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5:20 Party Favour 3

Hi!

It’s now past midnight and several couples are unashamedly shagging on just about every available piece of furniture. There are numerous frames and trestles dotted around the great hall and dozens of folk are taking it in turns to beat or be beaten. However I know the grand finale is about to start and it is why I’ve been paid so much in advance for the evening. A section of the hall has been partitioned-off and now the waiters slide the curtains back to reveal an operating theatre. At least there is the semblance of a hospital - with two beds, a bank of machines with glowing displays, a couple of orderlies in white coats and a doctor. He really is a doctor, or, to be more precise, was. He’s almost certainly been struck-off for some misdemeanour or other - because no practising member of the medical profession would get involved in what we are about to do!

Then the host claps his hands and everyone is silent as he explains what is going to happen. The guests press forward, faces flushed with drink and eager for the spectacle, like Roman citizens at the Coliseum. My client leads me to one of the beds and the orderlies place straps over my wrists and ankles and fasten a wide soft leather collar around my neck. Then the ‘surgeon’ joins us. He is dressed from head to toe in surgical greens with a cap hiding his hair, a mask over his face and reflective goggles. I know that he is one of the guests but the idea is that he is just an anonymous figure to both me and the others. He has paid five thousand pounds to the charity of the host’s choice for the pleasure of doing what he is about to do to me. My fee is one tenth which seems a lot – but I can assure you it isn’t. Then, the doctor connects me to the monitors and my heartbeat, and other vital signs, are displayed on extra large screens that all the guests can see. Finally, the surgeon bends over me and all I can see is my own, apprehensive, reflection in his goggles.

There is a collective gasp as he places both gloved hands over my throat and squeezes. Instantly, my air supply is interrupted and the monitors register my distress. He presses harder and, though the leather collar prevents him from bruising me, it still enables him to effectively throttle me. My eyes bulge as I fight for air and the room dims even as I am aware of the guests pressing closer for a better look. The monitors shriek my peril - but nobody moves to help me - then all is black.

The light is bright but it is not the pearly gates beckoning me - or even the fiery conflagration of the other place. Instead it is the doctor shining a penlight into my eyes. I blink and he looks relieved as he checks the monitors, which are bleeping away normally. The crowd roars and I know I have ‘flatlined’. For a moment I have died and the monitor registered a flatline. The doctor ensures the player releases me as soon as I flatline and then he revives me. It usually only takes a few breaths of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and I idly wonder if I still taste of spunk!

Meanwhile, the ‘surgeon’ has in effect killed another human being and paid handsomely for the thrill. The crowd has also paid for the privilege of witnessing a sport far more exclusive than any illegal animal contests. Me, well I’ve been paid well enough and, of course, there is another consequence of my near death experience. Death by manual strangulation can produce an interesting side effect - and my jizz-soaked panties are irrefutable proof of this phenomenon!

I have no time to enjoy the warm wet feeling as a new surgeon appears. He has already paid the host but it is part of the contract that everybody sees him pay me. With a flourish, he drops the notes into a stainless steel kidney dish, which goes rather well with the hospital theme of this little tableau. The host is an experienced party planner and knows how to get the best out of his little tranny ‘victim’. My throat has a few minutes to recover as I’m scheduled to be suffocated this time. On cue, the surgeon pulls a plastic bag over my head and gathers it around my neck. My breathing becomes laboured, as I quickly gasp up the oxygen in the bag, and the monitors howl in protest.

If any potential suicides are reading, I do not recommend this form of exit as it takes longer than you think and is frickin stressful. It’s especially stressful if the frickin surgeon does not release the bag after you’ve flatlined and the doctor has to use the defibrillator on you! If my hair wasn’t spiked enough before it certainly is now after a few hundred volts pass through me. I know I’ve got a heart like an ox but I’m still relieved to hear the monitors settle into their normal routine. I’m also another five hundred quid richer as the surgeon has been fined another five grand for going too far and I get my ten percent in cash. I’ve also got another little sticky surprise down below! The surgeon knows the rules, but is rich enough to pay for the extra thrill of seeing me dead for a few seconds longer. However, it’s always ‘one strike and you’re out’ and he won’t be allowed to play this game again with this particular host.

