Victoria's erotic dance
The stranger's seed cools on my inner thighs as I stumble back toward the house, grass stains green against my rumpled dress. Vicki waits on the terrace, arms folded, that knowing smirk carved into her lips.
"Did you enjoy your swing?"
She doesn't wait for an answer. Her hand closes around my wrist, tugging me through the French doors into the dim parlour I've come to associate with revelation. The curtains are already drawn tight against the last amber light of evening.
She guides me to the settee and presses a leather-bound folio into my trembling hands.
"Moreau," she says. "Tattooed Salome."
The page falls open.
A woman stands mid-dance, her body a canvas of ink—serpents coiling around her ribs, eyes staring from her belly, her flesh transformed into something sacred and profane.
My throat tightens.
"She marked herself to become eternal," Vicki murmurs, her breath warm against my ear.
"Every line a prayer. Every image a door."
I trace the eyes on Salome's belly with one finger. They seem to watch me.
"You want that," Vicki says. Not a question.
My silence answers for me.
She produces a small case from beneath the settee—needles, ink pots, a small motorized pen that hums when she switches it on.
"Lie back."
I should refuse. I should ask questions. Instead, I stretch out on the velvet cushions, hiking my ruined dress above my navel.
The air kisses my damp skin.
Vicki straddles the bench beside me, her day gown pooling dark around her knees.
"The eyes," she says, dipping the needle.
"They'll see everything you've done. Everything you'll do."
The first touch bites—sharp, electric. I hiss through my teeth.
She works with steady precision, the buzzing filling the room, and slowly a pair of eyes blooms on my lower belly, just above the mound of my cunt.
Ink sinks into flesh. Pain threads through pleasure, and I watch the design emerge: two almond shapes, dark-lashed, unblinking.
"There," Vicki breathes.
I stare down at the eyes on my body. They stare back.
The room tilts.
The parlour dissolves. Velvet becomes stone, gaslight becomes torches guttering in bronze sconces.
I'm standing—no, swaying—my bare feet on patterned marble, sheer silk draped across my shoulders, nothing beneath. The eyes on my belly pulse with heat, fresh and stinging, and before me stretches an ancient court: low couches, goblets of wine, faces half-shadowed.
I am Salome.
The dance moves through me like possession. My hips roll, my arms snake upward, the silk slipping from one shoulder. The court watches—dozens of eyes, hungry, appraising—but three men lean forward from the rest.
They rise.
The first is massive, shoulders like cedar beams, a thick black beard covering his jaw. The second is leaner, scarred, his smile sharp as broken marble. The third is youngest, golden-skinned, with hands that flex like he's already gripping flesh.
They circle me.
The dance slows.
The big one steps close, his palm flattening against the small of my back, pulling me against his chest. His mouth finds my throat—teeth grazing, tongue tasting salt. The scarred one moves behind me, his huge hands sliding down my arms, pinning them behind my back. Rope appears—coarse hemp that bites into my wrists as he binds them tight.
"Beautiful," the golden one whispers, kneeling before me.
His lips brush the fresh eyes on my belly, and I gasp at the sting.
"She's marked for us."
The big one yanks the silk away. The air rushes over my bare breasts, my stomach, my soaked quim. I'm entirely exposed, bound and trembling between them.
The scarred one's hand cracks across my arse.
"Dance for us, Salome."
I writhe—there's nothing else I can do.
My hips grind against the big one's thigh, feeling the hard length of him through his linen. The golden one's mouth trails lower, his tongue dipping into my navel, then lower still. He spreads me open with his thumbs and buries his face between my thighs.
"Ahh—fuck—" I sob.
His tongue lashes my exposed bead, wet and relentless. The big one pinches my nipples, twisting until pain and pleasure fuse into one white-hot wire. The scarred one watches, stroking himself through his trousers, his mouth curled.
They lower me onto the couch. Ropes snake around my ankles, spreading me wide, tying me open.
I'm splayed—cunt dripping, arse lifted, mouth gasping.
The big one frees his cock first. Thick, veined, jutting from a nest of dark hair. He kneels between my tied-open thighs and pushes inside me with one quick thrust.
"Uhhhn—god—"
My back arches off the cushions. He stretches me wide, filling me completely, his hips slamming against my bound legs. Each thrust grinds against my swollen clit.
The scarred one moves to my head. He grips my hair, tilts my face back, and shoves his cock past my lips.
"Suck," he commands.
I choke, spit streaming down my chin, my throat convulsing around him. He fucks my mouth and my skull, in deep, ruthless strokes.
The golden one appears at my side, his fingers slick with oil. He circles my arsehole—pressing, probing—then pushes one finger inside.
I scream around the cock in my throat. The fullness is unbearable.
The big one pounds my cunt, the scarred one uses my face, and the golden one works a second finger into my tightest hole, stretching me open.
"Oof! Aahh! Aahh!"
"Now," the golden one says.
They shift me—lifting, rearranging.
The big one lies back, pulling me on top of him, his cock sliding back into my soaked pussy. The golden one moves behind, his oiled cock pressing against my arse. The scarred one stays at my head.
"Take it," the golden one growls, and pushes inside.
My body seizes.
Two cocks filling me—fanny and my starfish, stretched impossibly, the thin wall between them pulsing with every thrust.
I'm sobbing, drooling, beyond words.
The scarred one shoves back into my mouth.
Three holes. Three cocks. I'm impaled. THe flesh trinity.
They find a rhythm—pounding into me from every direction, using me like a vessel, like a temple for their worship. The eyes on my belly seem to watch it all, witnessing my complete surrender.
My bound hands claw at nothing.
My muffled screams vibrate around the cock in my throat.
"Fill her," someone growls.
They slam home—one, two, three—and come.
A wild swirl of seed floods my cunt, my arse, spurts down my throat.
I swallow convulsively, choking, my own orgasm ripping through me like a wildfire.
My holes pulsate around them, milking every drop, my body shaking apart.
I collapse.
The marble returns to velvet.
The torches become gaslight.
The ancient court dissolves into Vicki's parlour.
I'm lying on the settee, dress bunched around my waist, my body trembling.
The flesh eyes on my belly throb gently—ink and pattern and a connection to a human primal older.
Vicki watches from her chair, legs crossed, that knowing smirk firmly in place.
"Welcome back, Salome."