This site contains explicit stories of sexual & kinky fantasies and is not intended for readers under 18.

MMS – Epilogue – The Birthday Party

by | mms | 0 comments

I had been a month. A month of strangeness and wonder and fear and excitement. A month where I started a new job. A job that turned out to have its own challenges and joys. A job that kept me on my toes three days a week. A job that sent me home with a paycheck that would literally change my life.

Then there was the other part of my new life.

Mr. McIntyre’s office in the city was actually a sort of artist’s studio space. They all used it for different things. Chase had photoshoots. Marcy held little salons. Trudy sometimes practiced her viola there.

I had a large desk and a typewriter and a big file cabinet full of secrets.

When I worked for Mr. McIntyre’s firm, people made a sort of big deal for your birthday. I think the head of the secretarial pool kept track of it. They would have a cake after lunch and people would sing, and it was all very embarrassing, but I sort of liked it.

Since it was my birthday, I wondered if Mr. McIntyre would say something. Then again, I was his assistant, and maybe I was supposed to remind him. I wondered if I should have just forgotten the whole thing. I was going to visit my mother that weekend, so I would get a cake.

Though it certainly wasn’t about cake.

I was addressing a slew of invitations to a party, my first such event to help organize when Mr. McIntyre came into the office. He didn’t have a cake with him nor flowers. Not that it was important.

A few minutes later Marcy came in. She was in her riding clothes, but different ones than what’s I’d seen before. Black jodhpurs, a black blouse with the sleeves rolled up, and a vest.

There was a moment, when she walked in, I swear I saw through her mask. She looked into my eyes and right into my heart. Then, in a little flash, she gave me a smile before putting her bitch face back on.

Mr. McIntyre had a small desk by the window of the studio. There was one wall that wall completely covered in windows almost from the floor to the ceiling. It showed the gray buildings next to us in what was called the Meatpacking District. Very industrial but sort of beautiful in its own way.

Marcy went to sit next to Mr. McIntyre, and the two spoke in hushed tones.

And like that each of them came in. Fifteen minutes apart or so. Chase was in jeans and a tight black t-shirt, looking like he was in a motorcycle club. Trudy in a black romper and black sneakers.

They sat around his desk for a while. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I heard a lot of talking. I heard some laughing. It was infuriating.

Finally, Mr. McIntyre stood up and cleared his throat.

“Can we speak with you, Abby?”

I swallowed and tried not to visibly shake as I got up.

As I walked over, the moved the chairs around a little, making a row of four chairs in front of Mr. McIntyre’s desk.

I stood in front of four chairs. Trude, Chase, and Marcy all sat in silence.

Mr. McIntyre put his briefcase on the desk and opened it. In it, I saw a variety of things. A riding crop, some rope, handcuffs, then a flash of pink. My diary was in there. My secrets kept next to wicked leather and his expensive stationary.

“Do you remember how I like you? Garters and stockings only? Why don’t you strip to just that for us.”

It was still very difficult, especially with all of them there and the windows behind me, but I didn’t hesitate. Well, not much.

I had learned to put my panties on over my garters. Marcy taught me that one. It made it easier to slip them off.

I wasn’t exactly lightning fast, but I stripped, and I didn’t cry, and that was something. I sat on the desk and waiting for whatever was coming next.

“Get the little pink book out of my briefcase.”

My hands went cold.

The cycle of shame and hesitation started, and I forced some other part of my brain, the part that has pushed grown men out of the way to get Mr. McIntyre’s coffee on time, take over.

I picked my diary out from under what looked like a black leather whip.

I sat back up and put my book in my lap, trying not to catalog all of the weird, crazy, perverse, disgusting things that I had written in it.

I noticed a thick black satin ribbon in-between some pages. I knew what he was about. I knew what “anything” was going to mean that day.

“Now, on your birthday we are going to give you a present. But to contextualize that present I believe you’ll need to read the marked entry,” he said, seemingly trying to hold back his smile.

