He knelt on the hardwood, the cracks of the old Lower East Side apartment’s aging floor pressing against his knees through the thin material of his black tuxedo trousers.
The giggling around the room was pervasive, as were the popping of champagne bottles and the clinking of glasses, but when order was called for and the time was announced, the women lined up near the boy on his knees.
A slinky black sheath dress was pulled up to the waist, and he was eye level to a neat triangle of black hair and that slit that made him groan with need. She coughed impatiently, and he got to work.
He found one dangling black ribbon and expertly attached the closure at the end of it, pinning her thigh-high stockings in place. The right, then the left, then she turned and bent a little, pushing the split of her somewhat small tight ass into his face. Luckily he was capable enough to do the back of her garters while keeping his eyes firmly on her pussy.
The girl spun and pulled down her dress and gave the kneeling boy a kiss on the cheek.
The next girl took her place, her rose-colored slip pulled up easily to reveal thicker thighs and the faded ivory lace tops of vintage hosiery.
She looked down at him as he busied himself with the garters. Her eyes were sweet, and her smile was coquettish. There were three fasteners on each leg dangling from her intricate Rago, and she swayed forward a little as he did them, so that the smoothness of her bare pussy just barely grazed his cheek.
She laughed at him whimper of desire.
The next set of thighs were even thicker, and the familiar grin of his queen looked down at him expectantly. He did her little clips easily, but she leaned down low, so that his face was nearly enveloped in her cleavage, and she pulled one clip off.
“It’s crooked, do it again,” she said sternly, her hand in his hair.
“And slowly. You’re rushing is making you clumsy. Don’t you want me to look pretty,” she asked, her hand moving to his face, squeezing his jaw, her nails digging into his skin.
He did them all over, made sure they were aligned, kissed each clip when he was done. She let out one little scoff and patted him on the head.
The last woman was new, pretty, brunette. Her Bettie Page look was still somehow unique, even with her blunt bangs. She stood tall with her hands on her hips, and he had to lift her dress himself, slipping her head under the gossamer black mesh negligee.
The garters were new, never used, and had to be loosened. As he worked them, their owner reached down and took his hair in her hand. She pushed his face forward so that his lips came in contact with the soft hairs of her pubis. She pointed his mouth right where she wanted, holding his hair tightly in her hand, and let him taste her, just for a moment.
“Oh, do you like that?” she laughed.
He only whined and nodded, looking up at her cruel eyes through the thin fabric.
“Finish my snaps,” she said, slapping him once.
He did, though he licked his lips as he did.
Then, one by one, they were helped on with their jackets, and they left. He was mercifully given a moment to collect himself before getting up to leave himself.