The break between “Miss Marvelous”’ dance sets, or fuck sets, or whatever the hell this was going to be, lasted about fifteen minutes. Plenty of time, as it turned out, for me to vacillate between cock ecstasy and cock terror.

Four friends complied with the instructions Mira conveyed through Bill Littlefield, lifting the chair with me in it, and carrying me to the back of the room behind the white curtain. Mira had been escorted from the room, leaning her totally naked orgasm-weakened weight onto Bill’s shoulder, which must have been the thrill of his life.

The rest of the group, expressing the thoughts of their alcohol-flooded minds and aching dicks, could not believe Miss Marvelous, as in they couldn’t believe how sublime her legs were, or how toned her entire body was, or how she could stretch and bend every which way, including when she humped something. They debated whether she had formal dance training, or was some kind of stripping savant. They also debated whether her orgasms had been real. Some in the group believed her spasming body and piercing screams about needing my cock to be pure sexual theater, bloody good acting to make us believe that she was feeling the same heat as the rest of us. David Chui, perhaps through his Eastern training of the body’s systems, was one hundred percent certain that Mira had not faked her orgasms. Someone else mentioned how the room smelled like a very wet pussy in the vicinity where the chair had been. They could come behind the screen and take a whiff of my pants if they needed definitive proof. I had Mira’s excitement all over me, on my face and in my hair, and not all of the wetness saturating the crotch of my pants was from my dick.

I was probably in a state of shock as I sat alone. My dick was definitely in a state of shock, plastered with cum while still locked away inside my pants. I couldn’t believe how violently I had come, and there had never even been any flesh-on-flesh contact. Was it pure lust for that fabulous body? Was it a measure of the depth of my obsession, over Mira’s legs and her immersion-fed super-heat? Or perhaps I had secretly put myself in the immersion state some time ago, giving my subconscious mind the commands: Only through fucking Mira can you have the most intense orgasms of your life. Only Mira, no matter how she chooses to fuck you.

After months of withdrawal pain, I had gotten a fresh taste of her, of seeing her astounding body in action and even tasting her pussy. And getting a taste of Mira made me want a bigger and better taste. She had fucked me, yes, but without my hands running up and down her toned physique. I’d been unable to give those impeccable thighs a good squeeze, and we had come without her gushing cunt and my gushing cock ever getting the chance to gush together. I had to have all of that, having been so close. I fucking had to have it, dammit, now that she had given me the taste again.

And you don’t even need to feel guilty about any of it, a childlike voice gnawed where my conscience ought to be. You can’t run and you can’t protest, so just soak in every thrill ride from the only woman you know who’s hotter then your wife-to-be. You might crave it, but it isn’t your fault.

As I pretend-debated whether or not I could claim the role of victim under these circumstances, I heard a second real debate arise among the others, about whether to undo my mouth-bra-gag for a few minutes so I could down another vodka tonic. Jeffrey Fischer, a hospice assistant on our team, poked his head on my side of the screen to ask whether I wanted the gag removed.

“No!” Bill Littlefield objected from somewhere in the room. “Miss Marvelous specifically demanded the gag remain on Michael until she decides to remove it!”

Jeffrey made “Oops, well” eyes at me before quickly disappearing, any chance at communicating effectively halted. I truly had no options here, other than to take whatever Mira planned to dish out.

“Just another minute or two,” Bill said, joining me backstage. “She’s gathering some things for whatever comes next. Like scissors, and shaving cream and a razor blade,” he added, his mouth turning up with genuine perplexity, mixed with concern.

Holy crap! “Mmmm mmm mmm m mmm!” I tried to speak.

“She really is astounding, isn’t she?” he went on, ignoring my gagged pleas for help. “We agreed on booking her after viewing a few jpeg’s of her in a bikini. I mean, we knew she would be great-looking, and she claimed that she knew every kind of sexy pole dance ever invented. But nobody expects a woman to be able to do all that! I mean… Christ, and she actually ground her mound into your pants, totally naked! You got the lap dance of a lifetime, you fucking lucky fucker! Your whole face is all shiny from it!”

“She’s ready!” somebody shouted, and Bill promptly vanished.

Leaving me to listen in solitude with adrenaline flooding my system. The music started again, and the guys went wild as the room went dark, shouts and cheers sounding from the other side of the screen. The red and yellow lights came on behind me, and I realized that I must be projected in profile just as Mira had been when this had all started.

More shouts and now applause, and I thought I heard heels walking in my direction. “Thank you!” Mira responded to the applause, just before everybody went nuts. I definitely heard some screechy friction sound that told me she had begun to make contact with the pole again. I could see nothing of what transpired on the other side of the screen, but it must be good, because Mira had them eating it up much louder than before. It occurred to me that she could probably use my projected self as a visual prop, lifting herself up the pole to dance on my crotch, or writhe or shimmy with her pussy grinding at my face, or anything else.