I play the game another three times and the fourth surgeon is a woman. She’s not just any woman and I know it’s my client’s wife. Although I can’t see her, I recognise her perfume as she places the bag over my head. I mentioned I’m a bendy tranny but I didn’t say that’s because I’m double-jointed. It doesn’t take much to slip my hand through the restraint and pop my dislocated thumb back into its socket! Then, as the bag starts to mist, I grope for the opening in her gown and find her silky white panties. She is already wet with desire and my fingers slip into her as she holds the bag over my throat. She gasps behind the mask and I frantically work on her, knowing I have to be quick because she will keep holding the bag until she climaxes - or I die – or both! She orgasms first and almost releases the bag, and my last thought is will I have to forfeit my fee if I don’t flatline? I open my eyes as I become aware of the cheering and remember to replace my hand in the restraint. I’m a professional and I want that intimate moment to just be between me and her.

I’m tired and my head aches but I reckon I’m good for one more when the crowd stirs and I look over to see Xanthe walking defiantly to the table. The orderlies strap her on and then I can see that she has never done this before and that she’s shit-scared. I don’t like the girl but she’s frickin brave and I respect her for that. With a grimace, I repeat the dislocation process with my other hand and reach across to her. Xanthe smiles a little wan grin and mouths ‘thank you’ as our five hundred notes are deposited in the dishes. Then two rich guys, who have each donated five grand for charity, do their best to kill us.

I’m an old pro at ‘edge play’ games like this so I writhe around and struggle like I’m trying to escape. I mean, if I really wanted to, I could get both arms free, sock the guy in the mouth, free my legs and be off the table and away while he was still spitting his teeth out. But that ain’t the game, so I behave like some heroine from a silent movie, as he uses both hands to throttle the life out of me. Although I can’t see his face I know he’s having the time of his life and the bulge in the front of his green gown tells me all I need to know about what turns him on. Xanthe has been watching me and as her guy starts to strangle her, she imitates my simulated peril and strains against her restraints.

The blood in my head pounds and my eyes dim and then I am out of it. For the seventh time, I am revived, and the thronging crowd cheers again as my monitors pick up the beat to show them I have recovered. Judging by the spreading wet patch on the front of my surgeon’s gown - he has just joined me in a little orgasmic activity! I’m feeling pretty high and very frickin rich and I wonder if I can beat my record of eight times in one night.

Then there are gasps and I see the doctor fumbling for the defib. Xanthe has flatlined and hasn’t responded to the resuscitation. The charger whines and the surgeon stands back as the electric shock sends her skinny little body arching right off the bed. She is arrested by the restraints and flops back into a crumpled heap. The surgeon looks remarkably unconcerned as the doctor shocks her again and again. On the third time her heart is bump-started and the monitor registers her feeble pulse.

However she is not breathing and will be brain dead in minutes if she is not revived. The doctor starts to give her mouth-to-mouth but nothing happens. Then I notice that her chest isn’t moving. Although it looks to the crowd like he’s doing the right stuff only I, and her surgeon, can see that he is not. He isn’t pinching her nose and his breath is going into her mouth and out her nostrils without ever reaching her lungs. In an instant I have both hands free and am fumbling with the straps across my ankles - while still trying to put my thumbs back into their joints. Then I’m off the bed and shoving the doctor out of the way. The surgeon grabs my shoulder and I rake one stiletto heel down his shin and he yelps and backs off.

I tilt Xanthe’s head back, pinch her cute little button nose and fill her lungs with one big breath once then twice, then I press on her chest, just under her gorgeous little titties – God this will be such a waste if she doesn’t come round. Then I’m breathing into her again and suddenly she splutters and her chest starts to rise and fall on its own. Her lovely green eyes open and she stares at me uncomprehending for a second then the spark of life re-ignites. I am still inches from her when she raises her head and kisses me and suddenly we are snogging passionately.

The crowd cheers wildly and I reluctantly leave Xanthe, as willing hands unfasten her and help her from the bed. I just know the doctor and Xanthe’s surgeon have done this deliberately. The doc is a washed-up old has-been and was probably bought for the price of a few bottles of vodka. The surgeon has bribed him to bungle the revival so he can have the thrill of snuffing out a life and getting away with it. He has reckoned I’m well known at these parties and, while I know I aint indispensable, there’s a few folk who would miss me. Xanthe on the other hand is a first-timer, probably desperate for the cash and probably a loner just starting on the game. Nobody will miss her and the bastard definitely thought he could get away with topping her. However, from the look of the faces in the crowd none of them realise what’s just gone on.

I’m about to just walk outta there, when I see that there is one guy who definitely knows what happened. The host has a face like thunder and I aint surprised, cos it’d be the end of his parties if somebody actually died. His heavies arrive and the surgeon limps off between them. Ten minutes later he’s back, unmasked so we can all see who he is. I know exactly who he is in real life too and I’ll make sure all my tranny friends know not to go near him. The host announces he has made a donation of twenty five grand to the charity with an extra five percent to Xanthe as compensation and another five to me! Result!!!

