GAME OF THRONES: Wrap After-Party
The 5am Club
Celebs: Emilia Clarke, Sophie Turner, Natalie Dormer, Rose Leslie
Codes: cons, FFFF, Futa, fDom, solo, oral, feetAfter many months spent on a project of futa novel, I decided to clear my head with a short story. The self-imposed rule was to write as fast as possible, without the painfully long rewriting and overthinking I usually indulge in, and then to see what happens. I hope the result is readable. Feel free to tell otherwise in the comments.
Given the setting, I tried to make use of the British lingo as best as I could. Unfortunately I ain’t no specialist, so I apologize in advance to my Albionic readers and to the Queen.
Also DISCLAIMER: Obviously this is a work of FICTION. If some elements are based on real events, none of the scenes described happened, because we live in the worst timeline.
None of the situations and dialogues were intended to be calumnious toward the celebrities named therein, or to convey rumors. They only served my story and are for entertainment purposes.
The wrap party had reached its climax. The 2,500 people (more or less) in Waterfront Hall were raising the final glass to the most successful show in the world, shedding the last tear, wetting the shoulder of the final hug for a cast and crew about to be officially dissolved after eight seasons.
Most of them had showed up to the giant get-together, actors, writers, tech people, money people, famous, non-famous, infamous, with a usual court of freeloaders, and were wholeheartedly hitting the peak of celebration through booze and uproar. But most of them had enough experience of the industry to know how things would go from there.
All the throwback videos played, all the speeches made, the theme from Game of Thrones
would resound in the auditorium, met by an unsurprised but overly emotional rumble of dragonish chants, then the exhilarated sense of kinship and all the short-lived promises would crumble under their own weight. Despite the DJ turning the music up, going into a seamless stream of catchy songs and strobing lights, supposed to get everybody on the dance-floor till dawn, the ballroom would start to empty, slowly and then inexorably.
The more people had been involved in the show, the less likely they were to hang around. No one wants to get stuck for eternity in a black & white group photograph where it’s painfully obvious you’re drunk and already wallowing in the question of the big thereafter, the hardest one in show business.
After these few hours and drinks, after the ultimate ruckus, the true ending of a farewell party, they would leave the place to the +1s, who never have to sober up.
For some the small afterwards would be a good night sleep, a red eye out of Belfast for others, and to all a phone call to an agent first thing tomorrow.
For Emilia Clarke, it was an after-party.
Like everyone else at this moment she was crying her little heart out in the mess of castmates and co-workers surrounding her like an earthquake, sad to say goodbye, good luck, good memories, but her emotions had been somewhat hollowed out three minutes ago by a text message.
First by the *ding*
of her phone she had managed to hear in the deafening crowd—after all she had been waiting for it all evening—and then reading it did the rest. The frantic excitement around her became a blur, its noise a drone, and only her internal voice appeared steady and full, repeating the four-word text over and over: Room 68, 15min
, counting down Room 68, 14min… Room 68, 13min… Room 68, 12min…
as her mind was slipping towards more intimate excitements.
To make things more nerve-wracking, the text wasn’t asking for an RSVP. The first text a month before had made it clear. As clear as its implication: no bargaining, you were either in or out.
Emilia was in. She had been from the beginning, her brain and the circumstances never gave her a chance.
She was in her hotel room when it all began, after a day of shooting, fresh out of the shower and ready for a night of testing out the brand new dildo from Bad Dragon, which they had gracefully sent her.
There was a knock on her door. Her pussy, damp with anticipation, became as tingly as her mind’s eye already visualizing the kind of sapphic delights this night knocker had planned for her and she ran for the door.
But it was only a package for you Ms. Clarke
and she’d better put on a dressing gown.
She tipped the bellboy unenthusiastically and then dropped the cardboard box on a coffee table among the pile of other gifts and letters and flowers without any more enthusiasm, leaving its content for tomorrow. She had already forgotten about it striding off to the other box, the one on her bed, full of sextoys and cumlube, but that’s when she received a text, the first text.
The perfect timing gave her a hint that she should read it immediately.
Just seeing the first line made her run back to the coffee table and snatch up the box without any mercy for the expensive gift bags standing in her way.
