Date Night Pt 05 Finale

In that moment, I was grateful for the man still gripping my wrists. His touch was grounding, something tangible to focus on as I tried to pull myself back together. My senses felt scrambled, my mind still chasing the fragments of pleasure and overstimulation. Someone nearby muttered something about me barely being able to stand, let alone walk, and despite the haze, I caught a note of genuine concern in his voice. A small, distant part of me appreciated it--was even touched by it. There was something gentle in his tone, almost fatherly.

It was nothing like the part of me that had been front and center for the last... how long? Thirty minutes? An hour? I had no concept of time. If someone had put a gun to my head and demanded I name every man I'd been with tonight, I'd be as good as dead. I had been so eager--eager to please, eager to be the center of attention, eager to push myself to the edge and feel every extreme possible. And now, in this small sliver of stillness, all I could feel was... chaos.

And I hated feeling the chaos.

For too long, it had ruled my life, creeping in where it wasn't wanted, turning simple things into messes that didn't need to exist. I had spent years trying to quiet it, trying to control it. If I hadn't met my husband--the man who would become Sir--I shuddered to think of how careless I might have been. He carried a sense of focus, of planned determination, that I had only ever dreamed of possessing myself.

I bit my lip to keep it from quivering. Suddenly, I no longer wanted a stranger holding me.

"I'm fine," I announced, the words sharper than I intended. I pulled my wrists free, feeling the absence of restraint like a sudden gust of cold air.

The men around me immediately pulled back, their presence shifting into the periphery.

I sat up, forcing my vision to steady on a random spot on the floor as I tucked my hands under my thighs. My throat felt tight, but I swallowed against it, cleared my voice, and spoke the word loud and firm.

"STORM."

A beat of silence. Then, movement--furniture shifting, quick footsteps closing in.

The scent of his cologne reached me first, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. A second later, his hand cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing against my skin as he entered my field of vision. I exhaled, and some unseen weight lifted from my chest.

Sir's voice was low but commanding as he addressed the others. "Give us some space."

I barely registered their departure before his forehead pressed against mine, the warmth of his skin anchoring me further.

"Lisa..."

Hearing my name in his voice cracked something open inside me. The swarm of doubt, the restless, frantic energy in my head--it all began to dissipate. Storm was our version of yellow, our signal that one of us needed immediate attention but didn't want the night to end.

"Lisa," he repeated, softer this time. "What do you need, baby?"

I turned to him fully, cupping his face in return. My fingers traced the line of his jaw as a slow, relieved smile formed on my lips. The tension, the static in my mind, all of it started to fade.

"This," I whispered. "I was getting squirrelly in my head, and I needed it to stop."

Then, quickly, before he could misinterpret, I added, "The squirrelly-ness, not the fucking."

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"So you want to continue?" His eyes searched mine, steady, unwavering. "You're sure? Because all this ends the moment you say it does. We get all our stuff, we walk out of here, and we hit up that burger joint on 5th with those fries you love."

At the mere mention of those fries, saliva pooled under my tongue. My smile widened into a grin, but I shook my head. "No, I'm good now. I asked for this, and you made it happen. I don't want to waste it. It was just... all of a sudden too much. It felt like a drop?" I exhaled, shaking my head again, unwilling to let myself spiral back into that feeling. "Besides, I got this plug in once, and I don't think I'll be able to do it again." My humor was returning, my body catching up to the ease in my mind.

Sir smirked, brushing his thumb over my cheek once more. "If you're sure..."

"Yes, my love. I am sure."

His gaze lingered on mine for a moment before he nodded. "Then we'll move on to the last part of the evening." His smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more expectant. "You know what I need you to say."

Of course, I knew. Storm was our equivalent of calling a time-out in any sport or playground game--the moment everything paused until the person who called it was ready to continue. Maybe this wasn't as much of a roller coaster as I had made it out to be.

I straightened, steadying my breath as I met his eyes.

"All clear, Sir."

His lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Good girl."

The warmth of his hand left my face, but before he could pull away completely, I reached for it. He leaned in, one brow arching in silent question.

