Carly & Trey: A bevy of ladies.
A few days pass, and they enter a new rhythm of preparation: menu tastings with a pastry chef who insists on lavender-infused everything, negotiations with a florist about peony season, the endless logistics of feeding two hundred guests in a tent on the ocean.
Carly moves through it, her bracelet clicking against stainless steel prep tables.
It's a Saturday; with perfect coastal weather, the kind of clear sky that makes the Hamptons glow with artificial perfection.
The tent is already buzzing, their team unloading equipment with practised efficiency.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting fractured light across round tables dressed in pale blue and cream—the colours of impending motherhood, carefully chosen by a party planner who charges more per hour than Carly made in her first year of catering.
She spots the demographic immediately: women in their thirties and forties, the expensive casual of the truly wealthy, bodies maintained through Pilates and private trainers and the occasional discreet procedure.
The MILFs are present. Recent mothers showing off post-baby bodies in fitted dresses, newlyweds still glowing with marital satisfaction, older women whose wealth has frozen them at some indeterminate age between forty and sixty.
The mother-to-be, a Whitmore by marriage, floats through the crowd in a white dress that strategically emphasises her pregnancy rather than hiding it.
Her friends cluster around her with the intensity of satellites, their laughter pitched slightly too high, their champagne consumption already outpacing the canapés.
Carly is arranging the raw bar when her assistant approaches, her face pinched with stress.
"The entertainment's not coming. Some mix-up with the agency—they double-booked, sent him to a bachelorette in Montauk."
"How long until he's expected?"
"He's not." The assistant's voice cracks. "Mrs Whitmore specifically requested—she's been talking about it for weeks. The other guests are expecting—"
Carly finds Trey in the kitchen tent, reviewing the timing on passed hors d'oeuvres.
She doesn't need to say anything; he reads her expression, the set of her shoulders, and his own posture shifts into that pre-performance readiness she recognises from rugby matches and high-pressure services alike.
"How many?"
"Two hundred. Mostly women. Expecting a stripper."
Trey sets down his clipboard. His fingers move to his watch, adjusting it unnecessarily, and she sees the calculation happening behind his hazel eyes—the risk assessment, the potential reward, the part of him that thrives on being looked at.
"You'd be okay with this?"
Carly thinks of Fiona; she could be in this crowd or arriving soon. Thinks of the guest house, the way Trey's body had felt between them, the strange liberation of watching him be wanted.
"I'd be more than okay," she hears herself say. "I'd be helping."
The announcement comes five minutes later, delivered by the flustered assistant with a microphone that feeds back slightly.
"Ladies, we have a slight change in entertainment. Please welcome—" She hesitates, clearly having forgotten the name Carly provided. "Our very own catering surprise."
Trey emerges from behind the draped fabric at the tent's edge, and Carly feels the collective intake of breath from two hundred women.
He's stripped down to fitted black trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt, his auburn hair deliberately tousled, his movements carrying that particular confidence that makes service feel like seduction.
The music starts—something with a heavy bass beat, chosen by the DJ in a panic—and Trey moves.
Carly has seen him dance at weddings, at industry events, but never like this.
His body becomes pure invitation, the roll of his hips deliberate, the way he sheds his shirt in one smooth motion drawing actual gasps from the nearest tables.
She should be working. She knows this. But her hands keep moving—filling champagne flutes, arranging napkins, maintaining the infrastructure of the event while her husband becomes its centre.
The women are already responding, the alcohol and the unexpectedness of the moment lowering inhibitions that were never particularly high to begin with.
A brunette in a coral dress reaches for him first, her fingers grazing his chest as he moves past her table.
Trey doesn't flinch, doesn't break character; he catches her wrist and brings her hand to his lips, kissing her palm with theatrical flourish before releasing her to the delighted screams of her friends.
The energy escalates quickly.
Carly has seen crowds turn before, at concerts and sporting events, but never with this particular hunger.
The women are on their feet now, pressing closer, and Trey navigates them with the skill of a man who understands exactly how much space he needs to maintain control. And when to lose it.
He finds Carly at the champagne station. She's wearing her fitted chef's jacket now, the white fabric a stark contrast to the festive dresses around her, and he presses his body against her back as he reaches for a flute.