And now she had two boxes of sextoys on her bed, side by side, one from a manufacturer, the other from Sophie Turner, slut extraordinaire and master strategist, Emilia’s regular night knocker and the only person in this world who could rock her knickers off without even being in the room.
The message consisted of short, clear instructions. No reply. And Emilia, still horny, still using her mind’s eye, gave in, struck by an additional shiver down her loins when she saw the text was a group text.
She followed what it said, waiting for further orders, hoping it wasn’t all a dream the rest of the month of shooting.
The second, final text had woken her up from the dream. Harshly.
The reality of its last instructions Room 68, 9min…
was blazing like ice and fire over the frivolous confusion of the wrap party. It made it hard to see who had left and who was still here among the female cast; who was in and who was out. There would be no support, no certainties, she was to be alone with her instructions until she would enter Room 68, 8min…
There went a certain bassline of cello. Emilia gulped down her last round of whiskey, chewed on the ice cubes almost cartoonishly and after a last—almost feigned—look at her watch, escaped the forest of drunk arms and lips, strolling as casually as possible, like a respectable celebrity, to the underground passage connecting the auditorium to the Hilton hotel nearby.
The next day, a paparazzi photograph would simply read:EMILIA CLARKE LEAVING THE PARTY BEHIND FOR OTHER IRON THRONES.
In other circumstances, the muzak version of the GoT
theme playing in the lift would have made Emilia laugh to tears, but all the humidity of her body was hogged by one central point. She was wet, counting the floors as they passed by on the panel. 4th floor… 5th floor…
waiting for the *ding*
6th floor. The doors opened. She stepped into a hushed silence and the brushing of her heels on the thick carpet.
It was as if everything had calmed down gradually from the flashing ballroom to this well-lit hallway. Such irony. Here everyone could hear her nervousness or see her horniness, which would soon trickle down the inside of her thighs. She had to keep moving.
There was a man at the end of the path, twice as tall as her.It’s not the end, only the middle
, she thought.
His calm presence pulled her to the door of Room 68.
‘Good evening Ms. Clarke,’ the bodyguard said, ‘Mrs. Turner is waiting for you. If you allow me, I have to check for your price of entry.’
‘Oh…of course!’ Emilia stammered. The instructions came to her once again, in the voice of Sophie.
The man drew a handheld metal detector from under his Italian cut jacket. ‘Just spread your legs, please.’
It was over before Emilia could understand what was happening. The man checked her crotch *ding*
She was in the clear. He stepped away from the door and ushered her in without a word.
And just like that, she was in. She could hear it, there was a music of feminine voices. It guided her through a dim entryway, told her everything would be all right, and hot, excruciatingly hot. One last corner and here they were. Room 68, 0min
‘Milly, you came!’ Sophie Turner said, darting towards her.
Before she could reply, Emilia was in her arms. She wanted to close her eyes, as tight as this embrace, and maybe expel all her feelings at Sophie, everything the fear had compressed inside her heart all evening, but she needed to look around. Almost an atavistic precaution.
There were two women lying lavishly on the L-shaped couch that spread across the room, looking back at her.
Natalie Dormer was not a surprise. Rose Leslie on the other hand: definitely. Emilia and her were friends, confidants, and knew everything of each other’s long nights with Sophie Turner. Mostly. But Rose was a blusher, someone who always swore it was the last time everytime.
Being here tonight was more than having one last lesbian orgy with your soon-to-be ex-colleagues, it was breaking her promise one last time forever. In just one glimpse, their stunned gaze said I guess that’s it, we’re finally having sex together tonight and you’ll also discover how much of a slut I am
. If it wasn’t for the body heat of Sophie surrounding her, Emilia would have panicked.Hey
, the two women said from the couch. Emilia waved back from inside the tight hug and then a tongue invaded her mouth. It shoved in the fact that she didn’t have to pretend, they had all gathered here for one thing and there was no need for any composure or modesty. Those belonged to Sophie now.
So Emilia closed her eyes and let herself be watched. After all she knew it would be like this, it was part of the thrill, to show her co-workers that yes, she too belonged to Sophie Turner, that all this time she had been her booty call.
