One Week in the Private House by Esme Ombreux

progress: Headman had stopped at each of the lower tables to chat to his staff and to display Jem. Some of the revellers, overcome either with affection for their Master or with the wine that had already been freely flowing, had offered their bodies to Headman; he had addressed a passing remark to one particularly striking beauty with waist-length black hair, and she, at a loss for a reply, had torn open her bodice and begged him to use his whip on her mountainous white breasts. One of the waiters, a youth with his sexual equipment displayed on the wooden tray that was tied around his hips, had thrown himself at Headman's feet and had asked very courteously if he might suck the Master's cock. Headman had availed himself of some of these offers, and meanwhile other guests had been availing themselves of Jem.
    She had lost count of the number of embraces she was pulled into; the countless hungry mouths that had sought her lips, the countless hands, some rough and some gentle, that had roamed across her body, pinched her nipples, slapped her bottom, and fumbled at the wetness between her legs. She had surrendered to every caress, her mind reeling with the constant stream of compliments and lewd suggestions whispered into her ears, her body responding with small, trembling orgasms as the Master's minions vied to touch his latest consort.
    At last they had reached the dais, and Jem had lowered her tingling sex on to the velvet cushions of the seat that had been reserved for her alongside Headman's ornate throne. At last she had had a chance to survey her surroundings, and she had found herself gazing down at a sea of semi-naked revellers. It had seemed as though every inhabitant of the Private House had gathered for the party. Hundreds of men and women, clad in colourful, exaggerated, revealing costumes, had been seated at long tables; many more, wearing even fewer clothes, had been scurrying between the tables with trays of food and wine, or standing to attention as human torch-bearers at the bases of the stone columns, or waiting in the side-aisles to make their appearance during the entertainments.
    For the first few hours, while the main courses of dinner had been served, a sense of decorum had been maintained. The waiters and waitresses, certainly, had been treated as fair game from the very start of the banquet, and the dinners had missed no opportunity to grab and caress the breasts, bottoms and penises that the waiting staff could not help but offer whenever they had approached a table to ladle soup or pour champagne. The diners themselves, however, had taken their lead from the top table, and had restrained the urge to indulge their passions to the full.
    The entrance of the entertainers had proved to be the turning point. Jem, who by this time had moved to sit on Headman's lap and had been busy manipulating the prodigious length of his tool while nibbling a strawberry that he held between his teeth, had suddenly noticed a lull in the cacophony. Turning, she had watched the entertainers, cloaked in scarlet, as they had stepped in silent procession to the clear space in the centre of the hall. In the gallery musicians began to play, quietly at first but with a pulsating beat. And the first of the entertainers had started to disrobe.
    The striptease had been artfully contrived; the tall creature who had removed every item of clothing, except for a bow tie, black boots, and a red G-string, was the master of ceremonies, and Jem had been unable to tell which sex he or she belonged to. Some of the other entertainers had been easier to classify as they had slowly revealed their bodies at the start of each act: one of the men, a short, curly-haired satyr, had had an organ of massively priapic proportions; two of the women, apparently identical twins, had proudly revealed quivering breasts the size of footballs supported by shelf-like corsets that narrowed to impossibly thin waists. Most of the entertainers had simply been