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By (user no longer on site) OP
23 weeks ago
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It was the evening before her official 21st. Muffin’s phone buzzed while she was painting her nails in her childhood bedroom at her parents’ house.
Claire:
Come round. Got your card and a little something early. Kids are at their nan’s. Door’s on the latch. Wear something pretty. xx
She told her mum she was popping out to see friends, slipped into a short black skater dress (no bra, tiny lace knickers, the ones Claire liked), and walked the three streets over. The cul-de-sac was quiet, porch lights glowing, everyone tucked up watching telly.
The Taylors’ house was dark except for a faint glow on the landing. Front door unlocked, just like Claire said. Muffin stepped inside, heels clicking on the tiles.
“Up here, sweetheart,” Claire called softly from the top of the stairs.
Muffin climbed. The master bedroom door was ajar, candlelight flickering inside. She pushed it open and froze.
Mark sat on the edge of their king-size bed in just suit trousers, shirt unbuttoned, glass of champagne in hand. Claire leaned against the dresser in a silk robe the colour of fresh cream, almost sheer. And on the far side of the room stood two men Muffin recognised instantly: Richard and James, Mark’s golf-club mates, both in their late forties, both smiling like cats who’d found the cream.
On the duvet lay a thick black satin blindfold and a silver gift bow.
Claire crossed the room, kissed Muffin softly on the lips, tasting of champagne and lipstick.
“Happy birthday, baby,” she whispered. “We thought twenty-one deserved something special.”
Muffin’s heart was hammering so loud she was sure they could all hear it. Mark stood, took her hand, led her to the centre of the room.
Richard and James moved closer. Claire slipped behind her, fingers finding the zip of the dress, drawing it down slowly. The fabric slid off her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
“Christ, look at her,” Richard muttered. James just exhaled, long and slow.
Claire fastened the blindfold gently over Muffin’s eyes. Everything went dark. Then hands (so many hands) were on her: stroking her arms, her waist, cupping her small breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until she whimpered.
They lifted her onto the bed like she weighed nothing. Silk sheets cool against her back. Someone’s mouth (Claire’s) closed over her left nipple, sucking slow and wet. Someone else (Mark) kissed down her stomach, hooked fingers into her knickers, peeled them off. A third mouth (Richard) found her right breast. James’s rough hands spread her thighs wide.
She lost track of who was where. Fingers, tongues, cocks, everywhere. She heard the clink of belts, the soft tear of foil (then Claire’s quiet laugh and Mark’s low “No need tonight, lads. She’s safe and it’s her birthday.”)
The first cock slid into her slow and bare (Mark, she could tell by the shape, the rhythm). He fucked her steady while Claire kissed her, swallowing every moan. Then he pulled out and someone else took his place (James, thicker, stretching her open). Richard fed himself into her mouth at the same time, salty on her tongue.
They rotated like they’d rehearsed it. One in her pussy, one in her mouth, hands pinning her wrists, someone’s fingers rubbing her clit in tight circles. Claire stayed close the whole time, whispering filthy praise in her ear, telling her how beautiful she looked stuffed full, how proud they were of their little girl turning twenty-one.
When they finally let her come it was with James deep inside her and Claire’s tongue on her clit. She screamed into the blindfold, whole body shaking, thighs clamping around whoever’s hips were between them.
They didn’t stop.
Richard took her next, flipping her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up so she was on her knees. Mark slid underneath so she could suck him while she was fucked from behind. Claire filmed on her phone, close-ups of cocks sliding in and out, of Muffin’s mascara running under the blindfold, of every fresh load painted across her back, her arse, her tits.
Hours blurred. At one point all four of them had her at once (Mark in her pussy, James in her mouth, Richard and Claire taking turns with her hands). Champagne got poured over her breasts and licked off slowly. Someone found the birthday tiara from the gift bag and set it crooked on her sweaty head while they bent her over the ottoman for another round.
Dawn was turning the curtains pink when they finally finished. Muffin was on her back again, blindfold gone, eyes glassy, body striped and glistening. The sheets were ruined. The tiara still sat lopsided in her tangled red hair.
Claire kissed her forehead, wiped her face gently with a warm flannel, then helped her into Claire’s own silk robe (soft, cool, too big).
Mark pressed a small velvet box into her hand.
“Open it tomorrow, love,” he said, voice hoarse. “On your actual birthday. With your parents.”
Inside was a delicate white-gold necklace with a tiny diamond M pendant. On the back, engraved so small only she would ever see: Property of C&M – 21 today.
Muffin walked home at 6 a.m., barefoot carrying her heels, robe clutched closed, cum still leaking down her thighs with every step. She slipped in through the back door, tiptoed upstairs, and fell into her childhood bed smelling of sex, champagne, and four different people.
When her mum knocked at 10 a.m. with a cup of tea and a “Happy birthday, darling,” Muffin just smiled, sore and glowing, and said she’d had the best night’s sleep in ages.
The necklace hasn’t come off since. |
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