The French kiss became very intense, everyone could hear each other breathing heavily. When Emilia was suddenly let go, she backed up for air.
‘Amir has locked the door now,’ Sophie said (It meant no going out). ‘You’re the last one. I expected more but I guess they didn’t make it. Their loss!’
A list of names scrolled in Emilia’s mind, images of what could have happened… Again she turned towards Rose. Why does fear have to be so close to arousal?
she wondered. She was incapable of discerning the two when she was looking at her friend and her red hair, her freckles, her blue eyes…
Unaware or indifferent to these considerations, Sophie invited Emilia to sit and help herself with a glass of champagne.
She had her own considerations. She placed herself in front of her guests, magnetic, gorgeous and surprisingly timid:
‘So, first I wanna thank you all for being here. These last four years you saw me fuck my way across the cast of this stupid show and not really paying attention to what any of you might feel. You had every reason to just stay the fuck away forever now that it’s over. Especially you Natalie, you had it the toughest because of those pictures at Comic-Con.’
‘For the last time Sophie, unlike you I wasn’t drunk that day, I knew what I was doing. And really I’m honoured I was your first, it was worth the gossip.’
Sophie nodded, unable to lift her eyes from the floor. If she did she would have seen Natalie smiling tenderly at her.
She went on:
‘What I’m trying to say is: you guys are awesome, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. If I organized this after-party and if I made it so hard to access, it’s because I’m done playing sexual butterfly with you. I want something else. If you’re here you’ve guessed the nature of it. I want to be yours. And I want you to be mine. Like… it’s like if I renounce these one-night-stands with you and have you all at the same time… like… if you belong to me instead of belonging to my every whim, it could be like we are actually…a thing
? Does it make sense?’
None of them could answer that. Natalie tried:
‘Well, I mean when I got that package, I guess Rose and Emilia will agree with me, I knew you’d want more than just sex from us. And…Sophie, our relationship has always been all-in from the start, I mean…’
‘What does Joe think about it?’ Emilia asked.
Sophie snorted. ‘I’m his beard!’
Emilia did just that and if she had never heard the word before, she was not surprised of its definition. It was still common practice in the wonderful world of entertainment.
Rose tried to figure it out: ‘So it would be like the Mormons or something? You’re the husband and you want us to be the wives.’
‘I’d prefer the term harem
‘All right but how does it work?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sophie went on, ‘I really don’t know. To me submission/domination is still this thing almost comical with whips and leather jackets and stuff, I don’t know what to make of it. And I don’t know how we can sort things out with our careers and everything. But I’m sure we’ll find something. Because if you decide to belong to me, if we get things to that extreme, we’ll have no other choice but to make it work.’
There was a long silence. It had been a confused speech overall, compared to the determined sobriety of her two text messages. But the meaning was the same. And one word had stuck out: renouncement. They liked this word. They related to it more than ever.
Emilia (and Natalie, and Rose)
had already her mind set. Even before the first text, she had let Sophie penetrate her every thoughts, her days and her nights. The pain of seeing her fucking other people only ever showed how strong her bond was, only ever made way for the plenitude of submission.
To her, it had reached that point where Sophie could only be described in French: she was a raison d’être
‘What would Kit think about this?’ Sophie asked Rose.
‘Well… I guess he doesn’t have to know.’
‘Emilia, your boyfriend?’
She shrugged. ‘Who cares?’
Sophie sat down crossed-legged on the floor and asked one more time.
‘You’re here because you chose to follow my instructions. Now will you follow me forever?’
If tingles in the tummy had been a noisy phenomenon, the long silence that followed would have been cacophonous.
Emilia spoke first. ‘Of course I want to be with you, Sophie. Actually I don’t see how it would change anything, I’ve always been yours, baby, you know that!’
‘But do you really want to be mine this way
Emilia took a pause that wasn’t hesitation. ‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know. That’s the whole point. Because if it made enough sense I could think myself out of it.’
As the conversation was slipping towards these religious undertones, Natalie and Rose stepped in, each in their own way, with their own words, but their answer was the same. They gave Sophie their soul by handing her their body.