I was filled momentarily with such joy. He remembered! But then I remembered I had to read.

March 12th,

I’m predictable as always. When the winter ends, and spring starts blossoming my body becomes out of control again. I wake up panting and in need. I walk around the city trying not to stare at every tall, strong man, every pretty girl, everyone. I wonder what each of them is like in bed. I imagine their hands on me.

On the train I imagine being cornered by a group of dirty construction workers. They pass me back and forth laughing, their greedy hands ripping my blouse open, roughly grabbing my breasts.

I wonder if they can tell what I’m thinking as they sit across from me. I wonder if anyone can tell I’m getting wet as we sit stalled on our way uptown.

It only makes it worse thinking that Mr. McIntyre is waiting at the office. All train fantasies and daily daydreams don’t even come close to my hunger for him.

Sometimes it is an actual physical pain when he is near me. Like something inside of me is trying to reach out to him. God why can’t he just touch me? Why do I have to be so quiet and docile and stupid?

At lunch, I snuck off to the park across the street and got the book out again. You would think I would do something to quell all this sick need, but instead, I read things that make it worse.

In this story, some Catholic school girl is kidnapped. Her family is rich, and she is bratty and petulant. At first, they just want ransom but then the three kidnappers decide to have some fun.

I tore off the cover, which was a pretty buxom girl bound to a bed. The title in red over her “Tortures Teen Vixen.” There were three shadows next to the bed. Faceless men, tall and strong.

Sometimes I think that would be the perfect fix for me. Kidnapped. Forced to do all the things I dream of doing. Then I realize how stupid that is. In real life that would be horrible. Terrible things happen to people everyday, and I sit in the park wishing for it.

What a sick girl I am.

The chapter I read at lunch involved the lead kidnapper’s girlfriend who is jealous of the pretty rich girl. She is in charge of feeding the little prisoner, and she decides to make a game of it. She withholds her one meal a day and makes the once pampered debutante lick her pussy to earn her food.

“Make me come, or you will starve to death, princess!”

It’s over the top and poorly written, and yet I’m squirming and reading it over and over again.

I stopped, the entry ended there. My face felt so hot I thought I might pass out. Everyone seemed to be smiling. I’m sure they thought I was disgusting.

Mr. McIntyre stood and paced a little in front of me.

“It’s been a joy having you in my office here and on the Island. It’s funny how someone can come along, and you honestly can’t remember how you got on without them,” he started.

I felt my cheeks heat. It may have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said about me.

“You are organized and competent and suited to a wide range of tasks and services that my other partners would not find particularly interesting or satisfying. You are a wonderful fit,” he said with a charming smile.

“For example,” he said taking a package out of his pocket.

“I know first hand how wonderful you are at research. As I did my own little research project this month, I was frankly annoyed I couldn’t use your help. Ah, but it was worth it. I don’t think today’s plans would have the same impact if you’d been the one to find the book.”

With that, he handed me the package, which was wrapped in a lovely dark red and gold paisley paper. I tore it open and found a worn old book inside.

“Tortured Teen Vixen. Remarkably difficult to find. The bookstores and dime store that would usually carry it don’t have much in the way of bookkeeping nor do they keep books that are out of print in stock. The distributors aren’t particularly helpful either. Even the publishers weren’t much use. In the end, it took me days of searching through penny bins and seedy back rooms of head shops until I found it,” he said with pride.

“Amusing little read. It’s been a while since I’ve sat down with a little smut. I’d certainly had more than a few little stashes of these kinds of pulp novels in my day. This is a bit more modern than what I’m used to. As I remember it was mostly De Sade and Fanny Hill for me.”

Chase stood up next. He had a very mischievous smile as he walked around the desk so that he was behind me. Marcy stood too, very slowly, and went to stand next to me. Trudy just stood in front of her chair, eyeing me and waiting.

“We all have fantasies, Abby. You’re going to learn more about that the longer you stay with us. Things that are deeply personal, things that are rather simple and easy to do, other things that in real life would be wrong, illegal, unnatural, even deadly. In our dungeon or in our bedrooms or in the little worlds we create, you’ll find fantasies can become very real,” he said with a somewhat wry grin.

