Free Carrion: A Story of Passion by Eden Night

the basic education, Alexander wished me to be moulded to his own particular and contradictory tastes. It’s nothing if not equitable. Tonight Alexander is in charge – my Prince Charming. The dress code is Nymphs and Princes. We have been promised a sumptuous feast.
    We are the last to arrive – our arrival is an artfully constructed piece of theatre. The last two seats at the table are either side of Arabella; it is clear that they have always been ours – and that they have all been waiting. Her slave is chained to the leg of her chair. He is blindfolded and gagged. A ring and chain are attached to his cock and then to his lead. It allows Arabella the opportunity of being able to yank it every so often throughout dinner, eliciting groans of torment and pleasure.
    Arabella doesn’t stand on our arrival – she is our Queen and we, her errant subjects. I follow Alexander’s lead, dipping my head to kiss her hand in apology for our tardiness. All eyes around the table watch the interaction closely. Alexander, I soon realise, is somewhat a cause celebre. I suspect that Arabella requested him to arrive late and play out this little vignette. I look down the table, noting how all the Princes have been placed on one side, opposite their nymphs on the other. Each one, like us, is masked. Each one, like us is rich in their own identity. There is no uniformity of shape or size or mode. They are a glorious mixture of age and form. The effect is as if we are about to dance, rather than feast.
    With us finally in position, Arabella calls for service by clapping her hand. She yanks the chain of her pet purely for her own amusement. My eyes fall to the young man on all fours at his mistress’ feet, curious to know if it is Daniel.
    Serving girls come in wearing nothing but a thin diaphanous tunic – their hair has been plaited in the Roman style, and each of the fifteen servers, wears little golden slave cuffs; so that their hands are bound in servitude. I watch them flow in, each carrying a silver domed platter in each of their hands, creating the strange impression that they are living, breathing manifestations of Libra.
    Each stands between two guests and carefully places a charger in each of the settings. In perfect synchronisation, the girls remove the lids with a theatrical flourish, exposing a tiny roast quail decorated with autumn berries, woodland mosses and morels. I wonder if in reality the servers are prostitutes, or strippers that spend their days painted with red wax lips and cheap PVC. I wonder how cheaply they sell their sex for, and what price Arabella has paid them this evening. Are they mildly afraid of this decadent world?
    Our glasses are filled by young, beautiful Adonis’ each gagged with a black leather strap and fully naked except for the straps that force their cocks to stand to attention throughout. When not serving, they stand against the wall, with the Ewers of wine held on their heads. I can only imagine the sweet agony. Once empty handed, the serving girls take up the space between them and, taking a cock in each hand, she strokes her hand up and down the shaft in slow, languid motions. We dine to the background music of muffled moans of ecstatic torment.
    Arabella conducts her serving staff like a choreographer. The hours it must have taken to rehearse such synchronicity is almost unimaginable. Our plates are cleared. Our wine glasses filled and the room is full of excited chatter and amusement. Our Main course of rare fillet beef is served. I can barely focus on the bloodied meat in front of me. I am distracted by the sight over Alexander’s shoulder; one of the serving girls has taken one of the wine boys in her mouth. I watch as her head rocks backwards and forwards on her slender porcelain neck. I turn my attention to the slave boy’s blissfully agonised face, which contorts with the discipline of not releasing. The heat blooms between my legs and I feel my oils release and slide over my sex.