The Estate Party – Full Descent & Final Reckoning
The private estate outside the city had become a temple of excess by midnight. Twenty-three adults—pre-vetted, STI-tested, consent checklists signed in triplicate—had gathered under the guise of a discreet weekend retreat. Mama Delores, fifty-eight, gloriously fat, naked except for silver nipple rings and a heavy leather collar, ruled as house mother and ringmaster. Senator Hargrove, sixty-four, silver-haired, athletic from decades of taxpayer-funded tennis, knelt naked at the center of the sunken living room, blindfolded, cuffed, cock already leaking in anticipation.
Strings of amber bulbs illuminated the scene. A long table held tubs of “Yesterday’s Meal,” “Protein Blend,” “Fresh Catch,” whipped cream, molasses, bananas, and warm oatmeal—everything pre-fermented for maximum texture and stench.
First came the marking. The sissies—eight feminized subs in stockings, garters, heavy makeup, chastity cages—circled Hargrove and unleashed crisscrossing streams of piss that soaked his chest, matted his silver hair, pooled around his straining erection. They squatted in turn, pushing soft, warm loads onto his tongue, cheeks, throat. He swallowed eagerly, moaning as the mess slid down his chin.
The BBW dommes joined, smearing handfuls of scat across his body like war paint. Delores went last—her massive, shitty ass descending to ride his face, grinding until he was a glistening brown-yellow mask, tongue buried deep while she rocked.
Then the tops—Jamal, Marcus, and the rest, all towering, thick-veined Black men—took him. They flipped him, lubed him generously, and fucked him open in brutal strokes while sissies cheered and fingered each other. Flogging followed: suede and rubber lashes across his back and ass, each strike making him clench around invading cocks. Food play intensified—whipped cream mixed with scat, force-fed with fingers and shafts; chocolate syrup drizzled over his balls and licked clean.
Watersports continued in waves—anyone needing to piss simply aimed at his body, his face, his cock. Hargrove came untouched twice, body convulsing in the growing filth.
They carried him to the outdoor slime pool: a shallow inflatable filled with warm industrial lube, molasses, shortening, oatmeal, and fermented contributions. He sank into it on his back; Delores straddled his chest, scooping sludge to smear his face and force-feed him. Sissies pissed and shat in unison—soft coils and liquid bursts raining down. BBWs added heavy logs that broke apart across his torso.
Jamal and Marcus fisted him in tandem—knuckles past the wrist, forearms sinking deep, twisting and pumping while his body jerked. Delores rode his face again, shitty ass enveloping him completely. More piss, more scat, more flogging—rubber lashes splashing slime in arcs. He came again, untouched, ropes mixing into the mire.
The associates—Hargrove’s political inner circle and celebrity-adjacent friends—watched from the deck chairs, masturbating furiously. Gray-haired former chief of staff, silver-templed lobbyist, media figures—all stroking as sissies and BBWs fed Hargrove mouthful after mouthful. One associate came hard watching a BBW smear fresh scat like frosting across the senator’s chest.
Then Delores called them in.
The associates waded into the pool, cocks rigid. Sissies swarmed—bent over edges, mouths open, asses presented. The older men fucked them hard—slamming into slick holes, balls slapping smeared cheeks, while tops claimed the associates from behind.
Jamal mounted the lobbyist mid-thrust, stretching his unprepared ass wide. Marcus flipped the chief of staff onto all fours and railed him balls-deep. Spit-roasts formed: associates fucked sissies while huge cocks pounded their own holes. Piss sprayed from every direction—sissies marking bodies, tops unloading inside stretched rims, scat pushed out whenever a cock withdrew.
The pool became one sliding, grunting mass—cocks in every hole, asses filled and emptied, loads leaking into the slurry. Associates came inside sissy asses, across smeared faces, down throats already full of filth. Tops roared, flooding older men with thick spurts that dripped out in brown-yellow rivers.
Hargrove lay at the center through it all, fed stray mouthfuls, occasionally pissed on, occasionally fisted again. His body was a living altar of layered degradation—ecstatic, trembling, green.
As the last peaks faded, the group collapsed in the muck—panting, tangled, spent. Delores waded through, feeding final handfuls of slime to whoever was closest. Soft green checks echoed.
Then came aftercare: outdoor showers, hot tubs, blankets, gentle touches, water bottles, whispered praises. Laughter replaced moans. Someone cracked open champagne.
In the gray dawn, as the estate quieted, the satire settled like sediment.
Senator Hargrove—still streaked, still smiling—sat wrapped in a clean robe on a lounge chair. His associates gathered around, cocks soft, bodies glistening from the showers.
One lobbyist raised a glass. “To the bill that’ll never pass committee.”
Another chuckled. “And to the constituents who’ll never know how we really reach across the aisle.”
Hargrove lifted his own glass, voice hoarse but amused. “Gentlemen… and gentle-ladies… we just proved democracy isn’t dead. It’s just very, very dirty. And bipartisan as fuck.”
Delores, now in a silk kimono, leaned down and kissed his filthy forehead. “Next session, we pass the ‘Transparency in Governance Act.’ Mandatory body cams… in the bedroom.”
Laughter rolled across the estate.
Somewhere in the city, voters would wake to another press release about “restoring dignity to public life.” But here, in the afterglow of the most consensual filth imaginable, the real power brokers knew the truth:
Politics is a contact sport.
And the dirtiest deals are sealed with tongues, fists, and trust.
The sun rose. The estate emptied quietly.
The next invitation was already drafting itself.
**The End.**
