The Scene

“I don’t know what to say…I’m just overwhelmed,” Sophie finally managed to murmur in response to her host’s question. “I’ve honestly never been to a party like this. Thank you so much for having me.”

Oliver beamed. “Don’t be silly. We’re just glad you could come on such short notice. When Gillian told me what a charming young woman she’d met this morning we both realized that you were just the addition we needed to make our guest list complete.”

True, there hadn’t been much time since the matronly woman she’d met on the bus called to invite her. But Gillian insisted that one of her nieces had an appropriate dress Sophie could borrow, and she just couldn’t pass up such an opportunity. On the long bus ride uptown, Gillian had told her all about the black tie dinner she was arranging for that evening. All by candlelight, two hundred dollar bottles of champagne, the hors d’oeuvres, the roast duck, the beautiful people. It was all true, Sophie thought, already light-headed from the champagne, as she watched the dimly lit clusters of guests, their laughter filling the hall.

“Come. Let me introduce you to a few people.” Oliver passed his hand down her back as he steered her toward a group of people. The dress reacted as his fingers caught on the delicate silk, pulling tight across her breasts. Sophie blushed, although she knew Oliver couldn’t know what he’d done. The dress was beautiful. Buttercup yellow with a low-cut front that showed off her smooth pale skin, and tiny buttons all down the front. It was fitted, cut perfectly to follow the curve of her hips. The only problem was that she’d only had a black bra with her, which showed through the flimsy dress and there was no way she could wear it. Gillian had laughed and assured her that it didn’t matter, but Sophie could feel her nipples harden as the fabric brushed across them, and she was petrified that it might be just a bit too transparent. Thank god it was so dark.

“Let me introduce Sophie,” said Oliver, and a round of introductions ensued. Too many names, dimly lit faces. Sophie caught none of them and happily fell back as they carried on their conversation. They were talking about a film they’d all seen. Some dark new mystery Sophie had never heard of. A waiter brought a fresh glass of champagne and she let her mind drift in and out of the conversation.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry! How could I have done that?!” The woman next to her had gotten passionately involved in a disagreement about whether or not the film had built up sufficient suspense before revealing something or other and as she made her point she threw up her hands, spilling her entire glass of champagne across Sophie.

“It’s really alright. It’s not a problem.” Sophie laughed with the others but turned away quickly to rush off to the ladies room. She had felt the ice-cold champagne splash across her left breast and was sure she must have a case of “wet t-shirt.” As she started away Gillian’s hand wrapped tightly around her arm.

“Mark, dear,” she said to a thin man who had appeared at her side, “what am I going to do? This is one of Anne’s best dresses. If she comes home and finds it stained I’ll never hear the end of it. You’re so good with these things…”

“Certainly,” he said with a nod of his head.

“I can take care of it,” blurted Sophie too loudly, trying to pull away. She had glanced down and seen her fears justified. The wet fabric clung to her and the pink of her nipple stood out, as exposed as if she’d been undressed. Exposed in a room of strangers.

Gillian’s hand tightened around her arm and she whispered sternly in Sophie’s ear, “You will not make a scene.” Then, in a calm voice: “Mark is a fabric designer. There is no one better to save the day.”

Sophie was silenced. She understood the importance of the dress. It really was the most beautiful, delicate things she’d ever worn. The owner had left it at her aunt’s with some other things while she was traveling. If it were hers, Sophie wouldn’t have lent it to her best friend, let alone a stranger. Still, Gillian’s admonition and steel grip were unexpected and harsh. There was nothing she could do but follow this man, close to a table where there was more candlelight.

He studied the pinkish stain, but Sophie only felt his eyes studying her breast, watching her quiver, enjoying her painful embarrassment. “Tsk, tsk,” was all he said, dipping his handkerchief into a glass of water. He started at the outside of the stain, gently dabbing at, then brushing across the edge of her underarm. The water was icy and sent more shivers through her. “The secret,” he said, “is patience. You need to work slowly with silks like these, sucking out the stain drop by drop.” Then he worked in studious silence, bending over her intently, dropping the handkerchief in more water and slowly working toward the center of the stain. Dip, dab, brush, Dip, dab, brush.