And at that moment, I realized I already knew what I wanted next.

I had started this evening as a slave to sensation. I wanted to be overwhelmed, taken in every way the circumstances would allow. I had left myself at the mercy of everyone else's decisions, and in that surrender, I was not disappointed. But I was surprised.

There existed a threshold that couldn't be crossed, a limit to the amount of pleasure and pain my body and brain could process and appreciate.

And that... was frustrating.

Sure, I could have let Sir announce to the room that the activities would continue, that we were moving into the final act of the evening and everyone there could jerk off into the tunnel plug in my ass-- but that would just be another instance of someone else holding the reins.

A part of me was done with being passive.

No. The final act--this--would happen on my terms.

I would be the one to trigger the epic ending.

And the audience, the men who had so wondrously performed this entire evening?

None of them would see it coming.

"I'm going to change things up a little bit," I whispered to my husband.

His lips parted, the idea of a question hanging on them, and then, just as quickly, abandoned. The years of our sexual exchanges had built a trust that didn't require words. He knew me, knew the way my mind worked, the way I thrived on anticipation and control just as much as I did surrender. And he trusted, without a doubt, that I wasn't planning anything that hadn't already been discussed, agreed upon, and woven into the fabric of our past adventures.

Instead, he smirked and nodded, the gleam in his eyes shifting--less questioning, more intrigued.

Sir's approval was implicit, but still, the weight of it settled deep in my chest, grounding me in a way that only he could.

I exhaled, my pulse kicking up in that sweet, electric way, and let my own smirk answer him in return.

It was time.

Turning from my husband, I stepped forward as he moved in the opposite direction, his presence shifting into the background. The room stretched before me, humming with anticipation, bodies lingering in the periphery, waiting. But I wasn't looking for them.

I was looking for him.

The first. The one who had used me so thoroughly at the start of the night, who had set the tone for everything that followed. The one whose touch still lingered like a ghost along my scalp, reminiscent in every fist that gripped my hair that night.

And there he was--leaning against the stage, arms folded across his chest, watching. Not eager. Not expectant. Just there, as if my moment of respite had been a mild inconvenience rather than a necessary pause.

The smug bastard.

My chin dipped an inch, my eyes locking onto his, the shift in my gaze unmistakable. What had been soft, submissive moments ago turned sharp, laced with something darker, something feral. If he thought I was done--if any of them thought I was done--he was about to learn just how wrong he was.

I smiled. My hand rose, forefinger extended as if to curse the man at the end of it. I pointed at him very clearly.

His hand came to his chest in feigned surprise. He mouthed the word, Me?

"Yes, you," I said while nodding. "I need you to come take this seat right next to me....please?"

I'd allowed him to use me, to invade my throat repeatedly, choke me and deprive me of oxygen by thrusting his cock as he pulled me forward by my hair. And here I was, beckoning him to return and do it again.

Though maybe not the same way.

I watched as he pushed off the stage, his movements slow, deliberate--a sensual saunter that carried the weight of his confidence. He knew something had shifted, that the energy between us was no longer the same. But curiosity was a powerful thing, and he was far too intrigued to resist. I understood. A room full of gorgeous men, full of sexual prowess and skill. And here I am, the only woman, singling you out for personal attention?

My smile never wavered, even as I tracked the subtle tension in his body, the way every fiber of his legs, torso, and arms activated in anticipation. He was preparing himself, bracing for whatever I had planned.

He thought he was ready. And that? That was adorable.

He stood in front of me, still intent on claiming dominance, assuming I would effortlessly slide back into the submissive servicing of his cock.

I won't lie--I noticed the evidence of his arousal as he closed the distance between us. He carried a predatory energy all his own, one that electrified the space between us, thick and potent. And I won't pretend there wasn't a part of me that responded to it, that my body didn't instinctively recognize the unspoken command in his presence.

But I had no intention of yielding.

A different instinct had hold of me now.

I looked up at him, my eyes wide, a coy smile curling at my lips.

"You want me to fuck that pussy now?"

