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The Money Box

This is a fantasy I have used with partners in the past, when they have expressed a liking for the idea of being used or for servicing someone. It has always been separate from, and in contrast to, their non-sexual lives, for they have all been independent and quick to rail against any suggestion they are subordinate to anyone. I think it is this contrast that gives a fantasy like this extra intensity, because it introduces the element of wrongness and taboo. I finally decided to write this one down for posterity, so enjoy.


You have three handlers. You have never been told their names, and they do not matter. One drives, another sits in the front with him and the third remains in the back of the van, watching you. You do not know where you are going, but then, you never do. It is a long drive, longer than usual. This change from the routine broken into you causes your stomach to tense as you are aware of night falling outside the windowless van.

Finally, the van comes to a stop and you are led out of the back. You see you have been brought to a huge country house on a hill, surrounded by manicured grounds. Dance music pounds from somewhere in the building and most of the lights in its many rooms are on. You recognise expensive car makes among the dozens parked on the gravel drive in front of the house.

Your handlers walk you to the front door. You are dressed in a simple black dress, almost a placeholder for real clothes, plain and unadorned as befits your station. The door is opened for your handlers to reveal a grand and sophisticated party inside. Scores of guests, all handsome, beautiful, wealth, and fashionable, are circulating with glasses of champagne. Music comes from everywhere, mingling with a constant rumble of conversation.

You are led through the house, keeping your head down against the glare of luxury and society around you. Past the entrance areas is a ballroom that is being used as a dancefloor. A DJ plays dance music for the gorgeous and stylish crowd.

At one end of the dancefloor, a pole has been installed that runs from floor to ceiling. You assume that you are going to be told to dance there, like a stripper in a club. But then one of your handlers fixes a leather collar around your neck, attached to a long leather strap. He marches you to the pole and another ties the other end of the strap to it. You have about two metres of freedom around the pole. The second handler puts a cushion on the floor and pushes you down to kneel on it, while the third places a small wooden box and a clear plastic bottle on the floor next to you.

The box has a slot in the top, for money.

The handlers then leave you kneeling by the pole, as the party continues around you. No one pays you any attention. To these people you are a fixture, an item of furniture. A labour-saving device.

You kneel, neither speaking nor spoken to, as the music continues pounding and the party revolves around the ballroom, ignoring you. Presently, a man with short blond hair and beard, wearing a minimalist designer suit, walks up to you. He takes a few notes from his wallet and pushes them into the slot on the box. Then he unzips his fly and takes his cock in his hand. He is already semi-erect. He stares down at you stroking himself. You avert your eyes from his as he gets himself fully hard. He grabs a handful of your hair and pulls your head back, and for a moment your eyes meet his. He is looking down at you dispassionately.

He slides his cock into your mouth. He smells cleanly of cologne. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, pulling back so your lips are sucking on his tip, then pushing in to the back of your throat. His cock is of a good size but you make yourself take his whole length. He speeds up and you know to increase the pressure on his sensitive flesh, sucking him in and letting the friction play up and down his shaft as he fucks your mouth.

The familiar, wet warmth blossoms between your legs. In the back of your mind, you are trying to tell yourself that this is wrong, and that you shout spit him out and refuse him. But this is your place here, this is your role. He put the money in the box, and you exist for his pleasure.

His hand tightens in your hair. Scintillating pain flashes as he yanks at it. He grunts as he uses your mouth, bending over and twining the fingers of his other hand in your hair as his motions become faster and more insistent. You can sense his whole body tensing up and his breath quickens.

With a dozen fast thrusts, he reaches orgasm. He comes in your mouth, a sudden hot flood that you force yourself to swallow down. He keeps going as his come pulses out of him and you swallow again, your throat contracting in protest. His climax finishes and for a moment he stands there with your face clamped to him, his cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his pleasure. Then he pulls out of your mouth and a string of come dribbles down your chin. He sides his cock back into your mouth to clean himself off, and you lick and suck at him obediently. Then he pulls out zips up, and walks away.

You wipe his come off your chin with the back of your hand. You pat your hair back down, knowing you must look presentable. You swallow again, but you can still taste him.

The party continues. Men and women laugh and joke, introduce one another or embrace as old friends. No one glances your way until a woman with a champagne flute in her hand walks towards you. She has severely cropped dark hair, the better to show off the cut-glass features of her face, taut and finely-sculpted. She wears a shimmering emerald green knee-length dress, and her deft makeup creates impactful shadows around her eyes. Her lips are full and painted dark. Her figure is long and willowy.

She puts a folded-up note in the top of the box. You can’t tell if it is a fifty, twenty or ten. Perhaps you are only worth five. She puts her glass carefully on the ground beside the box and puts a hand on your shoulder, pushing you backwards.

Obediently, knowing your purpose, you slide your legs out in front of you, move the cushion to one side, and lie down on your back. The woman straddles you, facing in the direction of your head. She slides the hem of her skirt up her thighs. She is not wearing any underwear and her cunt is shaven and pink.

She squats over you, lowering herself onto your face. Your lips touch the folds of her cunt. Her smell is warm and slightly spiced, for she is already excited and wet. Instinctively your lips open and envelop her soft flesh, kissing her like a lover, probing her slit with your tongue. She lets a little more of her weight settle on your face and you can feel the tight, hard nub of her clitoris. She grinds against you and you suck on her sex, feeling her clit swell and harden against your mouth.