“Now Abby, can you read one more thing, in your diary, there is a little note,” he said.

I picked the book back up and saw a paper slipped in between pages. It was Mr. McIntyre’s handwriting.

“A safeword is something you say to stop a scene. This is put in place so you can say ‘no’ and ‘stop’ and play at being taken, but still, have a way to tell people when you actually want or need to stop. Today your safeword will be ‘ice cream.’”

With that, suddenly, the room went into motion.

Chase grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms behind my back. Trudy ran up and grabbed my legs. Marcy grabbed my hair.

They descended on me, and I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry or be scared out of my mind. It was like a rollercoaster.

They grabbed me and pulled me, and as they pushed everything off the desk I felt someone’s hands grabbing my breasts and fingers pushing between my legs, and suddenly it went from a game to something else.

I closed my eyes. I let myself be captured. I remembered the book, the girl, the stupid spoiled girl. I wasn’t me at that moment; I was Princess.

I turned and tried to pull away from their hands. Someone grabbed my hair hard. Someone sucked on my nipple.

They pushed me onto my back, someone holding my arms down, someone holding my legs apart. Someone fingered me.

I shook my head from side to side, but there was nothing I could do. They were all too strong, and there were too many of them.

“Hold her!” said a bratty voice.

I looked up and saw Trudy climb up on the desk, straddling my chest. She laughed as I struggled. She pinched my nipples cruelly, and I screamed.

“No one can hear you, you little bitch. You’re ours,” she said.

Then she crawled forward. I saw her romper had snaps at the crotch. As she opened them the chaos around me went a little fuzzy. I remembered that time we had tea. The sight of her pink pussy, hairless and so pretty.

As Trudy swung her leg over my head, I remembered sucking on Marcy’s nipple. I remembered Marcy’s head between my legs. Before it happened, I didn’t know how badly I needed it. Trudy straddled my face, her knees on my arms pushing them down painfully.

I looked up at that pussy as she slowly descended on me. Then the world was the salty smell of her, the delicious smell, and the taste of her skin and her wetness. It was like trying some new dish you didn’t realize was your favorite. I wanted to taste her forever.

She ground down on me, covering my mouth and my nose. I kept licking as my lungs started to burn. A biological fear came. Just as it was too much, she let me breathe.

At that moment I saw Mr. McIntyre and Chase kissing. I wanted to watch that very much, but Trudy was back on me. I tried to keep licking, but someone was pulling me down until my legs dangled over the table.

She positioned herself. Sse wasn’t going to give up until she came, I knew it. I would do it too. I know I would.

Just then I felt the familiar, but still very new sensation of Mr. McIntyre’s cock slipping into me. I was being suffocated again, and he was pushing in hard. She let me breathe for a second.

Someone grabbed my hand and pulled it around another cock. My other hand was held between strong thighs, my fingers slipping into another wet pussy. All of them were using me at the same time. My brain sort of shorted out. I tried to keep up, I really did.

It went on like that for what seemed like hours, but could have only been minutes.

I made Trudy come. I did it! I made all of them come, and then I laid there a limp wet mess of a birthday girl.

As I tried to form words and failed, I saw Marcy, now naked, take a box from her pocketbook.

A cupcake. Pink and white and pretty. She put a candle in it and lit it, and somehow all of them laughing while they sang Happy Birthday was more embarrassing than anything else that happened that day.

But I got over it. Maybe I was even learning to like embarrassment.

Looking at each of them my heart swelled, and I felt more love than I could have ever imagined.

It turned out to be a pretty good birthday. It was turning into a pretty good life.

The End.

If you have enjoyed any of the 150+ free stories on this site, please consider supporting the author. You can buy him a coffee through Ko-Fi or send him a tip through PayPal or the Cash App. Tips make it possible to keep this site operational and let Jack keep publishing things for free.


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *