The night was going really well. It was a formal dinner, that my very dear friend had invited me to; a bunch of her workmates had invited us to a black-tie dinner at a very fancy restaurant, for the benefit of some-charity-or-other. Forgive me if I can't remember all the details, for I had spent too long memorising only the particulars that mattered to me.
Tess looked divine that night. She had dressed in a long, flowing black number, tightly fitting to flatter and accentuate her best assets: a gorgeous and fulsome bosom, beautiful womanly curves, and a damn fine rump to boot. The dress was nicely cut in front to allow the person sitting beside her (that would be me!) to peek quite deeply down her cleavage, and though it flowed nearly to her ankles, it had a split running quite high up the front of her left leg – a split which I had been taking free advantage.
Happily, the table at which we sat with half-a-dozen of Tess' colleagues had a long, thick table cloth that spilled generously over the edges of the table; employing this as cover, I had been laying my hands quite cheekily all over Tess throughout the evening, slipping my fingers into the split in the dress to tease and toy with the top and inner-side of her thigh.
I could tell, even through our discretion, that Tess was greatly enjoying my teasing. She wore an enormous smile through the night, a smile that spoke of the hidden joke that she shared with me. And even as her colleagues laughed and talked amongst themselves and talked to us, I kept teasing Tess, and she kept shooting quick little looks at me: looks that said "Mark, you are wicked. Absolutely wicked... but please, don't stop."
Suddenly and unexpectedly, Tess excused herself and rose from her seat. I assumed that she had merely gone to 'powder her nose', and during her absence I made conversation with her rowdy, merry workmates. They all seemed to like me, their approval transmitted in the usual, loud, boisterous and brash American way – I must have been a novelty to them, with my Aussie twang and gentle humour.
Tess returned, and as she took her seat again I saw her slip her hand into my lap, and I felt her quickly drop something there. I was about to dive back into the split in her dress, but I paused, and reached instead for my present; something told me not to pull it out from the cover afforded by the tablecloth, so I instead grasped it with both hands, feeling it out with my fingers in an attempt to divine what it was.
It was a small scrap of material, cool and silken. The body of it was shaped like a sort of triangle, and it tapered down into straps at each corner; and, I noticed with increasing interest, the lower half towards one corner was damp. Not just 'damp', but DAMP – that unmistakable, warm, slightly slick, heady, sweet-smelling kind of damp that I simply adore.
This was a thong. Tess's thong. She had been wearing it... it had gathered some moisture, Tess' moisture as provoked by my cheeky teasings... and now, she was not wearing it anymore.
My eyes shot to hers, and we shared the naughtiest of naughty little grins.
I knew what I was going to do next – what Tess wanted me, was daring me, provoking me to do. Switching the thong to my left hand, my right hand returned to Tess's leg, to the split in her dress. I ran my fingers in, nice and deep, cupping about the glorious warmth and softness of her thigh; and I ran my hand back, further along her leg, further, further...
...until my fingers found that which they sought, that wonderful, delicious, burning hot softness and moisture.
As my fingers found their mark with unerring accuracy, Tess' whole frame stiffened and straightened, only slightly but still noticeably. We both looked around the table, at her colleagues, to see if the game was up; but they were all oblivious to our wantonness, our wickedness.
And so I pressed deeper. My fingers parted her outer lips, finding her juices hotter, running more freely, her gorgeous little clit ready and waiting. Her one hand up on the table grasped at a napkin, bunching it and squeezing it into a tight little ball, while her other hand below the table fell to my lap, landing directly upon my growing, bulging cock.
Things moved slowly, wonderfully and deliciously. With my hand placed and angled perfectly, yet hidden by the tablecloth bunched in our laps, I was able to build Tess up long, marvellous and slow. Tess tried but was unable to unzip my pants, so she had to content herself with stroking me through my trousers – again, slowly, teasingly.
I made a show of listening to Tess' colleagues and their tall tales of grandeur, though in reality I heard not a word; I was lost in the moment, the moment that she and I were sharing, in the forbidden wickedness of what we were doing in such close proximity to our fellow dinner-guests.
Every now and again, I would quickly sneak a peek at Tess's face. She held a very convincing mask of simple, happy blankness, but beneath it I could see her mounting enjoyment. I could see the pleasure building, a quiet tremor betraying some of her composure, and when her eyes caught mine she would flash a brilliant, beautiful smile of cheeky, glowing contentment.
We were nearly there. I had Tess almost all the way, near to the brink. Though little changed on her face, suddenly she couldn't stroke me anymore, she simply took a firm hold of my cock and hung on with grim determination as her hips started moving slightly, as she thrust and ground her glorious sex into my fingers, grinding back against my ministrations.
