Saucy Sketch Tuesday #28 (Patreon)

One night a year, the Venus Museum of Modern Love hosted a very expensive, very exclusive fundraiser. It took some patrons years of generous gifts and social maneuvering to secure an invitation — and even then, the glamorous dress code inevitably weeded out a few more patrons unprepared to drop the requisite cash.

The frenzied desperation of the country's elite for inclusion was fueled in part by the rumors of the event. Every year, models were hired for live performances, and what utterly titillating performances these were. Truly, there was nothing quite so masochistically enjoyable as browsing the gallery with one's date while a delectable nude youth was stretched out just feet away, clad in nothing but leather and chains and straining for release. The temptation was great to reach out a hand and help them along, but physical contact was strictly forbidden. And so these great socialites, having brown-nosed and bribed themselves to be in this exalted space, tortured themselves with their private fantasies, teetering on the brink of an orgasm they didn't quite dare pursue...yet.

The end of each event always ended the same: a few grandiloquent speeches from the Museum director and curators, accented by increasingly frequent and inconsequential toasts, followed by revoltingly obsequious acknowledgements of particularly generous patrons. Only after this concluded in its due time did attention finally turn to the most highly-anticipated fundraiser tradition: the art auction.

The models weren't technically sold, of course — they were, after all, temp hires only for the night — but the creative contraptions they were strapped to or suspended from were made for carnal exploration. Just how roughly could one fuck a model against those sturdy leather bindings? What new sounds and motions might be discovered, for the public enjoyment of all? At long last, there was the promise of satisfaction to the slow burn of arousal one had nursed the duration of the evening. For those who could afford it.

At that point in the program, the performance art took on a distinct tone as those with deeper purses stepped forward to claim their prizes. The live string quartet plied their bows a little faster as cocks and dildos emerged from expensive fabric. Tongues met nipples and lapped at juices, hands explored, fondled, squeezed. Unsteady breathing roughened into panting, and then into unadulterated moans. There was always some pride in being the first to make one's model orgasm, to smear their cum across the framework as a sort of victory paint. The models never came quietly either; they loved the ritual of it all. They came loudly, lustily, screaming for more... "FUCK, YES!" Quivering in their restraints, cheeks flushed, cocks dipping as their asses gaped.

Everyone, patron and model alike, went to sleep that night thoroughly and helplessly aroused. A year suddenly seemed like an impossibly long time to wait.