The Club Chapter 3
Pearls of laughter rang out from the dining area, where the Feather Clique were enjoying late afternoon tea. Each of the ladies was a long term Club member, their set having been some of the major contributors to the Club's initial investments. As such, even among the near-dictatorial levels of luxury Club membership afforded, the Feather Clique – who just referred to themselves as the Feathers – were royalty among court.
They were known as the Feather Clique, or more accurately, referred to in hushed tones by assistants in their dormitories at night, for a variety of reasons. Most obviously, for their affectation of wearing sheer, silky, feathery and fluffy clothing which was in all practical terms near useless as clothing. Indeed, if not for the feathers which donned their scantily dimensioned attire, they would be entirely transparent. Such tiny fragments of clothing did practically nothing to veil their utterly voluptuous forms. Indeed, they took great joy in the feeling of being more naked than nudity when wearing such scandalous, thin, velvety smooth and glossy garb.
It had a similar effect to the pouch panties of the male assistants in that respect, serving to force their cocks to protrude out due to their tight and deliberate design, doing nothing to provide even a modicum of dignity, and indeed, served only to grind down and eradicate any shred of pride which remained by forcing them into a constantly semi-aroused state as the delicate materials eternally tickled at their sensitive spots, feeling almost like a slick tongue or teasing fingertip to the maddeningly over-aroused employees.
Each of the Feathers took time to enjoy this aspect of the males serving them in particular, their hands delicately tracing the contours of the silken-cocooned cocks with painted nails and soft fingertips, which stood proudly and unwittingly for torturous attention. No doubt their owners wished against all hope that their cocks would listen to them as they internally screamed and pleaded with them to soften, and not the temptations of the sultry temptresses seated around. they held trays aloft with both hands affixed to them in bondage mittens, utterly helpless to protect their poor suffering members. Not that they would have been able to regardless, nor wished to, as even the first hint of even a thought of resistance would have undoubtedly resulted in the far more involved attentions of all of the ladies present, a fate which each of the males shakily yet obediently holding trays aloft was hoping was not to be theirs.
Another reason for their name, of course, was their love of the teasing touch, like that of a feather. Both figuratively and literally, the teasing, ticklish touch of a finger or a feather was something each of the ladies shared a deep seated passion for. Indeed, as the boys were casually and yet so effortlessly molested in their helpless states, that passion was making itself very well known, as those who were not laughing in mocking and haughty conversation – the topic of which had as always strayed back to the utterly vulgar and sexual precisely to elicit the reaction from the assistants they were getting – were quite blatantly masturbating themselves as they either watched or participated in the abuse.
The sheer frustration they could evoke from their decades of experience with cock-teasing was truly masterful. They delighted, indeed they were extremely aroused, by the sight of the internal war raging within each of the boys as they fought to keep their tray upright, each suspecting that the first to fail to hold up their tray, or worse, to cum, would be their new victim.
As knees shook and buckled, the Feathers delighted in competing to see who could provoke the most response from their four male charges. They would beckon the males to each other, taking turns, with a single finger instructing them to turn and present their cocks for the lascivious attentions of their cruel teases. Through gritted teeth, they would each obediently turn from one woman to the other, trying to ignore the way their toes played up the back of the males' calves, or fingers ran up and down their thighs, curling around behind to play with their rears... although of course there was no way they could possibly ignore the excruciating games being played on their poor dicks. Usually, when one was toying with a boy, the other would just enjoy the show, fingers delving greedily into their sodden clefts, wet and pudgy vaginal lips echoing moist sounds throughout the room as tittering conversation gave way to the steady crescendo of oncoming female orgasms. They delighted in being able to so freely and unashamedly play with themselves even as their poor assistants suffered in agonizing indecision, between both the desperate desire to, and to not, splurt the thick loads of cum which boiled away within their balls. Unbeknownst to the boys, the ladies had decided in advance that they would compete to make a boy cum, with some as-of-yet-undecided fate awaiting whoever proved most susceptible to their wiles.