He reached out, fingers aiming for my cheek, a gesture meant to soothe or claim--I wasn't sure which. Either way, I had to fight the sudden, wicked urge to snap my teeth at him. Instead, I shook my head, keeping my expression playful as I patted the cushion beside me.

"You seemed to enjoy fucking my face so much earlier...I thought we could do it again."

His eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly, dropping from mine to my lips--the same ones he had slapped with his cock and crushed against his eager body just an hour or so ago. I let my tongue slip out, tracing my lower lip with deliberate slowness, teasing him with the memory of just how hot, wet, and eager my mouth had been around him.

Then, I dropped my gaze too, letting it trail down the length of his body, pausing at the hard, thick length standing at attention not six inches from my face. I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around his girth, my grip featherlight at first. A slow, pleased hum vibrated in my throat as I took in the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulsed in my palm.

And I couldn't help but be a little surprised--he was even more aroused than before.

Perfect.

The moment my fingers tightened around him, he inhaled sharply, a barely restrained shudder rippling through his frame. His eyes stayed locked on my mouth, his pupils dark and unfocused, his breath uneven. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, he took a slow step to the left--entranced, surrendering, the control he thought he had slipping away with every passing second. And then, he took his seat.

I found myself salivating, not just from memory but from the thrill rooted in his compliance. I slid to the floor from my seat, never releasing his cock, and slowly crawled between his legs on my free hand and knees. I hoped the image of me crawling to him, kneeling on the floor in front of him like a good girl, watching me rise from my tripod position with my breasts framing his erection, would further disarm him. He absorbed the sight with what I could only describe as admiration and anticipation, as if he didn't know, or didn't care, where the stimulation came from next.

I bent at the waist, never breaking eye contact with him. Parting my lips, I extended my tongue, first making contact with one side of his gradually tightening ball sack before dragging my tongue slowly along his shaft until it reached the tip of his head. I repeated the motion, starting on the other side of his testicles this time and making sure he saw just how messy and wet I would be leaving his cock. The trail of saliva glistened along his smooth, taut skin under the auditorium lights as I repeated the motion--two, three, four more times. Each slow, deliberate pass of my tongue left a wet sheen in its wake, marking him as mine in the moment.

At the end of that fourth pass, I swallowed the whole of his head, sealing my lips around his thickness, my cheeks hollowing as I created the gentlest, most tantalizing suction. My tongue moved with purpose, circling the firm, pulsing flesh that rested heavily on it.

"Fuck..."

The word slipped from his lips, raw and unguarded.

I felt the weight of it, the shudder in his breath as my hand, still slick with the saliva I had left behind, began to stroke his shaft from base to tip, slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of my mouth. Even the lightest touch, the barest hint of suction, seemed to unravel him. I dipped lower, taking more of him, taking him deeper, my lips nearly meeting the plane of his navel before retreating again, teasing, playing.

"I had a pretty good seat earlier," he mused, though his voice was tight with restraint. "Sitting back, watching my friends use you. I specifically liked how you kept that plug in your ass while two cocks fucked that pussy. My god, the sounds you were making...it sounded like they were splitting you in two."

Heat curled in my belly at his words. I had been there, lost in it, and yet hearing him recount it--relishing every detail--tickled something wicked inside me.

But then his gaze flickered--just past me, over my left shoulder. I knew that look. I had seen it too many times tonight not to recognize what it meant. Someone else was approaching.

That wouldn't do.

The wet, lewd pop as I pulled my mouth from him echoed in the space between us, leaving him behind messy, glistening, and pulsing with need. I sat back on my heels, still on my knees, and turned my head just in time to catch the man behind me lowering himself, prepared to join in. His gaze met mine, expectant, just like the one in front of me. He thought I would simply kneel there and take it.

He wasn't the only one who had expectations.

I tilted my head, my expression calm, and shook it once. Slowly, my answer to his erect cock, still waving and leaking an almost profuse amount of precum. His arousal was obvious, his desire for my tight warmth dripping from him, but I had no intention of being derailed. Not yet.

His brows furrowed in confusion. I'd have to make it clearer.

"Not. Yet."

Each word came sharp, deliberate, carrying the same dark energy now stirring deep in my core. The second word stretched, curling into a feral, devious smile--one that promised mischief.