It was brilliant, the trap she had set. She had me immobilized in a public space, with my friends as clueless assistants helping to carry out her whims. Any twisted plans she might have would be given a pass, or even applauded, judged on their theatrical and cock-melting merits alone. Including whatever she might need scissors, shaving cream and a razor blade to accomplish.

A more rhythmic chant erupted, all the men shouting, “He’s hard, he’s hard!” It happened again, and again, and I pictured Mira making a semi-circle of the room, taking turns to tease her audience with some part of her body, then her hand reaching down to squeeze and outline one bulging crotch after another, showing the others the effect she had on their co-workers. Seven men in I heard Bill Littlefield’s voice groan over the shouting, culminating in an “Oh God, yes!” and raucous laughter. The shouts changed to, “He came, he came!” and I didn’t doubt that it was true.

I didn’t need to count to know when Mira had finished her rounds, because the chant intensified, changing to “Michael’s turn, Michael’s turn!” She took her time, the heels indicating that she walked back slowly. The group erupted in laughter, and I could only guess what she had just done to my shadow on the screen.

The chanting continued. It was Michael’s turn, and Michael got his taste of Mira’s costume change one bit at a time. I saw a white high heel first, lifted high above the floor, just barely poking past the perimeter of the fabric screen. The arch of Mira’s foot, and a trim ankle wrapped in the sheer white of stockings. She brought her leg from toe to knee behind the screen, the calf flexing as the foot turned towards me, as though seeing me for the first time. The remainder of that perfect leg, the stocking top trimmed with white lace, followed. A short expanse of uncovered thigh, and the strap of a garter. The sexiest hip bone in the world. And then, a newly shaved, completely uncovered pussy. The whole of Mira appeared behind the screen after that, standing with hands on gartered hips, her eyes blazing, her lips as full as I had ever seen them.

The outfit was probably called something like “Naughty Bride” in a catalog, and might have originally included panties. As it was, the garters of Mira’s stockings framed her bare gleaming pussy at the sides, while up above her breasts surged up and out, not even pretending to be contained by a white long-sleeved lacy bustier. No wonder Bill had come so easily. Mira was so far beyond catalog sexy in her cock-tease attire. She was beyond hot, beyond fuckable. She looked… epic.

And in one hand, a pair of scissors. In the other, a can of shaving cream, and a razor.

She saw my eyes go to the items in her hands, and she smiled a satisfied smile, before bending forward, as though to inspect her shaved pussy. I knew right then what she intended, and I didn’t like it one bit.

I began to protest with my muffled voice, and my eyes, and by squirming in the chair. She came forward then, extending her left leg out straight and high. The heel came to rest on my right shoulder, digging into my flesh as she leaned her weight forward, bending the raised knee. The guys whooped and hollered on the other side of the screen, no doubt seeing Mira’s pussy leaning towards my face in suggestive 2-D.

“You’re in no position to stop any of this,” Mira said in a calm voice. “They can’t even hear a word I’m saying right now, not over the music. And anything I decide to do, it’s all part of the show. No one will come to help you, Michael. Not in time. You’re in my hands now. Completely in my hands.”

She dropped the razor and shave cream, and brandished the scissors, opening and closing the blades. The guys cheered, though I imagined I heard tension in their voices. No one knew what Mira had planned, and I might not be the only one feeling breathless, and concerned.

She reached down to my crotch with her free hand, and squeezed my erection through my damp pants. “He’s hard!” she screamed out over the music, and the guys went wild. “Let’s find out how hard!” she yelled again, pulling at the cotton of my pants next to my dick, and bringing the scissors into play.

I squirmed for real this time, but Mira only laughed.

“It’s your cock’s funeral if you make me miss,” she said. “And you don’t know how many times I’ve fantasized about this, about cutting your dick off and taking it home with me. I’m going to get your cock tonight, Michael. You decide for yourself whether it’s still attached or not.”

I froze, recalling my smooth compelling voice as it had given her the immersion commands: Only Michael’s cock can help you with that terrible feeling of emptiness. She wouldn’t be driven to take the commands that literally, would she? As she had said, I was in no position to stop anything. Which meant I’d better not push her into any rash and permanently regrettable actions.

She cut the pants right off of my legs. I didn’t even have to take my shoes off, because the pants legs fell away, one at a time, followed by the upper section. The guys went nuts over the silhouette of my dick pushing at my underwear. To much cheering, Mira deftly cut that clothing away as well.

