They don’t know how horny you are.

They don’t know you’re struggling to stay still, to not squirm and make needy noises in front of your friends, to reveal what a pent-up perv you are.

They don’t know you’re not listening to any of their conversations, too busy with your filthy fantasies.

They don’t know how impatient you are for this party to end, so you can dash away and get yourself off.

They’re scattered around the room, chatting animatedly, laughing raucously, playing silly drinking games. And you’re in the corner, a living breathing meme, trying not to let your inner turmoil show. You’d never live it down.

You’re worried that if one of them noticed anything amiss, and asked you if you were OK, you’d blurt it out uncontrollably.

How achingly aroused you are.

How hard it is not to hump every item of furniture within reach.

How you’re imagining them stripping you down and taking turns with your hot little body, fucking you from either end until you climax all over the carpet...

You’d never be able to meet their eyes again.

A couple of them are quite near to you, engaged in conversation, occasionally glancing your way and smiling at you. You manage to grin back, hoping they don’t notice your flushed cheeks and your heavy breathing. One of them tells some joke that passes over your lust-fogged head, and you feign a laugh at the same time as your other friend, without the first clue what was so funny.

It feels like forever since you’ve cum.

When was the last time? It’s hard to remember. The only answer your brain can find is ‘too long ago’.

One of your friends looks at you with a curious smile, and you swallow hard. Do they know? Have they picked up on the aura of arousal emanating from you, so strong that you’re practically glowing with heat? You hope not. It’d be mortifying.

You want them to look away, and go back to their conversation.

You want them to grab you by the throat, pin you to the wall, and make out with you while you grind on their thigh.

“You good?” they say casually.

You nod, trying to appear totally nonchalant, even though you’re chalant as all hell.

“I mean, apart from being super turned on, right?” they say with a smirk.

You freeze, eyes wide, cheeks ablaze. You try to speak, to splutter a denial, but all that makes it out of your mouth is a feeble croak.

Your other friend sniggers. “Y’think we didn’t notice? Silly mutt. You’re so obvious.”

Past the two of them, you can see the rest of the friend group looking over, wearing mocking smiles of their own. You gape at the lot of them, horrified and humiliated and so, so horny.

Of course they know. They’ve known all along. Because you’ve done a truly terrible job of hiding it.

You thought you were playing it cool, standing in the corner, hiding how hot and bothered you were.

But every tiny squirm was ten times bigger and more noticeable than you thought it was.

Every desperate little whine and whimper that broke free of your throat was so much louder than they sounded in your ears.

Every covert caress of your own body was seen by one of your friends.

You thought you got away with sneaking over to the desk and grinding against that gorgeously sharp, hard corner, just for one second that passed all too quickly - but it was, in fact, several seconds.

They’ve been watching you, you suddenly realise. You thought you were outside their sphere of awareness, when in fact you’ve been the centre of attention all along, even standing over here in the corner.

They were chatting animatedly about you, and what a needy little mutt you are.

They were laughing raucously at you and your ‘subtle’ attempts to find some relief.

Their drinking games revolved around you - every time you moan, or touch yourself, whoever sees it calls it out, and everyone else has to drink. If someone catches you rubbing up on something, they pick someone to down their drink.

Your foggy one-track mind hadn’t even noticed it happening, but your insatiable libido has turned you from a party guest to the entertainment.

“Well, as amusing as this is,” says that friend who’d first called you out, “we can’t have you distracting everybody. This isn’t good manners at a party, is it, pet?”

A strangled whine is all you can manage in response. You look down at the floor, full of shame that only makes your sex throb harder.

“Yeah, you’d better get yourself taken care of,” the other nearby friend remarks. “Go cum in the closet.”

You blink, taken aback.

The next thing you know, you’re shutting the closet door behind you, yanking your pants down and getting on all fours.

You can’t quite believe how quickly you raced to do as they’d suggested. As they’d more or less ordered. But... well, you do need to cum. Fuck, you need to cum so badly.

But they’re all still out there. You can hear the continued rumble of speech, and mocking laughter.

Even shut away in here, you still feel exposed - particularly now you’re bowing down with your hand between your legs, your bare ass in the air.

The closet affords you some privacy - and the pair of freshly-laundered white socks that you grabbed from the floor and stuffed in your mouth help to muffle your moans.

But it doesn’t actually matter if they can’t see you, or hear you.

They know what you’re doing in here.

They know you’ve hidden yourself in some small, dark space just so you can get yourself off, because you can’t wait a second longer.

They know you need to cum right this minute, even with all of them just outside, because you’re a depraved, desperate little mutt.

Your awareness of that - and the sound of one particularly loud laugh at the same instant that your fingers move in just the right way - takes you right over the edge.

You cum, all over the carpeted floor of the closet, your face buried in the soft surface, your hand moving manically between your legs, your stifled scream of ecstasy nowhere near loud enough to drown out the taunting of your friends outside.

Your back half slumps to the floor, heedless that you’re lying in the mess you made. You prop your head up on your arms, elbows in the carpet, sweaty and panting. As you rest there in that position for a moment, head in your sticky hands, eyes still crossed from the moment of release... some post-coital clarity enters your brain.

And now you know.

Now you remember.

Now you realise what’s really going on.

You know that they’re more than your friends.

You know they’re your partners.

You know they’re your owners.

You know you belong to them.

You know you’re all in a kinky polycule together, sets of couples and throuples with interweaving dynamics, all arranged into an elegant, ever-shifting hierarchy of hypnotic dominants, mischievous switches, and compliant subs.

You know that you’re consensually, happily, eagerly at the bottom of the pile.

You know you’re the friend group’s brainwashed, enslaved, endlessly horny housepet. The one that any of them can play with, turning your memories and perceptions against you, making your mind their playground and your body their toy.

They love to tease you, and embarrass you, and make you do all sorts of dumb things for their amusement.

They love to work you up, and deny you, and frustrate you - only giving you the release you crave when they’ve thought of a particularly demeaning way to do it.

They love to use you, to treat you like a fleshlight, idly shoving your face between their legs and getting themselves off even while they dominate someone else in the polycule.

You know, now, that you agreed to all that’s transpired tonight. You have agency as a subject, always, and you could’ve rejected the suggestion when it was posed to you in trance.

But there’s very little you wouldn’t do at your lovers’ say-so. And they know your rare few limits. This whole scenario falls well within them.

Because you love to be humiliated.

You love to be demeaned and dehumanised.

You love to be treated like a dumb, oversexed animal, obliviously whining and whimpering and writhing in front of them all for hours on end, before being stowed away in your cum closet so you can get the most ridiculous, degrading release possible, while they listen.

And now you ease the door open and crawl out on all fours, and look up at your owners, all gathered around.

You gaze at their loving, laughing faces, and their barely-dressed bodies, and the gallery of genitalia they’ll want you to satisfy with your skilful tongue.

And you know life doesn’t get any better than this.