And then there were tears. From the four of them. Until Sophie added: ‘I propose you call me mistress—’
Her three slaves burst out laughing, saying No fucking way!
and Sophie joined them in, with her whole heart and humour. Nothing breaks if it can bend, this she learned playing powerplay. And after all they were friends. None of them had to forget that. They were. They really were.
Deep down Emilia knew they would do it eventually, as ridiculous as it would sound out loud, she was their mistress, their goddess, she had been for a long time and they had accepted it the moment they crossed the door of Room 68.
‘The gifts I sent you have a tracking device inside,’ Sophie explained, ‘I’ll be able to know where you are anywhere on earth. I can give you the app if you wanna have fun together someday.’
Emilia had always been too shy to ask Natalie Dormer out and too respectful to ask Rose to cheat, but in the glance the three of them exchanged, all she saw was the possibility of eight years of sexual frustration evaporating.
‘From the look on your faces I guess it’s a yes,’ Sophie said. ‘I propose we spend the rest of the night fucking each other’s brains out, to celebrate.’
She sprang up and dropped into their arms for a group hug that had nothing to do with fucking or with brains. They were four girls, still friends, still laughing, about to plunge into a strange relationship, based on strange feelings, of which they’d still have to figure out the rules and the nature. It was a liberating reaction, and as opposed to the moshing in the auditorium, it was not a hug for an ending, it was a hug forward.
They messed around on the couch like a bunch of kids, then, spontaneously, adulting came over and they began to kiss, a four-way sloppy kiss with lots of tongue and frisky hands.
Emilia was taking in everything she could, she now had not one but three mouths to perceive and communicate with, three women to fall in love with. She could vividly remember every time she had sex with Sophie, but she had lost count of how many times she had masturbated thinking about Rose or Natalie. And now she could taste their lips, she could taste Sophie on their lips, it was incredible, nuanced, a friend, a lover and a celebrity crush, the three melting in, bleeding out. And she wanted more.
Sophie noticed. She grabbed Emilia by the upper arm and made her get up.
‘Take your clothes off,’ she said to her.
As blunt as it was, Emilia didn’t budge. She didn’t have to repress any surprise in her because there was none. Sophie had only stated the obvious, her clothes were a stain on the hierarchy now implicit to Room 68. Her place was to be naked.
She walked to the centre of the room, three pairs of eyes getting attentive, running up and down her body, Sophie in the middle, her two slaves flanking her on either side.
It was like her first time on stage all over again. But this time she wasn’t going to play someone else.
Her fingers reached for the straps of her dress, she marked a pause so her audience could see they were trembling.
‘Go on then, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before!’ Sophie quipped and the Givenchy silk camisole dress fell between her ankles in a heap, unceremoniously, with no music, no dance moves and certainly no twerking. Emilia wasn’t wearing any underwear, as is customary with designer clothes, neither nipple pasties nor a flesh-coloured thong. She had made herself simply and utterly bare for all to see.
But she wasn’t done yet, she crouched to unbuckle her heels. Underneath, she was wearing delicate ankle socks. As she took these off, a moan escaped her lips. Not just because she was finally completely naked, because she loved showing her feet. She loved any and all attention to them. It was her twisted nudity, her sweet, sweet shame. She never made a secret of it either, as a lot of photographers could attest and most of her photoshoots could prove.
Fame had greatly helped her indulge in flaunting them to the world. Tonight no less than three celebrities were perving at her feet and it outshined the countless nights she spent thinking about all the loads shot to her soles, every clit rubbed for her toes.
‘Look at this absolute footslut!’ Sophie sneered, ‘I bet you creamed your pants when you had your last pedicure, thinking about tonight!’
‘I did. The girl at the waxing salon noticed how wet I was, it was awkward…’
Emilia expected all eyes to rise up to her smooth mons but it didn’t happen. It made her moan again and she would have had a feet orgasm on the spot if such a thing existed.
‘Did you touch yourself when you got back home?’
‘I masturbated all afternoon. Actually I opened your Wikifeet page and I made myself cum to your beautiful feet. Several times.’
‘Good girl!’ Sophie wrapped her arms around Natalie and Rose’s shoulders. Her voice had now reached the full sternness expected of her. ‘Don’t be jealous, girls, I’m sure she did the same with you before.’
