Give Satisfaction

In our world, class rules all.

Here and now, in London at the beginning of the 20th century, one’s class dictates every aspect of one’s life. Who you are, who you know, where you go, what you say, and what you do. The caste divisions are rigid. Yes, everyone knows a story about some commoner who rose above their station, or some member of the landed gentry who defied their birthright, but they are the rare exception to the rule. Those stories make the barriers seem much more permeable than they really are. With very little exception, you stay with your kind. You stay where you belong.

That truth is what makes it so unspeakably disgraceful, reprehensible, and thrilling to see Bertram W. Wooster—elite aristocrat, high-born gentleman of nobility—displayed in all his debauched glory, on his hands and knees atop the Victorian-style mahogany dining table, stripped completely naked besides a blindfold over his eyes and a dog collar secured around his neck. We went easy on him this time and did not bind his wrists; that is why he's able to clutch the edge of the table desperately with both hands and hang on as he's getting fucked into oblivion. We also skipped gagging him, but only to leave his mouth available, not to be kind.

Morrison has been pounding into Mr. Wooster for a while now and must be on the brink of release. His cock is one of the largest of the crowd in the Junior Ganymede Club tonight, but more notably, his hips pump the fastest of anyone's. He is an enthusiastic young footman who brings a characteristic zeal to everything he does, including this. He is like a human vibrator buzzing away at Mr. Wooster's arse, for which he is rewarded with a series of short, high, keening whines, so different from the low, long, rumbling groans that result from a slower, more patient fuck.

Phillips is more reserved. He is older, a butler at a large estate, and doesn't always participate in these bacchanalias of ours, but understandably he has been greatly moved by observing the events of this evening. He cannot stand to see a good hole go unused, so without interrupting Morrison’s rhythm, he grabs Mr. Wooster's disheveled hair, lifts his head, and pushes his cock down his throat. Mr. Wooster gags and coughs, but never tries to pull away. When he is in the zone like this, he will take anything, even things he cannot really handle.

That is partly the reason why, in the beginning, I just sit on the sidelines and watch. I make sure Mr. Wooster isn't getting carried away and getting himself into situations that are too hazardous or is going to cause long-term injury.

The other reason is, of course, that I like to be the grand finale.

I count the number of different men who have their way with him because he likes to keep a running tally for boasting rights; his record is 15 men in one evening. There are only seven of us tonight, but we have kept him tolerably busy. He has already taken two loads in his arse, one in his mouth, and even one in his hair, which had matted his auburn tresses and dripped down the side of his face. That one was courtesy of Blackburn, a chauffeur who is something of the club rapscallion. He, more than any of us, gets into the spirit of thoroughly humiliating Mr. Wooster.

With a growl, Morrison gives one last thrust; with a gasp, he finishes. Mr. Wooster doesn't pay too much attention to the cock draining into and then pulling out of him; at this point, he is so stretched out that he barely notices it. Instead, he focuses on swallowing down Phillips, fighting his gag reflex with every bob of his head. Soon enough, he too is spilling down Mr. Wooster's throat. Even a mature man like him, who doesn't reach his peak as quickly as he used to, is no match for Mr. Wooster's talented, tenacious mouth.

Now, it is finally my turn. I arise and approach the table where Mr. Wooster has collapsed onto his stomach. I seize him and roll him roughly onto his back. Even though he is blindfolded and I haven’t spoken, he somehow knows it's me, and he smiles. Whether he can tell from my touch, my scent, or because he has done the math and knows there’s only me left, I don't know, but regardless, it is gratifying to be greeted with such a sweet gesture. I reward him with a searing kiss, which he returns with gusto. His mouth tastes bitter and the visceral reminder of the other men who have used him so recently arouses me fiercely.

"Good work tonight, my darling. You've done us so well. Do you think you can take one more?"

"Yes, Sir. Only for you, Sir."

That word, Sir, coming from his lips might be the most powerfully erotic moment of the entire evening. This wealthy gentleman, this noble patrician, who by all rights should command us all, who has more money, power, and privileges than any of us servants could dream of—he has lowered himself before us in the most compromising, shameful, indecent way possible. Someday in the not-too-distant future, he will come into his title, take his place in the House of Lords, hold land, employ dozens of laborers just like us; he will marry a high society woman, produce heirs, serve as the patriarch of his family, and lead a life of idle luxury, while the rest of us continue to work hard day and night to feed our own families. This is the inevitable way of the world. But just for now, just for tonight, may we upset the social order: we may use and abuse him, spit in his face, drag him on a leash, defile his hair and his prick, punish his throat and his arse. And all the while, each of us gets to hear him say—as he is saying even now, as I finally get into position and take my first thrust deep inside him—

"Thank you, Sir! Thank you very much, Sir!"