The S Club - Chapter 3 – Pig Week Three: The Mixer

Friday night, 7:00 p.m. sharp. The clubhouse ballroom had been rearranged into a cocktail lounge straight out of some rich pervert’s fever dream. Low amber lighting, Sinatra on the speakers, crystal highballs clinking, and in the middle of it all, three brand-new Pigs on pink leashes.
Claire was the main attraction.
She had spent the afternoon preparing. I shaved her cunt myself in the shower, razor gliding over swollen lips while she trembled and dripped onto the tile. Then I locked the pink vinyl collar tight, clipped on the matching wrist and ankle cuffs, and made her crawl naked to the golf cart. By the time we arrived her knees were already pink from the driveway pebbles.
Inside, the other two Pigs were already in position: one sixty-two-year-old redhead with fake tits and a nervous smile, one petite Asian woman whose husband kept yanking her leash like he was proud of his new toy. Claire outclassed them both. Her heavy natural breasts swayed when she crawled, nipples dark and stiff, cunt lips visibly puffy and glistening under the lights. Every head turned.
Victor greeted us at the door wearing a midnight-blue blazer and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
“Pigs serve tonight,” he announced to the room. “Drinks on their backs, mouths for tips.”
Three low teak tables on wheels were rolled out. Each Pig was bent over one, wrists clipped to the far legs, ankles spread and locked to the near legs so their asses faced the room and their tits hung free. A leather tray was strapped around Claire’s waist like a shelf, resting just above the small of her back. Her tits became the perfect drink ledge.
Marlene poured the first round: three neat scotches balanced on Claire’s bare back, the cold glass making her flinch and moan. The ice clinked every time she breathed.
The rule was simple: guests took their drink however they wanted. Most used it as an excuse to grope.
First taker was Greg, the tall real-estate husband who’d baited me at the welcome party. He stepped up behind Claire, ran one palm over the curve of her ass, then reached under and pinched her left nipple hard enough to make her gasp. The glasses wobbled. A drop of scotch slid down her spine and disappeared between her cheeks.
“Thank you, Pig,” he said, and took his drink.
Next came a woman I recognized from water aerobics, seventy if she was a day, diamonds flashing. She didn’t take a glass. Instead she slid two manicured fingers straight into Claire’s cunt, pumped slowly, pulled them out glistening, and painted Claire’s own lips with her juices.
“Open,” the woman ordered.
Claire opened. The fingers went in. Claire sucked them clean while the woman took her martini with the other hand.
For ninety minutes Claire stayed bent over that table, back arched, tits used as coasters, cunt and ass fondled by half the community. Every time someone made her moan the glasses rattled. Every time someone twisted a nipple or slapped her clit the scotch sloshed. By 8:30 her back was streaked with spilled liquor and fingerprints, her nipples purple, her thighs trembling.
I stood ten feet away, drink untouched, cock so hard it hurt.
At 10:00 p.m. Victor clapped once for attention.
“Time for Pig’s treat.”
The tables were wheeled away. Claire’s wrists and ankles were unclipped, but she stayed on all fours, shaking, drool shining on her chin from the last guest who’d used her mouth as an ashtray.
Victor led all three Pigs to the grand piano at the far end of the room. The lid was already open, strings gleaming. He positioned Claire facing the keyboard, bent her forward so her tits crushed against the cold lacquer, then clipped her collar to a ring bolted under the soundboard. Her face was inches from the keys, ass high in the air toward the crowd.
“Ten volunteers,” Victor called.
Ten men stepped forward immediately. Cocks were already out, stroking slow. Victor lined them up in a perfect semicircle around Claire’s head.
“Pigs love cream,” he said conversationally. “Give her a facial worthy of the keys she’s kissing.”
They didn’t need encouragement.
The first rope hit her left cheek and slid toward her ear. The second painted her forehead and dripped into her hairline. By the fifth shot her eyes were glued shut under a thick white mask. The eighth man aimed for her open mouth and made her gargle it before swallowing. The tenth pulled back at the last second and striped her tongue like a candy cane.
When the last drop landed Victor unclipped her collar and stepped back.
“Pig may come now. But only by humping the piano leg like the desperate animal she is. No hands. No mercy. If she fails, we start the facial again.”
Claire whimpered, crawled forward on shaking arms, and straddled the thick carved leg of the Steinway. The wood was cool against her burning cunt. She ground down immediately, clit dragging over the carved roses, smearing the varnish with the loads already leaking from her holes.
The room went dead quiet except for the wet sounds of her hips and her broken breathing.
She lasted forty-five seconds.
Her scream was raw, animal, echoing off the vaulted ceiling as she came harder than I’d ever seen. Her entire body convulsed, thighs clamping the piano leg like a lover, a violent gush of squirt arcing out behind her and splashing the sheet music on the rack. The force of it actually pushed the heavy grand an inch across the floor with a shriek of wood on marble.
She kept grinding through the aftershocks, smearing cum and girl-cum across the leg until Victor finally yanked her off by the collar.
He turned her cum-drenched face to the room.
“Who still thinks this Pig isn’t ready for Skank?”
Not a single hand went up.
Claire sagged to her knees, blind under the mask, lips parted, tongue still out like she was waiting for the next load.
I walked over, unzipped, and fed her my cock without a word. She sucked greedily, gratefully, choking on me while the entire room watched her swallow her husband’s cum off a face painted by ten strangers.
When I finished I tucked myself away, clipped the leash back on, and led my dripping, ruined Pig out through the crowd.
Halfway to the door she looked up at me through the glaze, eyes shining with tears and gratitude, and whispered the first full sentence she’d been allowed all night:
“Thank you for letting them do that to me, sir.”
I tugged the leash once, hard, and felt her cunt clench visibly at the correction.
Outside, the night air was cool on her cum-soaked skin. I made her crawl the entire way to the golf cart on the hot pavement, tits dragging, knees bleeding.
She came again just from the humiliation before we reached the driveway.
Week three down.
Thirteen more to go until Whore.
And I was already counting the minutes.

dam can't wait for the next installment.

Oh Man that is so HOT ! I dang sure wish I could bring my Hot Pussy Redhead to those get togethers ! I would Love Watching her being used by other Men !

Great story, but can't believe it's real. Not here in the US - maybe in Asia, South America. Nonetheless, I wish it were possible. Would love to be a member of the S club. btw- what does the 'S' stand for since pig doesn't fit?

Hope this is fiction, anyone that would a treat a woman like this let alone his wife is a pos

Pretty wild. Only parts I could do without is making her knees bleed not into hurting anyone and not sure what using her mouth as an ashtray means.
That being said the rest is hot.

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