“He shifted his attention to the central entertainment. Twelve female servants, all naked and kneeling in a circle. To enhance the impression of a flower in the best Isadora Duncan tradition, they were curled forward, their elbows and arms stretched out, foreheads pressed to the stones. Since they all had long hair in various colors, the hair was fanned out in a perfect shape, trimmed to form scalloping around the outer edge of the circle. Real flower petals in different hues were scattered over their backs. In the center of the circle formed by their bodies stood twelve black men of extremely dark complexion, also naked. They had their heads bowed and arms around each other’s shoulders so the overall effect was of a white-petaled flower with a brown center, like a daisy scattered with color from those strewn petals.
At Belizar’s gesture, the black men moved forward and knelt, one man behind each woman. A motor engaged, eliciting a murmur from the assembled, because the men had been concealing a sculpture anchored on the mirrored center of a dais that now rose to form a new center within the flower arrangement. The sculpture was a smooth, stylized version of a reclined nude male body, with all the dips necessary to drape a woman over it in a variety of provocative poses. The nude body also had an erect, angled phallus.
As if this wasn’t enough to make him spurt, the black men, their oiled bodies gleaming, had taken hold of the “petals” and lifted their hips so they were straight legged. Each woman’s ankle crossed over the woman next to her, an organic binding that would make the vibration of their movements ripple throughout the whole circle. The men drove their cocks in as the women’s voices, aroused by what was going on above them, cried out in unison. The noise rose and connected them, creating an aphrodisiac Jacob suspected was far stronger than what had been around the slave girl’s neck.
The women threw their heads back at the same time, the flow of hair like the toss of a sheet of silk in the air, a rippling wave of multiple colors. The men wrapped their big hands in it like reins, holding them at painful, revealing angles, breasts hanging down loosely and quivering from the shock as the men’s cocks pounded into them.
The dais was turning—when had that happened? His gaze was full of the tableau from every angle, thanks to his lady and his own eyes. A dozen pale female asses, bobbing up. Dark, tightly packed ass muscles clenching as the men beat their cocks into the tight rosebud channels.
As one, the men in the circle below pulled out and took their organs in hand for one, two quick strokes. The women spun around on their knees, their arms braced behind them, knees spread wide, bodies rising in an arch, heads tipped back. The men’s release shot against their breasts, so much like a fountain it couldn’t help but impress the assembled gathering.
The viscous white fluids spilled down the women’s flat bellies, pooled in their navels and slowed like molasses, drawing the eyes down to the smooth mounds.
The Mark of the Vampire Queen - Joey W. Hill