There were a hundred celebrities at the party; another, slightly larger cohort of B-list stars stuck close in the hopes of a meeting, a photo op, or the chance to trade sex for opportunities. The Host had arranged the party on a pretext but none of the guests cared: they attended because the Host had that kind of influence. If you were somebody, you showed up.
An hour into the affair, the Buyer and the Host stood in the otherwise empty library. “Let’s begin,” said the Buyer, and the Host simply flipped a switch on what looked like a common wireless router, although its antennae were rather long. “It won’t take long,” said the Host, and the two made their way back to the main part of the mansion.
The first indication was two largely unknown ingenues kissing with apparent passion, in the midst of a crowd, seemingly oblivious to being noticed. While that alone might have gone unremarked, it was just half a minute later when a famous but slightly expired actress stood on a table and began to dance sensuously, running her hands over her hips and ass and lab-made breasts. When her evening gown fell around her ankles, there were a few appreciative whistles and a great many catty comments.
A popular comedienne put her legs up over the arms of a chair and vigorously frigged her quim, breathing heavily, eyes on the other guests, defying anyone to comment. Overcome by the spectacle, a girl of suspiciously few years dropped to her knees and substituted her tongue for the woman’s busy fingers.
Two singers, performers in different genres, both known for long, perfect legs, towering spike heels, and ultra-mini skirts, were engaged in earnest tribadism on a couch, glorious gams glistening with girl-goo as they raced each other to orgasm. That they kept their Louboutins and Blahniks but wore nothing else contributed greatly to the eroticism of the scene.
A few ladies had found cocks to ride, or suck, but for the most part they were collecting in pairs or groups and pleasuring each other with Sapphic arts. One superstar athlete tried to stop his supermodel wife from feeding pussy to a pair of eager starlets, and got slapped hard for his efforts.
Before long, every woman at the party was engaged in something sexual, whether alone, with a man, or with other women; none of them were dressed and none of them appeared to possess any modesty at all.
The men, puzzled, astonished, aroused, and helpless, either tried with little success to participate, or just watched, or shot opportunistic videos.
The Buyer said, “I must admit to being impressed. And it’s only the women?”
“Yes,” replied the Host, “The brain structures are quite different, and we haven’t yet worked out the male solution.”
“No matter. I will take what you have. One hundred million.”
The Host considered for only a moment. “Two fifty.”
“Two hundred,” said the Buyer, “I’m sure you are recording this… think of the price you’ll get just for Ari—”
“No names.”
“Just for two very pretty, naked, sexy, incidentally famous girls tribbing — did I mention naked and wildly popular with teenage girls?”
The Host evaluated the offer. “Done,” he said. He pulled out his mobile and tapped a few times on the screen.
The first “Oh my god!” sounded just seconds later. Groups broke apart, gasping and crying and questioning; women searched frantically for discarded clothes; men sheepishly sought their partners to offer belated help, feigning sincere sympathy with the ease of repeated practice.
“You throw a good party,” said the Buyer. “Did you, um, invent this device?”
“Oh, no,” replied the Host, “I have no idea how to deal with hardware and software and brain mapping and all of that.”
He surveyed the post-orgy chaos before him.
“I only manipulate people.”
— Frenulum