The host calls one of the guests forward and asks if he’ll stand in as the doctor. Despite the fact he is wearing leather shorts and a studded denim jacket, he looks like he came straight from the Central Casting department for ‘eminent consultants’. He just oozes safety and I am determined to break double figures so I climb onto the bed again and another ‘surgeon’ steps forward and places my fee in the dish. One of the guests has also volunteered, a skinny guy in his thirties. I know the type well – he’s looking for a thrill which he can’t safely get anywhere other than parties like this. It’s ironic that he’s paid for the privilege of being killed, because I just know that he wants to experience that place between life and death. He probably thinks there are lots of white lights and images of loved ones and angels and harp music and shite like that. I can tell him there ain’t and I’d do that for free….or maybe for a small fee! However, it is for charity so I just pout at him then lay back and let myself be suffocated again.

I manage eleven near-death experiences and my head is splitting as I stuff the contents of the dish into my handbag. I know I’m probably a few thousand more brain cells lighter but I weren’t that clever to start with so it aint gonna make that much difference! Xanthe joins me and we share a cigarette. She is no longer the feral, gobby little tranny she was a few hours ago and looks smaller, younger and more frightened. In fact she looks like she needs a big sister - but I don’t need any more complications in my life right now. Then she takes one of my hands and puts it up her dress and between her legs. She is damp and sticky from the final moments of her appointment with the surgeon and as our lips meet I decide I maybe wouldn’t mind a little sister after all! However, it’s not to be and my client arrives to collect what is owing to him.

Five minutes later I am occupying one of the hospital beds and my client’s son is occupying my ass! Meanwhile I’m occupying Mrs client’s ass and Mr client’s cock is occupying Mrs client’s mouth. Those guys really seem to like my plats because their faces are buried inside my sandals and they both look like they are trying to lick the toe prints from the silver inner soles. My fishnet stockings are looped around Mrs client’s neck and I’m pulling them tight with one hand. It’s not proper throttling like she did to me earlier - more sort of ‘vanilla strangulation’ – which is more than enough to get her juices flowing and have her writhing in ecstasy. I know they are flowing cos guess where my other hand is?

Eventually, junior fills my ass and a few minutes later I fill his Mum’s ass. She immediately pulls away from her hubby and goes down on my cock - moaning as she tastes herself on me. Then hubby uses the opportunity to shoot his load over me. I don’t need to clean myself, cos Mrs client is on hand to lick me clean! Then they all kiss me goodbye and as I retrieve my plats and pad away, the three are already reforming into another combination that I really don’t wanna study too closely! My stockings are being put to good use again and I decide that the bulging wad of notes that I’ve got stuffed in my bag is a fair trade! So I leave my sponsors to continue re-enacting their Oedipus scenario.

The party is dispersing and it looks like I’m the last T girl left. The host calls me over and thanks me and asks if I’ll do another party in a few months. Yeah it’s risky but the wages of sin are great and it’s better regulated than most ‘breath games’ I’ve taken part in. I agree and he kisses me and we are joined by one of his staff, who has my jacket. He also has a white cloth and I’m too tired to struggle as I catch the unmistakeable whiff of chloroform and my world turns dark again.

I’m dreaming that I’m being screwed by one of the plump ladies from the party and it’s so realistic that I wake up in a panic. I am back in my hotel room with a hangover that would kill a guy and I am indeed being screwed. However, it’s a lissom little green-eyed tranny looking down at me and, relieved that it isn’t a bad dream, I lay back and think of England!

I don’t know how Xanthe and I came to be in the same bed but I’ll wager the host had something to do with it. Maybe he saw the chemistry between us and wanted to bring us together. Maybe he saw the potential in her and thought I am the best one to teach her all my tricks. Either way I ain’t complaining! I am, however, a bit concerned that she’s been through my bag and placed my wad of notes on the table.
“I got paid eighteen hundred quid last night but you earned nearly nine thousand!”

I don’t mention my original fee that was probably three times hers, but cross to the table and stuff the cash into the inside pocket of my leather jacket. Business is business and I’ll fight her for my money if I have to. However she’s not after my cash and we sit and talk and I agree to teach her how to be a proper Party Favour. I’ll have to do something about her London accent as, talking like a street urchin, she’ll never fit into the sort of parties I get invited to. As I thought, she’s no family and no ties and I’m already feeling protective towards her and relishing the challenge of working on this tranny Pygmalion. I’ve already got a dog from the rescue centre and a crow with a broken wing that lives in my roof garden. It looks like I’ve just collected another waif and stray!

Lotsa love

Melanie

xxxx




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