Pleasure Tribute
The marble floors of Graves Premiere click beneath Randy's sneakers like he's walking through a cathedral built for the dead and the vain.
He shifts his weight from foot to foot in the lobby.
The elevator ride up from the street had been silent, mirrored, reflecting his flushed face at him until he looked away.
Hell, another MILF. This one, he has heard, is forty-four.
Joy Graves emerges from double doors at the far end of the corridor, and the sound of her heels arrests his attention before he can process her fully.
Stilettos like weapons, four inches minimum, humming with the rhythm of a vibrator at maximum speed.
She wears black—always black—but it is architectural, asymmetrical, silk lapels catching the recessed lighting like she's stepped out of a dark noir porn scene.
The fascinator on her head angles precisely, obscuring something, promising something.
A secret like a sparkling butt plug in her tush.
"Randy Peacock."
Her tongue rolls at the 'randy.'
Her lips smack at the 'cock'
Her clipboard, diamond-encrusted, catches light as she consults it.
"Mavis's boy. She described you; you know. Said you'd have that look—the one that says you've been educated recently and haven't finished processing the lesson."
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
"Don't speak," she says, and turns on her heel. "Follow."
The Elysian Showcase lives up to its name in the way a wet dream spurts to its logical conclusion.
Crystal chandeliers hang suspended over an open casket display currently occupied by a mannequin in Mavis's approximate dimensions, dressed in something plum and expensive.
Poor Mavis, her casket on a plane somewhere between Naples and Sydney.
A champagne fountain weeps from an angel's eyes in the corner.
The air carries lilies and Chanel No. 5 and something else—lacquer, maybe, or the particular ozone scent of digital screens, because one wall scrolls through Instagram photos of a woman Randy recognises from Mavis's albums: younger, sharper, always at the centre of frame. Endless parties.
"Your aunt," Joy says, "wanted to be remembered. Not mourned. There's a difference."
She gestures with her clipboard, a swish like a bondage whip.
"The service will be here. Standing room only—she requested it. No chairs. No one sits at Mavis's farewell. They witness."
Randy nods, throat dry.
His eyes keep catching the ice sculptures in the corner—Pomeranians, melting slowly into silver trays, their faces already softening.
"But that's not why you're here today." Joy's berry-dark mouth curves.
"Mavis left me something. A collection. She said you'd need to see it. That it would explain her better than any pathetic eulogy."
She leads him through a side door, down a narrow staircase, into what must have been a storage room once. Now it's climate-controlled, lit with museum precision, and the walls hold—
"Oh," Randy breathes.
Glass cases.
Dozens of them.
Arranged with the curatorial eye he recognises from Randi's appraisal of the Beardsley folio, but the contents are not ink on paper.
Phallic.
All of them.
Ceramic and glass and carved wood and polished stone, arranged by era, by material, by apparent girth.
A history of human desire in three dimensions, catalogued with the same care Mavis applied to her Aubrey Beardsleys.
Joy moves to a central case, her heels now muffled by carpet.
She taps the glass with one manicured nail.
"The prize. Eighteenth century. Ivory. Nine inches, though they always exaggerate—" she pauses, considers, "—no. This one doesn't need to."
The piece catches light like honey, like bone, like something that lived and was transformed.
Well fuck it was.
Ivory worked into a non-stop boner for a woman's pleasure.
Randy can see the grain of it, the patina of centuries of handling, the carved ridges near the base that suggest a craftsman's understanding of anatomy before anatomy was permitted to be understood.
"Sourced in a convent," Joy says. "Do you know what that means? A religious community. Women. Bound together by vows. This was their secret. Their prayer, maybe. Their rebellion, certainly."
She turns to face him, and her smirk has softened into something more difficult to read.
"Mavis believed you had potential. You could learn. She said you'd probably need instruction. All young men need a MILF in their lives."
Randy's hands find his pockets.
His cock, traitor, stirs against his jeans.
"Show me," Joy says, "what you know about preparation."
She lifts her tuxedo dress with deliberate theatricality—not removing it, but raising the fabric, revealing stockings held by garters, black lace, and beneath that, her private architecture of femininity.
Fuckin had to be waxed.
Brazilian pain for consensual gain.
Her vulva skin flushed, the seam of her slit visible, the hood of her clit pouting where she's already begun to swell.
God!
What a neat flesh construction.
Puffy folds, the hint of lipettes, a cowl containing a bud, seeking to pop out.
"Spit," she commands.
"Not on your hand. On me. Directly. Make it count."
He hesitates.
She doesn't.
"Randy be randy. Mavis didn't leave you her apartment to be cautious."
He leans in.
The scent of her—expensive perfume, yes, but beneath it something sharper, musk and arousal—fills his nose.
He gathers saliva, lets it pool, and releases it.
It falls short, landing on her thigh, sliding down her stocking.
"Again," she says. "Closer. Commit."
The second attempt lands on her mound, warm and viscous, beginning its slow descent.
A slushy, gooey dribble of promise.
She watches it travel, her expression clinical, assessing.