She feels his heat through the jacket, the controlled tension in his muscles, and smells the faint trace of espresso that always clings to his skin.
"Having fun?" she asks, her voice steady despite the way his hand rests on her hip.
"Better now." His breath is warm against her ear. "They're hungry."
She turns to face him, deliberately, and sees the challenge in his eyes.
The exhibitionist in him, the part that wants to be watched, to be wanted by many while belonging to her.
Carly makes her decision in the space between heartbeats.
"Give them what they want," she says.
The transformation is immediate.
Trey moves back into the crowd with new intention, and Carly follows with her tray of champagne, maintaining the pretence of service even as she positions herself for the best view.
The women sense the shift, their attention sharpening from appreciative to predatory.
A redhead in her early forties—recent divorcee, Carly guesses from the hunger in her eyes—reaches for Trey's belt buckle. He lets her, standing still as she works the leather free, his hands raised slightly in a gesture of surrender that somehow maintains his authority.
The trousers drop, and Carly hears the collective moan as the women see what she's known for five years: the heavy weight of him, thick and already half-hard, framed by dark hair and the athletic build of a man who takes care of himself.
"Oh my god," someone breathes, close enough for Carly to hear.
Trey steps out of the trousers, kicking them aside with casual confidence.
He's naked now except for his watch, and the symbolism isn't lost on Carly—the timepiece her mother gave him when they married, still marking minutes while he offers his body to strangers.
The redhead doesn't hesitate. She drops to her knees on the tent's carpeted floor, her expensive dress pooling around her, and takes him into her mouth with the enthusiasm of a woman who hasn't had this particular pleasure in too long.
Trey's head falls back, his auburn hair catching the chandelier light, and Carly watches his throat work as he swallows a groan.
But the crowd won't be satisfied with one.
Women murmur.
"Fuck, he's big"
"Has to be eight, minimum"
"Thick and stiff."
"Don't sit back, lets join in."
A woman moves in—a blonde in her thirties with the toned arms of recent motherhood—and Trey guides her down beside the first.
They take turns, passing his cock between them like a shared secret, and Carly finds herself counting: three women now, four, a small circle forming on the floor of the tent while the rest press close to watch.
Holy Fuck! He's circulating his pecker between a dozen tarts.
She should feel jealous. She knows this. Instead, she feels something more complicated—a pride in his beauty, an arousal at his abandon, the strange intimacy of being the only one who knows his real name while he performs for them.
Carly moves through the crowd with her champagne tray, and the women reach for flutes with distracted hands, their attention fixed on the centre of the tent.
She's close enough now to see the details: the redhead's technique, the way she uses her tongue on the underside of Trey's shaft, the blonde's hand working what she can't fit in her mouth.
Women licking his balls. His arse. His butt cheeks. Inner thighs.
A third woman joins close, older, with silver streaks in her dark hair and the confidence of someone who has stopped apologising for her desires.
She doesn't wait for invitation; she presses her face to Trey's balls, and Carly watches her husband's thighs tense as the sensation registers. The woman licks with deliberate thoroughness, her tongue flat and wet against his sac, and Trey's hips jerk involuntarily.
"Easy," he murmurs, but there's no real rebuke in it.
The closest circle completes with a fourth—a young wife, barely thirty, her wedding ring catching light as she reaches for him.
They arrange themselves around him like petals, four women on their knees, and Trey looks down at them with an expression Carly can't quite read.
Possession, maybe. Wonder? Or simply catering to need.
They work him together, their mouths meeting occasionally as they pass his cock between them, and Carly watches the choreography of it: the redhead taking him deep, her throat working around his thickness, the gag reflex suppressed through sheer determination; the blonde following with shallower strokes, her tongue tracing the vein that runs along the underside; the silver-haired woman still attending to his balls, her mouth warm and wet against the sensitive skin; the young wife kissing his hip, his thigh, anywhere she can reach.
And others, his buttocks, and his goddamn toes!
His chest. His nipples. Shoulder blades and back.
Carly fills a flute, sets it down, fills another.
Her movements are mechanical, automatic, while her attention stays fixed on her husband's face.