From the look on her face, it was undeniable she did.
‘Now,’ Sophie went on, ‘tell us about my little gifts.’
This time all eyes did move to her crotch. Rose and Natalie were blushing all of a sudden.
Emilia turned around and bent over. And there was nothing much to see, except silicone. The stems of two buttplugs were poking out of her anus and her vagina, so large they hid her entire crotch like saucers stuck between her buttcheeks.
In a quivering voice, Emilia explained it took her a fortnight of training to wear them comfortably.
When she opened the package a month ago, she would have never believed she could take 4"-thick toys in her holes, let alone both at the same time.
But it was the price of entry, the instructions were clear. And during those two weeks, she had discovered sensations she didn’t know were possible, deep, intense, implacable. And she was grateful for it.
‘Took me the whole month,’ Rose said, ‘My pussy gave me the most difficulties. Kit helped me a lot.’
‘I only spent a few days,’ Natalie said, ‘but I guess you’re not surprised.’
Indeed, Sophie was not.
Having proved her physical devotion, Emilia turned back. She discovered the two women were legs spread, fidgeting with their own toys through their clothes.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Sophie asked her.
At once Emilia straightened up and braced for the little speech she had prepared:
‘My name is Emilia Isabelle Euphemia Rose Clarke. I’m 31 years old. I had 46 different sex partners in my life, 17 men and 29 women. The last time I had sex was 4 days ago, with my boyfriend. The last time I masturbated was last night in my hotel room.
‘The sluttiest thing I’ve ever done was hiring four male escorts for a night. It cost me a fortune cause I asked the agency to have them tested. I took one in my mouth, one in my pussy, one in my arse and the last one was fucking my feet. They went at me for a while and then when I gave them the signal they all came at the same time, that’s what I had instructed them to do.
‘My best friend was there, she filmed the whole thing. I masturbate to the video all the time.’
‘I think I’m going to need this video, Milly,’ Sophie said.
‘Sure. It’s on my laptop, I’ll send it to you.’
‘All right, come sit next to me. Rose, it’s your turn!’
The redhead stood up, her pale skin turning crimson. She switched places with Emilia and her clothes fell off just as quickly despite visible self-consciousness.
Emilia almost felt disappointed to not be the only one naked anymore. She snuggled up to Sophie like a cat—a very submissive cat—and enjoyed the new show.
Of Rose’s (and Natalie’s) body, she already knew everything (4K Blu-ray discs and even screencaps on her phone for emergencies), but her eyes scanning a few inches down, she discovered the uncut version of her friend, a red bush, unabashedly grown. Emilia gasped, eagerly, felt tingles in her tongue, let her imagination go wild, but she never let the hierarchy slip out of her mind: this pussy was reserved.
‘My name is Rose Eleanor Arbuthnot-Leslie. I’m 31. I had 11 different sex partners in my life. 3 men and 8 women. 8 women at the same time thanks to you Sophie, I’ll never thank you enough for this eye-opening night.’
The interested party raised her glass and let her go on.
‘The last time I had sex was this morning, with my dreamy husband. The last time I masturbated was back at the party. The plug was rubbing against my…my clitoris and I had to go take care of it in the loo.
‘The sluttiest thing I’ve ever done was leaving my webcam on so Ms. Turner right here could watch Kit and I have sex.’
They all let out a laugh which was the cue for Natalie to go and strip down.
It differed surprisingly from her topless scene in S02E03: two silver piercings were adorning her hardening nipples. But the real surprise came when she dropped her panties, as even Sophie didn’t know about it: glimmering among her perfectly trimmed blond pubes was a clit piercing, a stainless steel barbell going through her clitoral hood vertically, the bottom bead resting on her pink button.
Because she knew all eyes were on it, Natalie flicked it a little, nonchalantly, which of course looked positively provocative.
‘You cannot imagine the constant torture it is to wear such a big toy in your cunt when you’re pierced! Anyways… My name’s Natalie Dormer, I’m 36. I had around 89 sex partners, not counting the handjobs and blowjobs. 52 men, 37 women. Last time I had sex was last week with Lena. By the way, she sends her regards.’