And that? That he understood immediately.

Satisfied that he--and the others--would wait until I decided they could touch me again, I turned back to the man before me. My grin remained, a sharp flash of teeth meant to amuse and unnerve all at once, aimed directly at him. I was in control now.

And he knew it. They all knew it now.

I moved closer to him and instead of bending at the waist, I leaned forward.

"If you're talking...I must be doing something wrong. Maybe I should stop...or pick someone else," I taunted.

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, my hands moved to press my breasts together around the cock that stood straight, just under my chin. His mouth gaped, taking in the sight of me enveloping his length, seemingly robbed of whatever words he'd prepared to retort. It seems that despite starting with my mouth, my first admirer was a boob-man.

It seemed I finally had him where I wanted him so I began my movements, stroking his cock from base to tip with my tits as his eyes remained transfixed on my chest.

As wet as his cock still was, you could hear the sound of my skin sliding against his, the sound one who's fucked a pair of tits would recognize instantly. The sound is a deep, slick glide--thick and wet, a slow, deliberate stroke. It's subtle resistance, a faint suction-like pull as moisture clings and releases. A muffled squelch, a warm, rhythmic slip that is intimate and primal. An erotic symphony of friction, heat, and need.

I smiled as his thighs tensed, the ripple of strain traveling up through his core. His breath hitched, quickened, and I knew I had him teetering on the edge. But I wasn't done--not yet.

I wanted to wind him just a little tighter.

The next time I descended, letting my chest brush his thighs, I parted my lips wider, allowing the swollen head of his cock to emerge just enough for my tongue to flick beneath it. A teasing stroke, deliberate and featherlight. My eyes caught his reaction--a sharp inhale, a twitch of his fingers against the cushion beside him.

Perfect.

I rose again, my eyes locking onto his as I swallowed both his cock and the heat of his stare. I savored both, enjoying the fraying of his will as the prelude to his eventual orgasm. His mouth hung open, his jaw slack, his expression caught somewhere between desperation and awe.

Yes. I had him.

This time, when I lowered myself, I took him deeper, pushing past my limits, my neck stretching to accommodate every thick inch I could while keeping him firmly planted between my breasts.

I set a rhythm, alternating between shallow, teasing flicks of the tongue and deeper, unrelenting descents, each one calculated to keep him right there--balanced on the knife's edge of control. Between movements, I stole glances at his face, scanning every tightening muscle, every barely restrained shudder.

He would fall apart, and I would swallow every piece of him.

His hand suddenly abandoned the death grip it had maintained on the cushion and found my hair again, just as it had earlier that evening.

"You want it that badly?"

His voice was no longer that of a smooth, cocksure dominant but strained and wild, and dare I say...perhaps a little angry. It was a frustration borne out of one's will to end things on their terms, so it was one I understood all too well this evening.

He'd begun thrusting his hips, continuing to fuck my breasts as he held me in place to keep my mouth free. My smile returned.

"Your cock? Your cum?" I questioned playfully. I offered nothing more than opening my mouth and allowing my unreasonably long tongue to answer the question for him.

And that was it. Whatever sound he made at the sight of my gesture could barely be called human. It was the sound of surrender, of pleasure so overwhelming it stripped him of words, of thought, of anything but the need to finish.

His hands tightened, fingers threading through my hair with a force that sent a thrill down my spine, and then he pulled, dragging me farther down onto his climax, onto the throbbing heat of him as he lost himself completely.

His hips bucked, no longer careful, no longer measured. He wasn't searching for my throat anymore--he was simply using me, fucking my mouth with unrestrained hunger, reducing me to nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. And then it came, pulsing against my tongue, jet after jet of thick, hot reward.

His words, though ragged, were sharp with command.

"Swallow..."

"Take it all..."

"Or choke on it--I don't care."

But here was the truth: this moment, this night, this entire experience--it was mine.

I was the one who found this group of men and their services. I sought these men out. I vetted them, ensuring their reputations, their reliability, their health--every last one of them tested within the last three months, each one capable of producing fresh papers upon request.