and into my mouth. It slid gently between my lips, back and forth; I worked my tongue as best as I knew, though I admit, this was the first time I'd sucked a girl's dick; it was remarkably different from sucking a man's cock and I wasn't sure if I was doing the right thing. Not that I was doing much, of course, for the most part she was just using my face as an object of pleasure.

"Come on then," she called to the crowd of men, "what are you waiting for?"

They didn't need further encouragement; they came forward, a few at a time, others hung back and watched. Half the room, in fact, was watching at this point. My hands pinned into the stocks, I couldn't do much with those, but a few were content to just point their dicks at my face and masturbate furiously. Ryan, of course, availed himself of my ready ass at the first opportunity. I watched the hypnotic strokes of the two angry, veiny cocks throbbing before my eyes, as my mouth got used by this gentle girl turned dominatrix, and in all this sensory overload my boyfriend took the opportunity to shove his 8 inch rod fast and deep into my ass.

"How's that cunt feel then?" He grunted as he began to thrust. Helen was kind enough to give me a moments reprieve to answer.

"Incredible!" I moaned, but my mouth was stopped my one of the men's throbbing members; cum shot instantly down my throat and all across my tongue. Helen didn't begrudge him the opportunity to finish between my ruby lips, but immediately took back control, placing her hand firmly balled in my hair and starting again, with gusto. Her delicate balls were slapping my chin now, and soon the guy on my left let loose his load all over my face. Helen's balls continued to slap against my chin, wetly now, spreading the heady smell of spunk deep through my nose. I could still just faintly smell her vanilla, but sex and sweat were deadening me to the finer things. I was a beast, a rutting bitch in heat. The thrusting of my boyfriend's cock was testament enough to that, sending waves of pleasure shivering through every inch of my body, building a hot pressure in my chastely caged crotch. I looked up, rolling my eyes back. The blade dangled there, grinning silver. I can't believe how turned on I was, it was like the most extreme knife play in the world. Perhaps I shouldn't get so turned on by a device that murdered thousands, but there we are. I mean, the chastity cage was originally invented to prevent masturbation to make good Christian youth, and look what it's made me!

With a cry of carnal lust, Ryan flooded my cunt with his cum; he slipped out, and my precum-soaked dicklette screamed like a spoilt brat at the absence in my ass. It didn't have to wait long though, as another cock filled the position; thicker, but smaller, and with the slickness of my boyfriend's cum, it sank right in. Helen was still going on at my mouth, altering her pace from rapid face-fucking to almost bored, lazy strokes in and out. She was the type, I guessed, who enjoyed the act perhaps more than the orgasm. I know how that felt - that said, if one of these cocks didn't make my cage explode with cum soon, I would definitely flip my shit. I looked up with the adoring eyes of the lustful, those brainless eyes of cumdrunk youth. Helen was grinning madly, as she began to move back towards speed. She grinned white and violent as the blade of the guillotine - I see why they personified her as "Madame" now. The second cock erupted in my ass, or was it the third? I'd already had at least five loads on my face, it was a miracle I could still see. It felt like there would be no end, that this very well might be my death sentence: drowned in cum.

At last, in the changeover between cocks, a big 9 incher slid into me in just the right way, and all my lust was released all over the ballroom floor. As if that was her cue, Helen screamed yes, and buried herself in me. A few clear spurts of thin cum came flowing out and I drank greedily. She collapsed to her knees in front of me. She began to scoop the excess cum around my face into my mouth. The caress of her fingers was a strange kind of heaven in this hell of pleasure, but when she had them in my mouth they were cruel and probing.