‘The last time I masturbated was this morning when I put my plugs in. I kind of came spontaneously, so I don’t know if it counts.
‘The sluttiest thing I ever did was an all anal night with two studs I had rented. They were bi, it was really hot. At some point I took one in my mouth and made the other fuck his arse until he had a prostate orgasm. And yes, his load did taste different if you were wondering.’
There was a moment of contemplation. Then Sophie snapped out of it and said:
‘Show us that clit, it looks all swollen.’
At once, Natalie was using her fingers to pull her hood back and make her clitoris stick out. It was inflamed and almost purple like the head of a penis. She came closer so they could have a better view. Her pussy was the distance of a kiss from their mouths.
‘Make yourself cum for us.’ Sophie ordered.
‘Yes now, I’m sure you have an orgasm right on the edge begging for release.’
Without loosening her grip on the hood, Natalie put her middle finger on the bead that had been teasing her clitoris night and day for three months now. She rubbed herself and after a few seconds, she was cumming in front of the three women, her over-stimulated nub fluttering, the plugs swaying inside her, rattling against each other through the thin membrane separating her two horny fuckholes. Her legs buckled. Her mouth opened wide for whatever cries and expletives that wanted to come out.
She tried to stay upright despite the assault of shattering pleasure on her body, aware that she was here to show, not to enjoy.
Then eventually, her hips stopped twitching and her mind was back from heaven and she took a few steps back, like an athlete facing the jury.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Sophie said softly.
‘Thank you, Mistress’ Natalie muttered. There, she said it.
Emilia and Rose jolted. They stood up and rejoined Natalie in front of Sophie. Skins feeling warm and soft, pressing, brushing, a nipple against an arm, a toe over a toe, hands searching another hand, hair and body hair and gooseflesh. In one voice, they thanked their mistress. In one body, they presented themselves to their goddess.
‘You’re all so beautiful...’
With great difficulty, she looked away, for her phone.
She took it and dialled a number then it all happened very fast:*picking up*
‘Is he here?’*inaudible male voice*
‘Let him in.’
The door opened, someone entered, the trio froze.
It was a waiter pushing a trolley covered with buckets of champagne.
There were nine steps between the door and the vicinity of the L-shaped couch.
The man, despite being in his early twenties, was used to celebrity encounters and eccentricities, a perk of working at the Hilton, he probably even had a few stories to tell, but… it was Emilia Clarke and Rose Leslie and Natalie Dormer standing completely naked in the middle of the room. He stood rooted to the spot.
And the horrified stare contest started.
His professionalism tried to take the yoke back as fast as possible before G-LOC. Every alarm had set off in his skull yet he couldn’t hear them, he was crash-diving, in flames.
‘Put all this on the table,’ Sophie said, snapping her fingers in front of his face, which miraculously tore him away from the vision of the Three Graces and sent him back to work.
He began arranging the fresh bottles on the table and disposing of the empty ones.
‘What’s your name?’ Sophie asked.
‘Do you watch Game of Thrones
‘Ever wanked it to one of these harlots here, Brian?’ She was pointing at them like at the salve market.
The waiter stood speechless. Sophie made a cork pop out of a bottle and he jumped in startle.
‘Tell me!’ she said, ‘Do you jack off to them once in a while?’
‘I… I… Yes I mean I…’
‘Show me how they make you pump your cock! Come on, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Show me!’
He hesitated for as long as the bulge in his pants would remain unnoticeable. He looked at Sophie, at her three nude slaves, at the door.
‘Amir won’t let you out anyway. Pants down, mate, now
After all he was here to serve. Brian unzipped his fly and his dick sprang out.
Sophie snuggled down in the couch, sipping champagne straight from the bottle.
With a tense hand, he grabbed his unbelieving manhood, half hard but not for long: after stroking it for about fifteen seconds—and despite his best efforts—he was rock hard, and ready to demonstrate the extent of his appreciation for the TV-show and its female cast.
Sophie saw it but found nothing to complain about, quite the opposite.
She asked ‘Which one makes you cum most often?’
