The House of Elyot

Blind Man’s Buff

Posted on: April 14, 2016

Here, in its entirety, is my Ultimate Decadence story, Blind Man’s Buff. Since the book is out of print, and I’ve got all my short story rights back from Xcite anyway, it might as well not go to waste. Enjoy…

Blind Mans Buff by Justine Elyot


In the room next door there is laughter and convivial chatter, the clinking of glasses.  If I strain my ears, I can catch unobtrusive jazz sounds from the loudspeakers, but I cannot make out individual voices or words.  The door must be a solid one.  I picture aged oak panels with looping grain and gold…or wrought iron?…handles.

‘Are you ready for your close-up, Miss Trollop?’  My lover’s voice buzzes in my ear and his hands caress my shoulders, but I know those caresses.  Their lightness deceives, and before I know it I am in a grip, in a bind, bound to do his will.

‘Yes, I think so.’  Ready.  If readiness means a constricted throat and a faintness in the head, I am certainly ready.

‘You look…’  A helpless intake of breath completes the sentence for him.  I smile, and the uplift of my cheekbones causes the frilled edge of my blindfold to tickle my skin.  ‘Thank you for this.’

‘I hope it will be a pleasure,’ I say with a rueful little laugh.

‘It will.’

Then the doors are opened – yes, concertina doors, I can now discern from the clacking and rolling noise they make, but that fades to insignificance against the human reaction to my entrance.  Gil nudges me forward, across a threshold that is far more than physical, and I hear gasps, nervous laughter, a smattering of applause.

‘Ladies and gentleman,’ says Gil in his courtroom voice.  ‘May I present to you this evening’s entertainment – Miss Venetia Valverde.’

Now the applause is hearty and there are appreciative mutterings.  How many are here?  How many men?  How many women?

‘You’ve outdone yourself, Gil,’ says one older-gentlemanly voice.  ‘She is enchanting.’

‘As you will see.’  Suddenly he takes his hands from my shoulders and snaps his fingers.  The jazz sounds silence immediately.  ‘Take a good look at her.’  His hand returns to me, a gentle but insistent pressure in the small of my back.  ‘Up straight, Venetia.  Chest out, shoulders back.  I hope she is to your taste.’

‘So what’s the entertainment?’ asks a younger voice, female.

‘I propose a favourite party game with a twist.  Blind Man’s Buff.  Venetia here is our sight-impaired subject.  She will try to get her hands on us as we move around the room.  But each time she catches somebody, rather than swap blindfolds, she will have to lose an item of clothing.’

There is chuckling, general approval.  ‘She doesn’t have that much to lose,’ objects a lady.  It is true.  I am wearing no more than a full slip in transparent lace, over a basque, thong and stockings.  High-heeled mules restrict the speed of my movements.  My quarries will elude me easily, if they want to.

Of course, they will not want to.  Especially after Gil’s next words.

‘No, she doesn’t, does she.  So once she is naked, those she catches may use her body in any way they wish.  Stopping short of penetrative sex.  For now.’

‘That’s inspired!’

‘Any way we wish?  Really?’

‘Any way at all?’

The queries come thick and fast until Gil does something to stop them – hold up a hand, maybe?  He is a master of the unambiguous gesture.

‘Yes, any way you wish.  With one exception.  I do not want any of you to kiss her.  Kissing rights are mine and mine alone.’

I exhale a breath of gratitude.  He understands my wishes on this score.  He understands how the fantasies work, and what would make them fail.  As if to underline his point, he cups my chin, tilts it upwards and kisses me, hard, tongue slipping through my glossy lips, for what seems like forever.

Once I am marked and his possession sealed, he slaps me on the bottom and pushes me out into the room.  ‘The game is afoot,’ he proclaims.

One of the mules almost tips me sideways, but I recover, placing a hand on the stinging site of his smack until the initial glow recedes.  Where are the people?  Their footfalls echo on the wooden floor, and the quality of the sound indicates that the room is of a large size.  Is it sparsely furnished, or am I likely to bump into all kinds of occasional tables?

I swipe, sensing a nearby presence, and my nails snag in a necklace, pearls I think.  A neigh of a female laugh, a hand on my wrist.

‘Mind those, girl – they were my grandmother’s.’  Her perfume is strong and rich, something like Opium, but not quite.  ‘Well, then…’  She begins to steer me towards something – a sofa – and sits me down on slippery cushions.  ‘Let’s lose these silly shoes, shall we?  You’ll wreck your bones, shoving them into those things.’

The homily is unexpected, but rather reassuring.  Once she has slipped the mule off my left foot, she cups it in her hand and begins to massage my instep.

‘Oh!  That’s lovely!’ I exclaim.  ‘Bliss.’  The sensation creeps up my calf, tickles the back of my knee, tingles up my thigh to my crotch.