Sophie found herself growing as intent as he, watching the spot grow fainter and fainter and feeling the tiniest scratch of his fingers as they came closer and closer to her nipple. She couldn’t help herself. She blushed even more deeply, embarrassed to feel herself growing aroused and impatient. All of her senses were focused on his two fingers working their way along her body. She let out a moan. Almost imperceptibly. Had he hear? Sophie got hold of herself and checked his face. No, he didn’t seem to have noticed. His face was now just inches from her.

Dip, dab, brush. Closer..closer…there. Her breath quickened. He had to hear her heart pounding as his fingers flicked across the tip of her nipple. It was cold; a fingernail grazed her; she stiffened, suddenly aware of how wet she was, aware that she wanted those two deft fingers to find their way down, down to her clit to dab and brush across her there, slowly, slowly.

She pulled her eyes away. “Mustn’t think like this,” she told herself and forced herself to look up at the ceiling. Focus on something else. Suddenly, she felt a last, warm flick across her nipple and heard him say “All done.”

“My god,” she thought. “Was that…was that his tongue? Could he have…?” She looked around. Her back was to the room. She’d been afraid to keep watching him. He could have stolen one quick taste of her. Had he?

Gillian reappeared. “Mark, you’re such a love. What would we do without you? You know Anne would have just killed me.” She wrapped her arm in Sophie’s and was leading her into the next room. It seemed everyone was sitting down for dinner. Sophie felt weak. She was exhausted, frustrated, her body still aching with desire. Was it the champagne?

As Oliver offered her a chair in the middle of the long table, she realized that she was still exposed. She could feel the dress, so carefully moistened and dabbed, pressed up cold against her breast and knew that, even in this light, they could see every curve of her. She could still run to the bathroom, dry off there before returning. She pushed back and her chair made a loud scraping noise.

Once again, Gillian, sitting down next to her, placed a firm hand on her arm. “I told you: do not make a scene in front of these people,” she hissed. “Collect yourself.”

Gillian beamed across the table. No one had heard her, and she began to chatter with her guests. Sophie was baffled by Gillian’s nasty asides, but no one seemed to pay much attention to Sophie anyway. Not that she looked around to check. She focused on her soup, nervously watching down the front of herself, wishing herself invisible amongst all of these sophisticated people and, at the same time, unable to stop imagining that darting tongue flicking across her nipple that still seemed to beg for attention.

Her nervous excitement kept her distracted until the main course, by which time her dress had dried and she was able to look up and exchange a few words with the portly gentleman next to her without fear of calling attention to herself.

And then, just as the duck was being served, she felt it. Under the table. The faintest touch across her calf. Had she imagined it? She couldn’t tell. The tablecloth draped down around her lap. When she dropped a napkin to take a peek, a waiter appeared out of nowhere to hand her a fresh one before she could even bend down.

No, she must have imagined it. But there it was again, brushing the inside of her knee. She tried to kick out, but found that she couldn’t. There was someone there, and he held her feet hard, immovably, sliding them slightly, but forcibly, apart. Sophie panicked. She looked around her. No one noticed anything wrong. Where was Mark? He’d been sitting down near the head of the table, she was sure. An empty seat. How could he have gotten under the table unnoted? How could he— The hand. It was back at the side of her knee, slid dartingly up her thigh, then was gone.

“Oh, yes, let’s do!” someone yelled out.

“It’s always surprising which ones you miss,” said the man at her side. “I have always boasted a very discriminating palate, but last time I missed mint jelly. I still don’t understand it. How could anyone miss mint jelly?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Sophie, desperately trying to concentrate. The hand ran up her thigh, sliding her dress up with it.

“The game,” he said. “We do this every time. Always an education, I say. A few of us put on blindfolds and are fed random foods—nothing foul, mind you—that we have to identify. We started out with wines a few years back, but realized it was too damned hard for some of us, so we decided to try more basic tastes—cashews, mandarins. You’d be surprised what you miss. Mint jelly, for christ’s sake.”

Sophie nodded and tried to appear interested, but her mind remained under the table, where her dress had been pushed back to her lap. She looked at Gillian and could feel her icy words: Do not make a scene. Gillian was now caught up in the excitement of the game and looked over at Sophie with the sparkling eyes that had made her open up and start talking to her on the train only this morning.

“Sophie!” Gillian screamed out.

“Sophie! Yes!” It was Mark’s voice. He was back in his seat. The hand traced the edge of her panties, lingered, teased her as it danced, now inching closer, closer, then disappearing. Sophie could hardly keep still. It didn’t matter whose hand it was. She wished it would go away, but she didn’t want it to stop. She barely resisted when he inched her legs farther apart.