He's close—she can tell by the set of his jaw, the way his hand finds the redhead's hair not to guide but to anchor himself.
"Going to—" he warns, his voice usually pitched.
Eyes developing that rolling glaze.
The women don't pull away.
If anything, they press closer, and Carly watches him lose control with the same precision she brings to a perfect sauce reduction.
His hips thrust once, twice, and then he's coming, his cock pulsing, painting the redhead's lips, thick white strands painting her face, her dress, the blonde beside her who turns to catch some on her cheek like a blessing. A smudge hangs off another like a pearl earring.
But he doesn't stop. Trey's orgasm seems to trigger something in him, some reserve of stamina that Carly knows intimately but these women are discovering for the first time.
He stays hard, his breathing harsh, and the women respond with renewed enthusiasm, licking him clean, competing for the taste of him on their tongues. She stops counting as they suck her man off.
The redhead rises first, her face glazed with his spend, and presses herself against his chest. Carly watches her lick his collarbone, his shoulder, cleaning him with devoted thoroughness.
The blonde follows, her mouth finding his nipple, his ribs, the trail of hair that leads down his stomach.
The silver-haired woman stays lower, her attention still on his balls, his thighs, the sensitive skin behind his knees that Carly knows makes him shiver.
And the young wife—she turns, finally, and finds Carly watching.
Their eyes meet across the crowded tent, and Carly sees something there: recognition, maybe, or invitation.
The woman moves toward her, still on her knees, and Carly stands frozen with her tray of champagne as elegant fingers reach for her husband's cum on the young wife's cheek.
"Your husband," the woman says, her voice carrying despite the music, "tastes like salt and something else. Something green. Like herbs."
"Espresso," Carly hears herself reply. "He drinks too much espresso."
The woman smiles, and Carly sees the wedding ring on her finger, the matching band on the hand that now rises to touch Carly's own face.
She doesn't pull away as the woman traces her cheekbone, her jaw, leaving a faint trail of Trey's spend on her skin.
"You're not jealous," the woman observes. It's not quite a question.
"I'm busy," Carly says, but she doesn't move away.
The woman laughs, low and knowing, and returns to the circle where Trey is being worshipped anew.
Carly watches other women join in. They lick champagne from his chest where it was spilled in the chaos, their tongues finding the hollow of his throat, the ridges of his abdomen.
They press glasses against his balls, the cold crystal making him gasp, then drink from those same glasses with smiles that promise further decadence.
Someone has produced a bottle of the good champagne, the vintage that was meant for the mother-to-be's toast, and they're pouring it over him now, letting it run in rivers down his chest, his stomach, pooling at the base of his cock where the silver-haired woman laps it up with obvious pleasure.
Carly fills glasses, clears plates, maintains the illusion of a catering professional.
Trey catches her eye across the room. His hair is truly wild now, his skin flushed and wet with champagne and saliva and his own sweat, and his expression asks something she can't quite parse.
Permission to continue?
Gratitude for her presence?
Something darker, more complicated, about the nature of what they're becoming together?
Carly raises her champagne flute in a small salute.
She doesn't drink from it; she wants to remember this moment with perfect clarity, the taste of salt on her cheek where the young wife touched her, the sound of two hundred women breathing in unison as they watch her husband surrender to pleasure.
The mother-to-be approaches her, her pregnant belly leading the way, her eyes bright with alcohol and something else—approval, maybe, or calculation.
"Your husband," she says, "is the best entertainment ever for this type of party for our social set."
"We aim to please, we know how to cater," Carly replies, and her voice doesn't waver.
She looks back at the circle, at Trey surrounded by worshipful mouths, at the women who have forgotten their own names in service to his pleasure, and feels the strange weight of her grandmother's bracelet on her wrist.
A connection to something permanent, something real, in a moment that feels like it could dissolve into pure sensation.
Trey smiles at her, touches his wedding ring.
Thank Christ the assistant wheels out the mammoth cake.
That redirects the frenzied ladies until one smears cream on Trey's chest.
Suddenly, too many closest tarts have cream on their fingers and are beelining Trey.
The mother-to-be whispers in Carly's ear, "Whatever your remuneration was, it's now trebled."