"Acceptable. But spread me. Spit into my hole."
His finger's part her lips.
His wad hits her hollow.
Droplets splatter on her lipettes and dribble down her outer folds.
A creamy smear of her own fem-jus joins the sloshy party.
She is not passive in this; she tilts her hips toward his touch, demanding more pressure, more coverage.
He works additional moisture into her folds, around her clit, watching her face for the minute changes—eyelids lowering, breath deepening, the corner of that berry mouth softening.
"More spit," she orders.
He launches a barrage at her pussy.
A mouth salvo backed with gusty smutty gumption.
Fuck, they have the string.
It sways between her flaps and his lips.
They both watch it break.
He goes to insert a finger.
"Ah-No! Just spit!"
He fires into her exposed inner florets with the rapidity of a Gatling gun.
Her mound gleams.
Her lipettes are glossed.
"Now," she says, and retrieves the ivory piece from its case with gloved hands—black latex, suddenly present, snapping into place with practised efficiency.
She removes the gloves, passes the warmed ivory to him.
"Test your education."
It's heavier than he expects, dense, the surface smooth but not slick.
He understands, suddenly, why she had him spit—this needs lubrication, needs preparation, needs him to understand that penetration is not automatic but earned.
He presses the carved head against her, where his spit has prepared her.
She doesn't flinch.
He pushes, and the resistance is real, substantial, before she opens around it, the ivory disappearing into her inch by deliberate inch.
She coos, "Mmm! Aahh! Mmm! Aahh! Mmm!"
Her head tilts back, the fascinator catching light, her chignon immaculate even as her mouth opens on a sound that is not quite words.
"Move it," she gasps. "Like you mean it."
He does.
He finds a rhythm, watching her face, watching the ivory emerge glistening before he presses it back, deeper, angling until her breath catches and he knows he's found the place inside her that matters.
"Oohh! Fuck! Yes! There! There! Fuck! Yes! Oohh! My! Aahh! Aahh!"
Her hands grip the edge of the display case, and he keeps the pace steady, relentless, the slap of the carved base against her wet flesh becoming audible and necessary.
He watches the beauty of her folds as they capture the ivory.
Pussies deserve a stiff filling.
"Fast"
He pushes at a relentless speed.
"Faster"
He jags and prods like a jackhammer.
She cries out.
"Orrghh! Fuck! Arragghh!"
Her hands over her mound.
Her release is a fem-peak of ecstasy.
God, she stills the toy as she quivers from her belly to her thighs.
MILF sexual assertion returns quickly.
She gestures to a velvet chaise, positioned like a throne in the corner.
"Lie down. On your back. Your jeans—" she waits while he fumbles them down, his cock springing free, dark and leaking and untouched for what feels like days, "—good. Now. Your reward."
She doesn't touch him with her hands.
Instead, she straddles his legs, still wearing the tuxedo dress, the stilettos that click against the chaise's wooden frame as she positions herself.
She gathers more spit—he watches her mouth work, the deliberate gathering—and lets it fall onto his cock, warm and shocking.
Globs of spit dripping along the length of a stiff boner.
Fuck, she brings her feet into play.
She removes one stiletto, then the other, and her feet are elegant, high-arched, the toenails painted the same berry dark as her lips.
She presses them together around his shaft, the spit providing slickness, and begins to move.
The sensation is unlike anything—pressure from both sides, the visual of her feet working him, her eyes watching his face for reaction.
She adds more spit, letting it string between her lips and his cock before she spreads it with her toes, and the wet sounds fill the room, rubbing and rhythmic.
Toes as fingers massaging his pecker.
Exquisite tactile pressure as his cock is bathed in spit.
"You're going to come for me," she says.
Her feet move faster, the arches creating a channel, the compression building.
He is moaning, he realises, sounds escaping him that he can't control.
"Orrghh! Fuck! That is unreal! Fuck! Orrghh! Aahh!"
His hips buck against her feet, seeking more friction, more pressure, and she allows it, adjusts, her toes curling around his head on each upstroke, spreading his pre-cum and her spit in equal measure.
His cock spurts between her feet, thick ropes of cum that she catches, that she spreads with her arches, that she uses to continue stroking him through the afterbeats until he is shaking, oversensitive, begging for her to stop without words.
She holds him there, at the edge of too much, until his breathing steadies.
Then she withdraws her feet, examines the cum droplets with clinical interest, and reaches for a silk handkerchief from her dress pocket.
"The Wake," she says, cleaning herself with precise movements, "is where we continue. Mavis requested specific rituals. Specific attendees. You will be central to them."
She meets his eyes, and her smirk returns, full force.
"I promise you. More. Much more. And you appear ready."
Randy lies on the velvet, jeans around his ankles, chest heaving, the evidence of his release cooling on his stomach.
Above him, the glass cases hold centuries of desire.
Before him, Joy Graves adjusts her fascinator, checks her clipboard, and clicks toward the stairs on bare feet, carrying her stilettos by their straps like trophies.
"At the wake," she calls back, "Wear something that can be removed quickly. MILFs hate delay."