The evening had wrapped up with a lavish and elegant dinner at the splendid Maison Dupont, an event masterfully orchestrated by my friend Mistress, bringing together seven of us—each a Mistress, each breathtakingly beautiful—in a display of style and abundance. The dining room glowed with crystal and candlelight, the table still strewn with the remnants of a sumptuous feast: fine porcelain plates streaked with truffle sauce, half-empty glasses catching the flickering light, and silver trays now bare, mute witnesses to a night of indulgence. We wore elegant dresses that clung to us like a second skin: mine was a deep bordeaux, a rich, velvety hue that flowed over my body like a shadowed promise; another shimmered in a long light blue gown, ethereal and captivating; another blazed in a vibrant orange dress that seized every glance; two of us were cloaked in black, their attire radiating timeless elegance and an air of command; and so on, each of us an emblem of grace and power. But after all that food, we craved a way to unwind, to digest, and above all, to amuse ourselves in our own unique fashion. We traded knowing smiles, sinking into the plush velvet sofas of the adjoining room, the air thick with the scent of spices and the crackling warmth of the lit fireplace. “We need some fun to cap off the night,” my friend, the hostess, declared, her tone teetering between whimsy and command, and we all nodded, our eyes alight with shared mischief. From the slaves who had served dinner—quiet figures, shadows in our service—we singled out one, a fellow with slightly stooped shoulders but a demeanor suggesting he could bend without breaking. “You,” I called, lifting a finger with a regal flourish, the bordeaux silk of my dress rustling faintly against the velvet. “Come here. Dinner’s over, but your duties aren’t.” He approached, cautious yet compliant, sensing his role as a servant would stretch into the after-dinner hours. “Entertain us,” another Mistress added, her voice soft but laced with challenge, leaving the how unspecified—for the how, after all, was ours to decide, and we’d start it without even rising from the sofa. We began leisurely, staying comfortably seated, as if it were a game unfolding effortlessly. I went first: from my spot, I extended a hand, the bordeaux sleeve brushing the air, and delivered a sharp slap across his cheek, the crisp sound slicing through the room’s stillness like a sudden snap. He flinched, his skin reddening under my palm, but stayed put, eyes lowered in a blend of respect and surprise. The Mistress in light blue, seated beside me, leaned forward slightly and struck the other cheek, her delicate fingers leaving a faint sting behind. One by one, all seven of us joined in, our hands taking turns in a dance of slaps—some light and teasing, others more firm—turning his face into a canvas of flushed red, all without budging from the velvet cushions. Our laughter wove together, the rhythm of palms against his skin marking our delight, while the fireplace popped and hissed, a warm, wild accompaniment. But that wasn’t enough. “Let’s switch to our feet,” the Mistress in orange suggested, a mischievous grin curling her lips, and the idea sparked a gleam in our eyes. Still seated, we slipped off our shoes—décolleté, sandals, heels that had grazed the parquet during dinner—and set them beside us, our bare feet ready to take over. I started: lifting a foot from the sofa, my black-polished nails glinting in the firelight, I struck his cheek with the sole, a soft yet humiliating blow that made him sway. The Mistress in light blue, without shifting, stretched out a leg and slapped him with her foot, her smooth skin gliding over his already-marked face, leaving a warm trace on his cheek. One by one, our bare feet took over—some with vividly painted nails, others scented with fine lotions—hitting him relentlessly from the sofa, from face to neck, until he trembled under our attention. He let out faint groans, sounds that mingled with our laughter, his face now a mess of red marks and moist eyes, yet he didn’t dare resist. At that moment, the hostess, my friend, shifted on the sofa, a sly smirk spreading across her face. “Enough of this,” she said, rising with a graceful sweep of her dress that rustled like an elegant whisper. “Lie down on the floor,” she ordered, her voice firm yet playful, pointing to the space before us. He hesitated briefly, then complied, stretching out on his back, his wiry frame laid bare under the flickering light. She stood over him, adjusting her gown, and announced, “I’ve got a fart coming, and you’re going to take it right in your mouth.” We all snickered, watching as she positioned herself above his face, lifting her dress slightly and crouching just enough. He opened his mouth, perhaps expecting a mere puff of air, but as she pushed, something unexpected slipped out—a muffled sound followed by a tiny, solid piece, a “coated fart” that landed straight in his mouth. We erupted into laughter, a booming, uncontrollable wave that filled the room—me in my bordeaux, the light blue Mistress, the orange one, the two in black—all clutching our sides at the sight. He froze, eyes widening in shock, clearly not expecting a mouthful of shit as part of his entertainment role. “What a humiliation!” I exclaimed between gasps, tears of mirth streaking my face. The hostess stepped back, still chuckling, and rejoined us on the sofa, her composure hardly shaken. “That’s what you get for volunteering,” one of the black-clad Mistresses teased, her tone dripping with mockery, as my foot—still warm from the meal—delivered a final slap to his jaw from my velvet perch, making him stagger to his knees. But we knew it wasn’t regret he felt—it was a privilege for him, a rare honor to be the centerpiece of our amusement, seven Mistresses toying with him, topped off with that unforgettable twist. We settled back, our elegant dresses—my bordeaux, the light blue, the orange, the two blacks—rustling against the velvet, sated and with lighter stomachs, while he knelt before us, breathless, overwhelmed, and now with a taste he’d never forget, a servant who had served beyond all expectation. “What a night,” I murmured, and the others laughed again, a chorus of voices sealing our triumph in the dim glow of Maison Dupont.

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