Brian struggled with his incoming load and his duty to remain courteous and diplomatic: ‘I… I can’t—’
‘For fuck’s sake, I need a name! Hurry up!
‘Ms. Clarke!’ he whimpered out in a flutter of panic.
Emilia’s heart sank. She knew this question was not innocent.
She tried to lock eyes with Sophie but her grinning attention was still on the waiter.
And then Sophie leaned forward and said ‘Come closer and shoot your load on my face,’ eyes already closed, pulling her hair back, waiting.
His mind blown, Brian took a few wobbly steps towards her, about to blow something else. He aimed his cock at her head, not sure how close he was allowed to get. He repressed a groan and started cumming.
Emilia, Rose and Natalie were watching it all with a crippling fascination, no longer concerned about their forced exposure, because for the first time, they were seeing their mistress for what she really was; in fact a little more with each rope of cum blasting her face. And Brian did blast a lot. His cock may have lasted only a few seconds, his balls were definitely delivering.
When Sophie opened her eyes again, she was covered from forehead to chin in long streaks, so thick it would take a while to dry off.
She took Brian’s shaft in her hand and sucked the last drops of semen out of it in a sloppy, languid kiss.
‘That was impressive!’ she said and handed him a tenner from her pocket. ‘You can go now.’
And Brian, all sheepish, put his junk back in his pants, took the most unnecessary tip of his career and then, with one last look at the three naked actresses, one last look at Sophie Turner with his cum on her face, left Room 68 for a well-deserved drink.
The door slammed behind him.
The four women observed each other. No laughing anymore.
Sophie sighed sultrily, closing her eyes, enjoying the warm, sticky sensations of her facial and the looks of awe and envy being sent her way.
Only Natalie dared to say the truth:
‘So…I’ve no idea what just happened but…wow… You are one mad slut, Mistress, oh my God… Should we clean you off?’
Sophie shot to her feet, her sperm-coated face dripping down everything, the carpet, her clothes… Almost casually, she headed for a door and opened it to the pitch blackness of an adjoining room.
‘Ladies, Room 69 is waiting!’
Emilia took her sisters by the hand. She wasn’t nervous or scared—even when Sophie disappeared through the doorway and into the darkness like the Phantom of the Opera—their mistress out of sight, it was a solemn moment, where they could express sisterhood for the first and the last time before what they knew would be the big night
She sent Natalie a glance that said Nice to meet you, nice to fuck you
. To her friend Rose, she simply mouthed the most obvious three words of affection.
They joined in a circle (more like a triangle).
Because they belonged to Sophie they belonged to each other now.
‘I’m terrified!’ Rose whispered.
‘Good,’ Natalie replied, ‘the adrenaline will only make you cum harder.’
‘Let’s go,’ Emilia said.
She stood in front of the open door. She had no idea what was beyond, but evidently Sophie had spared no expense. In a few seconds she could have the whole Crusaders F.C. tag teaming her mouth, or have her buttcheeks branded by Allison Mack, or perhaps the lights would turn on to reveal the whole cast of Game of Thrones
in which case Emilia would be greatly disappointed.
They stepped in, one after the other, engulfed by a tense silence.
As they explored further in, guided by Sophie’s shadowy shape, they realized the silence was actually the sound of a woman panting through her nose.
Sophie told them to stop once they had reached her and she turned the lights on.
A bedroom. Subdued atmosphere. Super king size bed.
Sprawled on it was Maisie Williams, bound by the same nakedness as them except for the thin red rope that had been expertly, intricately, aesthetically tied all over her body and restrained any movement.
On her eyes, a blindfold. In her mouth, a ballgag. In her ears, music coming from wireless earplugs.
Her legs were bent and tied up against her chest, leaving her crotch in plain view. There was her anus, covered by the bejewelled, heart-shaped end of a silver plug; there was her vagina, tight-looking and glistening; and then there was what the three women had seen the moment their eyes fell on the young actress, what they first mistook for a strap-on dildo harnessed to her hips, but it stirred and throbbed and leaked, it was real, it was a 16" cock, ready for them, it was a pair of apple-sized balls, full for them. It was the final gift, carefully packed by Sophie Turner.
‘Come on, let’s break my toy,’ she said.