‘I didn’t ask for your opinion!’ she says sharply, and I am humbled back into silence.  By the time she has finished squeezing and stroking my right foot, I am puddling with desire, worrying about the expensive chintz.  But then I am hauled back up and pushed onward with a laugh, to find my next victim.

He is male, wearing a rough tweedy jacket that smells of pipe smoke, and straight away he clamps hands beneath my armpits, then slides them slowly down the lacy sides, making a meal of each curve until he reaches the hem, which sits just on my stretchy stocking tops.

‘We can lose this, can’t we?’ he says.  His elder-statesman voice propels brandy breath into my nostrils.  Obediently I raise my arms, while he shimmies the slip up over my hips and chest, up into the air and then away.

‘Lovely arse,’ somebody comments, for now my oiled and powdered buttocks, bisected by a taut black string, are visible to the whole room.

‘Yes.’  Gil’s voice.  ‘Would you like to touch it?’

Calloused skin makes frictive contact with my smooth globes, brushing them, then squeezing the underside.  ‘There’s a nice little patch of pink here where your hand made contact,’ observes the mystery man, talking to Gil.  ‘I envy you, Markham – I suppose you get to spank this arse whenever the mood takes you.’

‘Indeed I do.  And the mood takes me rather frequently, as Venetia would attest.’

‘I’m not surprised.’  There is a final pinch to my bottom and I am set off again, speedier on my stockinged feet, flitting around sofas, beginning to draw a mental picture of the room behind my blindfold.

I am aware of the bodies before I reach them; there is warmth and scent heralding their physical presence.  If I do not like the smell, I try to elude them, but this one is peaches, lovely ripe delicate peaches.  Or nectarines.  When I catch her she laughs, low and mellifluous, and strokes my hair.  She is about my height, and her touch as she unhooks my basque is exquisite.

‘Oh, look, they are standing up for me!’ Warm merriment in her voice, bathing me.  Then she is pulling me back against her body – her dress is silk – and pinching at my nipples, demonstrating for the room.  ‘Look at these pretty things, everyone.’  She reaches down to unsnap my stockings, then removes them.  Her hair tickles my bottom and thighs and there is sweet breath on my skin.  Once the hosiery is removed, she drops a gentle kiss on the inside of one thigh, then stands back up and repeats the action on the back of my neck.  ‘Pretty things,’ she repeats, crooning it into my hair.

‘Put her down, Saskia,’ says Gil indulgently and, to the accompaniment of sighs, I am released once more, to pad about the room in no more than my thong.  Their voices are giving away their location now, for they have broken into conversation, and their conversation is about me – or rather my breasts, and my bottom, and the curve of my hips and the tone of my skin.

‘You’re a lucky man, Gil.’

‘She is built for pleasure.’

‘Made for fucking.’

‘The perfect little slut.’

I twist this way and that, in between the sound waves they produce, until eventually I trip over a shoe – a man’s shoe, perhaps a brogue – and stumble into him.

‘Oh, I have hit the jackpot!’ he proclaims.  ‘Let’s get these knickers off then.  Such as they are.’

His thumbs settle inside the elastic, resting there for a while, snug against my hipbones, then he begins to ease them down, very slowly, very deliberately.  He runs a finger down the string, releasing it from its captivity in my arse crack, then he chuckles – I knew he would – when my pubic hair is revealed.

‘That’s sweet,’ he says.  ‘A heart shape.  Look at this.’  He hurries to get the flimsy things off me so he can show my clipped, shaped mons to the world.  There is a rumble of laughter and some clapping.

‘There now, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Gil.  ‘Your gift is unwrapped.  It is now up to you to enjoy it.  Catch her and you may use her in any way you wish – short, as we have established, of penetrative sex.’  His voice is getting closer, he is almost beside me.  ‘Are you ready, Venetia?’  His hand brushes my cheek.  I nod.  ‘Then let the real game begin.’

Straightaway there are hands on me, hands of all kinds, all sizes, all textures, but all of them are demanding, all of them want to take me and use me.  They are in my hair, bunching it up and pulling at it; they are moulding themselves around my breasts; they are seeking and creeping into my crevices and holes.  I am yanked backwards on to somebody’s lap – male, wool trousers – and my thighs are parted to display the moist pink parts, the parts that are no longer private.  From either side of me, hands and then tongues alight on my tits, while between my legs something eager perches itself and begins to fan hot breaths on to my clit.

I feel myself devoured and ravished; I lie back to rest my head on the lap-man’s shoulder; his fingers knead at my pussy lips while another person’s tongue begins to stroke the clit that swells within.  My breasts are slick and chilly with the licking they are getting, my nipples beginning to sting from the constant attention.  I can feel the lap-man’s erection pressing itself urgently between my arse cheeks; he is jiggling a little, trying to ease it further in.  The person who is at my clit sticks fingers inside me, spearing and thrusting.

