Free The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa

realistic that one can almost feel the heat of it. Several of my fellow mistresses are already here, lounging on their couches, their body servants just inches away and, as ever, I wonder just who it was who originally decreed that entertainments like this are to be part of public domain. I’ve asked my mother more than once, and she says she doesn’t know either. But it’s tradition, and the Matriarchy is big on tradition.
    Cicero helps me on to my velvet-upholstered couch, and then decorously arranges my many-layered skirts across my knees and ankles. I say decorously, but in the process he manages to touch me several times, his fingers hot but gentle on my bare skin. With each contact a surge of delicious power arrows upwards and sets a light between my thighs.
    Carefully schooling my rising excitement, I affect the same mask of boredom and ennui as the other mistresses. And that’s another thing. When did it become the fashion, then the custom, to find coupling with a strong and well-set-up male tedious? I know it’s a tradition, but to me it seems a delightful one. Is there something wrong with me that I still look forward to a tumble?
    But just look at them …
    Mistress Layla and her Liam.
    Mistress Tanya and her Timon.
    Mistress Rosa and her Ryan.
    They all look weary and as if they were being seriously inconvenienced. Anyone would think this was a council meeting about the trading figures for meat or metals or wheat, and yet for me the sexual tension makes my loins tingle. As I attempt to settle myself more comfortably, Cicero readjusts my skirts. Other mistresses continue to file in and take their places, and all the while he’s caressing my skin with slow light touches.
    The last of our number to arrive is Mistress Jenna and her body servant James and, leaning towards him, I sigh for Cicero’s ears only. He makes a show of fussing with my hem and gives my calf a delicate squeeze of reassurance.
    Hopefully their performance today will be better than usual. I don’t hold out much hope, but perhaps we’ll all be pleasantly surprised by some original thinking.
    Jenna is beautiful, tall and blonde and willowy, imperiously dramatic in a royal-blue gown – but of all of us she has the least enthusiasm for these proceedings. Her James has an excellent body and very fine genitalia, but I always feel that his mistress never really shows him off to his best advantage. Their performances lack ‘spark’ and originality somehow, even though the sight of any kind of sexual congress always stirs me.
    ‘Good evening, Cerise, how are you?’ Jenna’s voice is brittle as she catches my eye. Have I revealed my low opinion of her in my expression? Or perhaps she detects my wish that either she, or someone else, would show some daring?
    ‘I’m very well, thank you, my friend,’ I reply, giving her a bright smile, ‘and looking forward to your pleasure. James is looking in particularly fine fettle today.’
    ‘Which he is, as ever.’ Her tone is curt and defensive and she gives me a narrow look, her eyes flicking enviously to Cicero at my side. My man is the acknowledged prize amongst the body servants in our assembly. ‘Your Cicero is looking well too. Has he put on a little weight?’
    Aha, trying to belittle my beloved stallion!
    ‘Why, yes indeed he has. He’s been following a new exercise routine, a most rigorous one. Designed to increase muscle mass and stamina.’
    She makes a harrumphing noise. Score a point to me.
    ‘Attend me,’ she snaps to James, who hurries forwards.
    He removes his clothes, which naturally aren’t many. First he kicks off his boots, and then he unbuckles his trousers. A second later, he’s stepping out of them, nude, but for his collar of servitude.
    His penis rears up eagerly, ready to perform, and I eye it critically, ever the connoisseur.
    He’s big, but not as big as my Cicero. Not one of the body servants around this circle possesses either his length or his girth. But that