“Close your eyes!” said Oliver, reaching around from behind her to put on the blindfold. Sophie jumped, startled.

“It’s the game,” the man on her right said, taking her hand. “You’re one of the tasters.” As Oliver secured the blindfold, Gillian grasped her left hand. “One of our newer rules,” explained Oliver. “You’d be surprised how many people instinctively try to grab at the spoon. Gillian never would have gotten the squid if she hadn’t touched it first.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver,” said Gillian, with a playful squeeze of Sophie’s hand. “I could smell squid from the next room.”

Sophie felt dizzy. Fingers brushed against the front of her panties, skimmed her clit. She gasped. The fingers moved faster. She felt her lips swell. She opened her legs wider without any prompting.

“Let’s see,” said Oliver. “Where should we begin?” Sophie heard plates sliding. Was the tablecloth drawn back? Giggling. “Open wide.”

Something cold and sharp slid under the side of her panties. Snip. Sophie reddened. Gillian laughed and gently squeezed her jaw. “Open up, little Sophie. Tell us what you taste.” Snip. The other side of her panties fell free. She felt the faintest stirring, breathing, almost touching her.

“Give it to her!” a voice across the room squealed. A warm spoonful slid into Sophie’s mouth. She seized upon it, wrapped her lips around it and let out an irrepressible moan. He wouldn’t touch her. She could feel his breath. It was so close. She opened her legs wider, begging for him. A man moaned across the table. Another taster?

“What do you think, Sophie?” cried out Oliver’s jolly voice. “Liver pate?”

Sophie’s voice couldn’t hide her desire. “Oh. I…I need more…I don’t know.” A deep laugh. Mark’s? Oliver refused. “Tapioca pudding, my sweet. Tapioca. You’ll have to do better on round two.” Then he seemed to be distracted. Someone at his end of the table was taking his first taste and must have spit it out. The room erupted into laughter and everyone was shouting at once. Sophie waited, her mouth just open, in readiness, when Gillian hissed in her ear, “I can smell you.” She pulled Sophie’s arm back. “I know what’s happening. Do you think we’re all blind?” Sophie quaked. The hand was back and her head was spinning. There was so much noise.

“He’s never liked garlic. You knew that!”

Was Gillian unbuttoning her dress?

“Pass it over here. I’ll have a bite of that.”

“Don’t spill it on the table—you’ll smear the glass!”

“Back here! Round two! Back to Sophie!” yelled out the man on her right, and he waved her hand in the air, pulling it back like Gillian had.

“If you make a scene….” whispered Gillian.

He touched the very tips of her closely cropped pubic hairs. She could feel the hand dancing all around her. She could feel his warmth just on the edge of her pussy. She was dripping. Her longing was like pain.

“I think she’s going to like this one,” boomed Oliver. “Open up!”

“If you make a scene…” She could barely hear Gillian’s voice. “…I am not going to shield you, little Sophie. Everything’s out in the open here.” Once again, Sophie thought she felt a button snap, then the drag of the dress pulling across her nipples.

Oliver gently tipped her head back and she moistened her lips before giving them to him.

Gillian’s mouth was touching her ear. “You’re going to make a scene, then.”

Sophie screamed. His tongue devoured her. The honey Oliver drizzled into her mouth lost its way down her chin, down her neck. She was ready to cum the second he touched her. Her moans were met with others, and a voice—she couldn’t tell them apart anymore—begged to lick up the honey.

“Only if she begs,” suggested another. Fingers were deep inside of her now. She knew they were all watching as the honey oozed down her belly…further.

“Please!” she pleaded.

“Is that begging?”

“I’m not sure she wants you.”

“Please!!” she screamed.

Her arms were still pulled behind her, but she managed to arch her back, reaching for the mouth she knew was ready for her tits. It was right in front of her.

The honey engulfed her. It poured over her clit and into her as mouths descended upon her. Greedily now, no more teasing. Digging into one nipple. Sucking the other. A tongue working her clit and new the fingers inside of her were a cock thrusting through her. She had stopped trying to understand where they were all coming from and let herself go.

She heard Gillian from somewhere: “Give us a scene, little Sophie. Cum for us.”

And she did, and then again. And again.