Biting their lips, each boy was trying so very hard not to move, even though they inevitably wound up rocking up onto the balls of their feet, subconsciously chasing the desire which seemed to float just out of reach, instead finding only increased and more eager teasing at these obvious signs of how close they were getting. Shifting their weight from one foot to the other, each so desperately would have loved nothing more than to thrust into those ladies hands, to fuck their fingers until they blew their minds out with the churning load of cum bubbling away, so close to tipping over the edge. However, again and again, even as they kept failing their own promise to themselves by humping the air and chasing the teasing touches, the boys promised themselves they would not cum.
Each of the ladies was equally determined to be the one to drive them over the edge, however. They delighted in seeing which would weep more, a boys tears or his cock, and they delighted in ever so delicately tracing a finger in circles under their heads, collecting the dripping clear honeyed nectar of their pre-cum, only to overly-exaggeratedly loll out their tongues, sucking their fingertips into their mouths before lavishing upon them the very attention each boy would have sold their souls to have at that moment. Whenever they did this the boys' mouths would gape open, leaning closer unwittingly as they watched in rapt attention at the oral display, even as their cocks were being teased by the other lady within reach.
The feathers took it as a point of pride to see how little stimulation they could use to make a boy cum. Indeed, they constantly competed to get a boy as close to the edge as they could, and hold them there as long as possible, before tipping him over the edge, like a flicked pebble starting a landslide. Staring into the eyes of a boy as the battle to disobey rages within them, only to finally accept how truly helpless they were when in the arms of their female betters, was something the Feathers truly loved more than anything else.
To this end one of the ladies had, at last, decided to take things to the next level. Grace, the raven haired minx, had begun to trace her hands up and down her own breasts, tracing along the lining of her totally ineffectual lingerie, outlining the swell of her breasts for the sake of the young man before her. He was so close to cumming now that both she and he knew it was just a matter of time. She had him right where she wanted him. But she wanted to take him right to the edge with just her breasts alone. Deftly, slowly, she jiggled them back and forth, her huge mammaries like a Newton's cradle, one would squish into the other in physics defying ways, knocking the other to slowly shift to the side, only before it swelled back like the tide, to bump back into its neighbour, and repeat the cycle. Her neighbour, Deirdre, recognizing Grace's plan, had two fingers rocking across her clit as they plunged into the wet, gasping cavern between her now-clenched thighs.
Louise, one of The Club's founding members, was however a truly masterful masturbatrix. Her piercing blue eyes betrayed her true cold and calculating nature, as she took over from Robyn, who had been coaxing her boy's balls with just the tips of her nails, like someone tickling under the chin of a kitten. While undoubtedly effective at driving the boy to the brink of insanity, Louise had concluded it was time to finish things. The boy was going to cum whether he wanted to or not. He would have no choice. There was no resisting Louise when she decided it was time for a boy to cum. It was simply a biological certainty.
She stared directly into the eyes of the boy who whimpered and pleaded under his breath, although even he was probably unsure whether it was for mercy or release. Either way, Louise had made the choice for him. She closed her fingertips around his cock as if holding a doorknob, five points of contact ever so gently closing in like a velvety vice. With that, she slowly dragged those fingertips from the base of his cock to the head, just below the crown, and twisted her hand. This quickly proved to be far more than the poor desperate boy could handle, as he wailed in genuine dismay, tears flowing unbidden in his desperate need to cum. Her fingertips lazily grazed around his oh-so-sensitive skin, her thumb making sure to pay extra special attention to the spot just below the head, before she... let go.
The boy blinked, looked down between the tray and his chest, and saw her hand floating just out of reach, the fingertips still splayed open, like a perfect pocked waiting for his cock. Mumbling jibberish, his hips jerked forwards, instinctually searching for that sensation despite how torturous it had been. She simply waited, then reached down and collected his flowing pre-cum, and repeated the whole torturous process all over again, using the generous drippings to lubricate the process even more. Throwing his head from side to side, the boy shouted incoherently, simply unable to handle the overwhelming stimulation.