“He’s hard, he’s hard!” they all laughed and chanted. Of course I was hard. Though I was frightened, I could look up the length of the perfect stockinged leg planted on my shoulder, into the maw of the hottest pussy on the planet, now as bare as that of a newborn.

Dripping for me. Always, perhaps irretrievably, dripping for me.

Mira had not moved since my cock had sprung up from the shreds that had been my underwear. Her eyes were fixed to my pulsing dick, as though it had hypnotized her anew. I noticed that the leg on my shoulder had begun to tremble. From any other woman, it would be from the strain of holding the position for so long. In Mira’s case, it was all about seeing my cock again, for the first time in months. The re-acquaintance was surging through Mira’s body, her brain, anyplace my soothing voice had managed to infiltrate all those months ago.

She cried out with animalistic fierceness at the same time that her body did some kind of incredible twist. In a flash she stood on the arms of the chair again, this time facing away from me. My eyes scanned up the sculpted backsides of her legs, visually stroking the roundness of that tight ass. And then she bent forward and down at the waist, her legs never moving from their perfectly straight position. Her hair tickled my cock, but her head kept moving, coming towards be upside-down and behind her legs.

Mira’s hands had already wrapped around my dick as her lips sought mine. The guys were raucous elsewhere in the room, seeing me getting this contortionist’s handjob on the white screen. And though I knew it would be visible, and that I shouldn’t, my tongue reached out to meet Mira’s, and we kissed, and wiggled, and sighed into each other, all while her busy hands pumped hard at my straining dick.

Mira backed her inverted head away slightly, enough that her eyes could lock onto mine. The perspective was crazy, but I saw her expression soften at that moment, and in low tones that could not be overheard, she said: “I’ve tried to fuck others since splitting with Taylor. You don’t even know how many men have been chasing me, wanting me. But it doesn’t work! I need your cock, Michael! Only Michael’s cock. Only Michael’s cock…”

She seemed to fade out, or in, or away after that, like I had disappeared but the contact with my dick remained. Like it was everything. For those few seconds, it was as though the roles were reversed. I was not the tormented one, tied to a chair to be played with on her terms. It was Mira who was bound, tied in knots from within, and unable to free herself from my deeds.

I didn’t have time to contemplate the feelings that arose from this, not when her head backed away, and her knees bent, and her mouth found the tip of my cock. The shouts on the other side of the screen became delirious as Mira arranged her knees on the armrests of the chair, and sucked the length of my dick into her mouth. She pulled her hair back with one hand, no doubt to make the event as clearly visible as possible for her audience. The men were going fucking crazy — maybe they thought she was giving me this real hummer, or maybe they believed she was pretending, by opening her mouth and bobbing her head at the space beside my towering cock-shape. The effect from their perspective would have been the same, whether real or faked. From my perspective — finally, finally finally finally, a fearless mouth and throat sucking me down, cheeks compressing, a tongue dancing…

Her pussy, so fragrant, so open and wet and familiar and magnetic, was within reach of my tongue. All I had to do was lean my head forward, and it was mine. Without an audience, there could be no doubt that I would reciprocate. I wanted to taste her again. In fact, I was dying to taste that pussy again.

Mira slipped me out with a loud “pop!”, bringing her head back between her legs to look me in the eye. “Your piece of Coral doesn’t do this for you!” she exclaimed, then began to giggle. “I can tell — Michael’s cock is dying to be sucked, because his piece of Coral won’t suck him off!”

There was no way Mira could know this. I’d told no one, not even Grace. Yet Mira knew. She could tell, as though she had become some sort of cock-whisperer.

“Oh, this just makes the cum so much sweeter!” she shouted, probably loud enough for the others to hear.

And then her mouth took me in again, and she ratcheted up the pressure, and the speed, and I began to pant into the bra strapped through my mouth, groaning and shaking because she was going all out, giving me the blowjob of my life, her every perfect trick like a hard slap in Coral’s face.

Perhaps miraculously, Mira came before I did. I was used to Coral coming easily, but even that required her nipples to be manhandled. Mira came because she had my cock again, and the immersion worship of my tool was so strong. She moaned and groaned into my erection, but did not pause her sucking, or even slow down. Her entire body shook, bucked, like she had jolts of electricity shooting through her at regular intervals. Still she sucked, until I was groaning too, loud hissy muffles of sound exhaled into the gag.

I came like crazy again, and unlike Coral, she reveled in every drop. After drinking me down, Mira threw her head back, a thick dollop of my cum dripping down her chin, and falling. Cheers erupted on the other side of the screen, with the chant: “He came, he came!”

I thought Mira might be out for the count again as she slipped down my bare legs. She rolled forward once on the floor, a tight cannonball that paused in mid-roll with her legs extended straight and high into the air. With deliberate slowness and incredible control, she ended up on all fours, but with her back to the floor, her whole body arched. Using muscles in her abdomen that most people could only dream of, she brought herself into a standing position limbo-style, still performing for the other side of the screen.