Small, private sounds issue from her throat as she rocks back and forth on you. You see her put her head back, her lips parted.

You are aware of a second presence beside you. Someone bends to put more money in the box. The stranger’s hands pull your skirt up and slide your plain white knickers down. The same hands take your ankles and spread your legs, then one grips your thigh as the other guides the tip of a hard, hot cock against your cunt lips.

As the woman continues to squat on your face, the second stranger, the man, penetrates you. You cannot help but gasp. Though you are very wet by now, the unexpected entry hits the primitive part of your brain as a violation and you tense up around him. His other hand grabs a hip and he pushes into you, thrusting deep enough for you to buck under the woman riding your face. Her weight keeps you pinned down in place and the man leans over you, putting his weight on you to keep you in place as he thrusts into you again.

Waves of hot, insistent pleasure pulse out from between your thighs. With the woman’s cunt against your face and the man pounding into you faster and faster, you are immersed in sex, every nerve ending tingling in unison with the force of your taking. You cannot hear the music any more, only the throbbing of your own heartbeat from your eardrums down to your groin. The man’s cock angles up and thrusts into the soft, yielding flesh at the front wall of your cunt, and you let out a muffled, involuntary moan. The woman feels it and shudders, crying out, grabbing the back of your head and forcing your face up into her.

Her orgasm hits first. She gasps and moans in unguarded abandon now. She lets out a long, shuddering breath and you can feel the warm flood of her juices in your mouth. Almost as if she has given you permission, you can feel your own need growing, a fire that demands to be stoked. The women swivels off your face and leans unsteadily on the pole. She does not look at the man fucking you - he has dark hair and stubble, and wears a waistcoat and pinstriped shirt. You doubt they know each other.

The man leans over you, putting his weight on you. The feeling of being pinned down, smothered beneath him is something your body craves. He keeps fucking you, changing angles and speeds, keeping waves of pleasure flowing through you as if you are an instrument he is playing.

Another man walks across from the dance floor, this one broad-chested and shaven-headed. The first pulls out and grips your shoulder, turning you over. You are on your hands and knees now with your arse and cunt fully exposed. The first man kneels in front of you while the bigger man stuffs some money into the money box and picks up the plastic bottle. He pours a dribble of lube onto his fingers and presses a fingertip against your arsehole as the first man enters your mouth.

You can taste yourself on him. You are slightly salty, and strongly redolent of woman. You are soaking wet and your juices cover his cock. The other man’s finger enters you and the sense of the most intimate violation is a combination of pain and offence, and intense, wanton lust to be taken every way there is.

Your body should reject this outrage, but it has betrayed you. It wants to be fucked. It wants to be used. And your mind falters against the assault of your senses. By the time the big man’s cock penetrates your arsehole, you are hungry for him. Your body eagerly devours him. A fleshy hand grips each buttock and he pounds into you as the first man does the same to your mouth. Without consciously willing it, all three of you enter into a rhythm, their cocks pistoning in and out of you, contracting and expanding you without pause or mercy.

The man behind you pulls out o your arsehole and enters your cunt. The feeling of being filled in a suddenly different way is a combination of shock, relief, and overwhelming pleasure. You clench and contract around him, matching a rhythm you could not break if you wanted to.

There is nothing now in the world but the sense of being filled entirely, used and ravished, immersed in the raw, sweating exultation of sex. You are drowning in an ocean of sex, smothered under the weight of it.

Your body will not be denied any longer, and your mind does not want to. Your body clenches around the two men as the crashing wave of your orgasm shudders through you. You are crying out now, your voice muffled by the cock fucking your mouth. Your body thrashes around pinned in place by the two cocks, as you ride out the storm of your orgasm.

The big man pulls out again and thrusts back into your arsehole. He grunts rapidly as he comes in your arse. He slams against you as you pulse around him. The first man pulls out of your mouth, grabs your hair and strokes himself to climax in front of you. He comes on your face, thick ropes of it across your cheeks and mouth, spattering onto the polished floorboards of the ballroom. You gasp as if you have been drowning, as the final spurts of come run down your chin.

The two men draw long, tired breaths. Without speaking to you or to each other - again, you doubt they have ever met before - they pull their trousers up and leave you there. Come cools on your face and runs down the inside of your thighs. You can feel the woman’s juices still smeared across your cheeks. You pull yourself back up to kneeling, adjusting your rumpled dress and hair as best you can. But, shaking and sheened with sweat, you know what you look like. Fully-fucked in all your holes, used hard.

You are aware again of the music and the partygoers. They smile and talk, circulate and glad-hand. None of them have spoken to you. They have barely glanced at you. A champagne bottle or plate of hors d’oeuvres has more humanity to them.

You should hate it. You should abhor the violations visited upon you. But your body is speaking louder than your mind. Just the idea of their bodies beneath their designer clothes, of the cocks and cunts barely beneath the surface, makes the moistness spread between your legs again.

Your body remains leashed to the pole, with the money box sitting beside you. As the music plays on, you are intensely aware that both the box and your body still have plenty of space to be filled.


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