Iris and Blanche, two red-headed ginger sisters who had been with the Club for longer than even most of the Feathers, looked at each other with determination. They grinned, an unspoken understanding between them as the pair took a moment to grope one another, lips locked in a passionate kiss which drove the poor boy hovering inches away between the twos' legs wild. Lips parting in a sopping smack, they leaned closer to the boy, and each sister reached between the other's legs to jill their sibling's snatch. Soon each was groaning, exaggerating their arousal although it was hardly needed given how good each had become over the decades at fingering the other to monumental climax, and used their free hands to suggestively wank the air, an open fingered circle forming with their pinkies out, as if still drinking the tea which had long since sat untouched and was growing cold. They masturbated the air just in front of their mouths, lips pursing and tongues flicking out, each coming within the barest distance of touching their boy's cock. This unabashed lewd display had the boy shuddering with need, never having in his life, even here in his time as an employee-cum-captive of the Club, seen such an erotic and inviting sight.
However it was Dorothy, the Club's premiere tickle torture expert, taking over for Mildred, who had decided to put the Feather Clique's name and attire to it's true intended use. For the final reason they were known as the Feather Clique was their love of feathers, and the utter suffering that something so light and flimsy could induce upon a helpless victim. Drawing two ostentatious and truly lavish faux-ostrich feathers from her hair, she began to dip one into her cleavage, mimicking the act of a cock delving into her swelling breasts, before slowly tracing the other along the underside of the poor, helpless, desperate, seeping cock which lay within her sights. She used her leg to move the boy closer, wrapping it around and bringing the other up, planting it firmly between his cheeks. As the boy bit his lip, skin turning pale with sheer effort to stay stoic, she began to gently nudge him forwards, thrusting his cock forth, every time she plunged the feather between her breasts, as the other feather traced back and forth beneath his now slowly thrusting cock.
The boys each in their own time found that, no matter how hard they tried, there was no way to resist the urge to cum when these women decided it was going to happen. One by one, the boys' wills broke, and with an audible crack their prides were broken wide as they humped the air before them helplessly, driving their cocks into the very traps the ladies had laid for them. Their pouch panties were soon either forced or torn free, releasing the cocks from their silken prisons, and soon sentencing them to a far worse and lecherous fate.
Grace's jiggling breasts, so close and inviting, at last felt the boy's cock make contact. Having pushed him over the edge into disobedience, she now pushed him over the true edge into ejaculation. She brought her breasts together, squeezing them together into a delightful sweaty cleft into which the boy could thrust, as her hands dove between her legs, frigging herself to a screaming orgasm at having crushed the boy's spirit.
Louise's teasing fingers clasped around the boy's cock as he at last gave in, jutting his cock forward into her retreating fingers, now making a soaking hand-pussy for him to thrust into, and he nearly doubled over with his insane desire to rut at all costs. She had no trouble keeping the slight boy aloft with just one hand, even as he did his very best to throw every ounce of his body weight into the endeavour.
Iris and Blanche, the ginger sisters, watched and squealed with delight as the boy's cock sunk home into their inviting lips, face-fucking the curvaceous sister with abandon as her sibling suckled and licked his tender balls.
Dorothy's feathers coaxed the boy closer and closer, the connection between the feather on his cock and the other between her breasts hypnotising him. At last he felt himself make contact with her breasts, shuddering in need at a satisfying touch at last, only for her to press her breasts around his cock and leave him gurgling. Then her feathers truly went to work, tickling his head mercilessly each time it poked out of her breasts, forcing it back down to retreat from the over-stimulation, only for his needy brain to force him to thrust it back up, back into the Feather's waiting feathers.
As was so usually the case, when they finally ejaculated, no one had been paying very close attention to any of the cocks not immediately in front of them. As mouths, hands and breasts, thighs and stomachs were soon coated in rope after rope of hot, white cum, they simply delighted in the power they felt in such total control and domination of a boy's cock. Controlling his sexuality, his very libido, down to the deepest level, was a drug to them which they could not get enough of. Indeed, it was that very desire that had led to the inception of the Club to begin with.
As each boy collapsed into the waiting arms and breasts of the ladies around, shaking, twitching and heaving with the exhaustion of their extended cock torture and mind-melting orgasms, the ladies set about delicately petting them, like obedient kittens at a tea party, which was what they had more or less been reduced to. The Feathers politely debated the merits of each technique, and gamingly argued as to who had pushed theirs over the edge first. Not that it mattered. They would just arbitrarily pick one of the boys, or maybe more than one, for whatever cruel fate they invented later on. Indeed, they agreed that surely they could find room for all four of them in whatever it would be, after all, since no one had been keeping score, it had to have been a draw.
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