I was brought awake when a kick in the ribs made my side explode in dull, heavy pain. Virgil stood over me, his massive frame backlit by the low fire in the fireplace. I sat up right away, even though my head throbbed in the familiar rhythm of an aphromate hangover. Satisfied that I wouldn’t go back to sleep, Virgil turned away.
Five others huddled pathetically, naked on their pallets around the room, watching the giant Indonesian man survey our condition. My throat burned, my hands were cramped, my wrists and ankles sore, and my pussy numb. Of course he couldn’t see any of that, and I’m sure the others were in similar pain. Either Virgil didn’t care, or he was under orders to not care.
“There’s going to be another party tonight. It starts in thirty minutes. All of you will be attending.” We would have protested if we could. Two nights in a row was unheard of! We were usually given two or three days between events to recover and regain our stamina. Instead of feeling outrage, a massive wave of exhaustion and resignation washed through me. All I wanted to do was curl up in my corner and die. My body was bruised, battered, and raw from the hours and hours of entertaining we’d done last night.
“Tonight,” Virgil went on, “you will be the furniture. You are not allowed to speak, even if spoken to. You can not touch any of the guests, or each other – unless commanded by a guest. You will not make eye contact with anyone. Am I understood?” There was a murmur of weakened acknowledgements. Virgil walked over to the small locked cabinet in the wall and my body reeled with the knowledge of what was coming. He unlocked the cabinet, took out the black case hidden within, and turned to the first huddling body. He readied the needle and injected the muscular blond man in the shoulder. Hugging his knees, rocking back and forth, he might have been crying.
Next was a tall, fake-breasted blond girl. He went on to the massively-hung black man, the flat-chested Japanese girl, the Mediterranean guy whose name was probably Julio or Antonio, and finally to me, the girl-next-door type. By the time the needle pricked my arm, the blond body builder was already starting to respond to the aphromate; his legs were stretched out now, and he was stroking his new erection. Just the sight of his aroused manhood made my stomach turn. Virgil yelled at him to stop. He did, but the need on his face was obvious even in the dim light.
Aphromate was a drug we were given to ensure and enhance our performance. It worked directly on the brain, making it think that it was perpetually aroused. It made men hard and women wet, continually, for hours. It also magnified sensations, making even the lightest touch nearly orgasmic. It also increased the production of semen. The shitty part about it was that it didn’t let you climax. It drove you to the point of madness, made it so your brain thought the only thing that mattered was achieving the orgasm that would never come. It didn’t stop the men from ejaculating, though; the semen flowed, but without the cleansing waves of climax.
So, Virgil wasn’t worried about the blond guy giving himself a quick orgasm and losing his edge; he just didn’t want him to waste his semen.
It was like a wave around the room as the aphromate began working on us. The blond girl opened her legs, spread her pussy open, and slipped two fingers in. Thirty seconds later, the black guys cock tried to rise, but it couldn’t stand erect under its own weight. Shortly after, the Japanese girl began to whimper. She had more self control than the blond, but when she looked over at the third man carefully stroke his own stiffening organ, her hand went between her legs. The sight of them hyper-aroused made my stomach want to empty itself, until the aphromate started working on me.
At first, my headache disappeared. All the soreness in my body vanished, and I was filled with energy. It swirled through me, centering in my pussy. Within seconds, I went from being nauseated by the sight of an erect penis to wanting all three of them in me at once.
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