‘Can you hear that?  She’s so wet!’

‘Make her come.  I want to watch her come.’

‘Do it quickly, I want my turn.’

I cannot count the mouths, the fingers, the tongues; they merge into one giant organism, working towards the common goal of bringing me to public climax.  I begin to slip further into my darkness, a creature plugged and frigged and existing only for the purposes of sexual gratification, marked as property, yes, property, yes, that is what does it, and I come hard, on to an anonymous tongue and hand, my voice seeming enormous and alien as it leaves me.

I am soothed and petted and stroked and congratulated, but soon enough others want to take their place.  Dimly, from behind the screen of pure sensation, I manage to count six people, seven if you include Gil, but I soon become confused as to who is having me and how, in the blizzard of cocksucking and pussy eating and arse licking and nipple nipping.  I get spanked at some point, and at another my wrists are tied with curtain cord and I am made to crawl around the room and kiss feet.  I come twice more, bucking and howling, and trying to push away the onslaught of more tongues and more hands and more cocks and more cunts, finally brought to the point of exhaustion.

‘She is tired.  Lay her down on the sofa,’ directs Gil.

My sore, well-used body, smeared with mingled sweat and semen, enjoys the respite, sinking gratefully into the velvet cushions.

The guests break into a low hum of conversation once more, discussing the food and drink, their last and next meetings.  The chatter is lazy and enervated, their voices yawn.

I know that the hands lifting my head are Gil’s, as is the lap in which it is placed.  He is still fully-clothed, and I realise that I was right in my assumption that he had taken no part in the earlier proceedings.  I know his touch exactly, and those frenetic encounters, rich as they were, had lacked it.

‘Are you happy?’ he asks me.

‘Yes.  Did I do well?’

‘You did.’  Moistened fingertips run the length of my lips; I suck them into my mouth, using them as comforters.  ‘And you had exactly the effect I anticipated.’

He is right, for I can feel the iron ramrod of his erection crushing my ear against my head.

‘Looking at you now,’ he continues.  ‘Pawed and fondled by unknown hands and mouths, your belly tight with dried spunk, your orifices spread and stretched – it makes me want you more than ever.’

His words stir me out of my torpor; the ache between my legs transforms to a pulse of need.

‘Take me then.’  I form the words thickly, around his fingers.

He removes them.  ‘What was that?’

‘Take me then.’  My words ring into a suddenly quietened room.

‘Is that what you want, Venetia?  But it would be rude to leave our guests before the party has ended.’

‘Let them watch.’

‘Do they want to watch?’  The question is addressed to the room.  There is no need to answer; the sound of clearing throats accompanies a wave of air that I imagine to be them nodding as one.

Gil stands and helps me off the sofa, throwing the cushions to the floor for me to lie upon.

‘Spread your legs,’ he says.  ‘Show us what you have to offer.’  I can hear the sounds of disrobing, of unknotting ties, of zips and buttonholes.  Obediently, I open up, as wide as I can, holding my thighs to keep them out of view.

‘Lift your legs and hook your hands under your knees.  Keep the thighs wide.  That way we can see your anus too.  Did anybody touch you there, Venetia?’

‘Yes,’ I admit.


‘Fingers, tongues.’

‘You liked it.’

‘I liked it.’

‘Well, perhaps next time you can take a cock up there.  I’m not promising anything, though.  Let’s see how you get on.  Who fingered her?  Do you think she could take a cock up there?’

A man volunteers, ‘Yes, I think so.  She liked having three fingers up there.’

‘Good.  Right.’  I feel the swish of him, dropping down between my extended knees, then my shoulders are pinned down and swiftly, before I have fixed his position in my mind’s eye, he swarms up to the hilt.  Oh, the relief, the fullness, the rightness of it, as if I were born to sheathe his cock.

I feel the guests edge nearer and nearer while Gil sets to a brisk and efficient rhythm, keeping his moves tightly controlled.

‘You’re going to come one more time,’ he says jerkily.  ‘One more time.  While you’re having your pussy fucked in public.  One more time.’

He repeats the ‘one more time’ mantra until it becomes a reality and I writhe under his pitiless thrusts, giving my throaty finale to the gathered crowd.  He swoops down to my lips, kissing and kissing until I am bathed in his balm, locked down tight beneath his vibrating body, taking all the roaring heat from his pores and absorbing it into mine.

Later on, eyes unwrapped, I sit, leaking his juices on to a towel, drinking cocktails in the nude while I laugh and swap anecdotes with the guests.

Next time, I believe we will be playing sardines.

1 Response to "Blind Man’s Buff"

I love the last line! And the rest of it, of course. So mannered 🙂

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