I was so impressed with her unfolding flexibility that it took me a moment to register that she had managed to pick up the scissors, shave cream and razor while on the floor. She brandished them high for all to see, and climbed on top of me once more, shielding my view with her back.

“This would be… a very good time… for you to be very still,” she panted.

I could feel her body continuing to shake, which was all the incentive I needed to learn how to not move one muscle. Even when I felt the cold of the shave cream coating the entire area of my crotch, softening cock included, I barely breathed.

The guys went berserk at first, chanting “Shave him, shave him!” With every snip of the scissors,and every stroke of the razor, however, the room became more quiet, until there were no sounds, save for the driving music, the faint snippings of the scissors and the fainter scratchings of the razor. Maybe it was the shock. Maybe they feared that one outburst would lead to a bloody wound. Mira leaned forward, extremely careful or precise in her use of the implements. I couldn’t see how much she had decided to shave off, but it felt targeted, like some patches of pubic hair disappeared all the way down to the bare skin, while other bits remained.

It took between ten and fifteen minutes. What the guys were thinking during this time I could only imagine. All I could think about was that I dared not move, and that I couldn’t even guess Coral’s reaction when she found my crotch shaved on her wedding night.

Finally, Mira shouted, “There!” and dropped the scissors and razor to the floor. I thought she might get up to let me see her handiwork — instead I felt a fresh glob of shave cream squirted onto my cock, and her hand stroking.

The men erupted again. “Harder, faster!” they cheered, and Mira did just that. Standing on the right armrest, she struck a ballet pose, with one leg locked vertical, the other positioned straight and horizontal as her torso leaned forward. On a stage, her hands would probably be up in some echoing, graceful position. Here, they took turns stroking me hard and erect, and stroking me faster, and faster. The visual effect on the fabric screen must look incredible.

“Come come come!” the men chanted. Part of me didn’t want to. I didn’t want to give Mira the satisfaction, or become a trained monkey made to perform for my hospital friends. But Mira’s hand and arms were tireless, despite balancing on one leg while holding that position. I felt a pressure in my balls and a tightness in my ass, and I knew she was going to win, no matter what I wanted.

The men erupted as I erupted, the cum shooting from my cock for all to see. If they believed the blowjob to have been faked, there could be no doubt about this one. Mira jumped down to wild applause, and picked up the can of shave cream again, creating a foamy cone of white that completely covered my still-erect dick, and everything else up to my navel

She strode proudly to the other side of the screen, probably to take a few tit-jiggling bows. I sat alone, cum-drained and dazed, with my crotch feeling raw and tender, and beginning to sting.

I’m pretty sure Mira danced a bit more. The guys kept cheering, and David Chui kept shouting, “Marry me!” She had them eating out of her hands, and probably fantasizing about eating her out, until the very end.

I knew at some point that she left the room, because the music ended abruptly. I groaned for somebody to come untie me, but I was left alone, as though she had instructed them to wait.

About ten minutes later, Mira stuck her head behind the screen one last time. She never showed me her body, but I got the impression that she was decent to leave the premises.

“I’ll never be done with you,” she whispered. “I need it, and I’ll get it! You know that, don't you?”

And then she was gone, before I could even try to reply with my eyes.

“My God, look at you!” Bill said a couple of minutes later.

My crotch was still covered with shaving cream, although the conical tower had begun to lean, and shrink a little. Bill untied me, and gave me a towel to wrap around my waist.

I got pats on the back, and slaps on the head, and every other physical and verbal form of congratulations on having the time of my life. Everybody was laughing, or silly drunk. A couple of guys planned on spending the night because of their alcohol levels, while others were ready to head home to the embraces of their girlfriends or wives, or their right hands.

Bill told me that Coral and our luggage would be picked up and taken to the airport, and that he would drive me there after I showered away Mira’s pussy and my cum. He was right that it made no sense to go home at this point, as it was three-thirty in the morning, and I had to be at the airport by five. I also trusted that there had been no actual mention of my need to shower Mira’s pussy from my face.

The Michael that stared back at me in the bathroom mirror was a wreck, but it wasn’t until the spray of the shower dissolved all the shaving cream that I got my first look at what Mira had wrought while using my privates as her canvas. The entire area from my navel to my ass had been shaved clean, but for the letter “M” meticulously shaped, remaining above the surrounding flesh out of much-shortened pubic hairs.

Fucking great. Just fucking great. Didn’t I read in a magazine somewhere that every newlywed woman wants another woman’s initial branded on her husband’s crotch on their wedding night?