"Well I suppose ..." I said, as he started to turn me, and the tap in the kitchen turned off. "But just ..." I decided to negotiate, (I was the lawyer after all,) "... the one."
I tried to make it sound light, airy, professional, me-the-one-in-charge, as he drew me onto his lap. And as he did, and casually flipped the table-cloth over my mostly bared legs, the door to the kitchen opened and Duffy and Jim came back in. The former with the cheese board, the latter with desert. I froze like a rabbit in the headlights of some thundering truck, not at all sure that I knew how to handle this, when Dunkerly announced, apparently to all, "For being such a delightful hostess, and providing such a succulent meal, she deserves a kiss, don't you think?"
It was Jim I was watching most closely. Waiting for him to explode. Here was his wife of not even a year, dressed to the nines, flaunted like a model on a catwalk, now in the lap of a dinner guest who had his arms wound around her like he was the husband and I was HIS wife!
But to my amazement, Jim didn't react. Or not in the way I'd expected at least. Jim could be fearsomely jealous at times. He almost throttled a waiter at the beach in Cannes on the way back from our honeymoon, for staring at my breasts. It was a topless beach, for goodness sake. What did he expect! (He's usually the first to admire the damn things.)
"Glad you liked the meal," was all Jim said, averting his eyes from his wife in the lap of his guest. A guest who, as he returned the smile from my husband at the head of the table, slipped his hand back beneath the table-cloth, and back between my legs. I felt it against the skin at the top of my legs, and against the silk, slightly higher. Black silk. Black silk of briefs so flimsy they were a lot less protection than I needed right now! I didn't react. Then the fingers brushed my clitoris and I did. React. Lurching in his lap, spine snapping straight.
"That tickles," was all I could think of blurting out, though what it was that tickled, and where it was when it did, was not explored. No-one seemed to mind. No-one seemed to notice at all, other than me. And Dunkerly, of course. That bastard knew exactly what he was doing. And damn his eyes, he was a damn sight better at it than you wanted him to be. He did it again. This time I swivelled and glowered, our eyes mere inches apart.
"Don't," I mouthed at him angrily as Jim and Duffy fiddled with cheese and desert, arranging the cheese knife on the cheese board, squaring off the four bowls of strawberries and cream, moving the Brie a little left, the Gouda right, the Halumi equidistant between the two. I started to squirm. Fingers were lightly caressing my clitoris -- hard and proud and vulnerable as hell, badly aroused, and hot, and swollen. My quim was salivate greedily, as Jim likes to term it when I start to flood his hand with my juices. I cannot sit still if a man is playing with my clitoris like this. Any more than I can if a man were playing with my nipples. I am sensitive. Both places. (Much more than most, I believe.)
"So where's this thank-you kiss, then?" enquired Duffy, sounding much brighter than his eyes made him look, back in his chair just as Jim was in his.
"Maybe they want to take their time," said Jim, eyes flipping from Brie, to Duffy, back to Brie.
What the heck was that supposed to mean, I wondered, slightly outraged -- 'Take our time' indeed.
"Savour it, you mean?" said Duffy, winking at Jim.
To my horror, my husband -- the klutz! -- joined in with this macho bonding crap, where woman is toy and man more prick than usual! "Gotta make good things last," he adds and then, bugger me, he winked at Duffy!
RIGHT, I thought, turning my face to Dunkerly, reaching my hands to his cheeks and palming his ill-shaved jowls. I pulled his face to mine and closed my mouth over his. No sooner had I started to kiss him than that damn fool husband of mine sings out, "Good girl, Debbie. Let it all hang out!" Then the bastard I was kissing tweaked my clitoris.
I thrust down hard on the hand doing the damage, gasping, loudly, "Ngrraaah!" but nobody seemed to noticed. Or if they did, ignored it. Including my damn-fool husband. The kiss went on longer than I wanted, and towards the end I had his tongue in my mouth, but eventually it seemed it was time for it to end. Even Dunkerly would have been hard pushed to explain to Jim had it gone any longer than it did!
I felt half ravished when it finished. Although that was probably due more to the fingers between my legs than the tongue in my mouth. I opened my eyes, surprised that they had closed. I looked around the table ready to get off his lap now the kiss was done. But the arms around me hadn't moved, and the fingers between my legs showed no interest in discontinuing what they were doing to me. Even as I sat there, rather stupidly, undecided, not sure where to move, or when, I felt a finger ease the leg band of my briefs to one side, and slip beneath. I started to chew on my lip.
"Why don't you feed me desert, cutie pie," said the boss man, giving me a peck on the cheek, sliding a second broad finger inside the leg band of my panties. Onto skin. Both moist and hot, engorged, and sensitive as heck.
"Clearly a man who likes his creature comforts," said Jim, looking at Duffy with a half-baked smile on his rotten face. What did that mean? That he approved? Approved of his wife in the lap of this guy, feeding him, as he played with her pussy?
I just didn't get this at all.
"I don't think ..." I started to say, hands flat on the big man's chest, ready to push myself off his lap as Duffy moved a bowl of strawberries topped with thick whipped cream to the place-setting next to my elbow, and the fingers of his boss fed hungrily on the heat and meat of my tenderest spot. I hesitated ... a heart-beat too long ... and paid for my indecision by suddenly starting to climax.
My knees hooked high and my legs began to squirm over his. One rolled over the other, then the other over the first as my core pumped hot and heady feelings into the tantalising pressure of the fingers lodged between ... and what they were doing to me there ... and how they were doing it. I entered a world where urges ruled and in this mounting, blinding daze I reached for the spoon. I loaded it up with cream and the tiniest of strawberries. I raised it to his lips. I slipped it into the boss man's mouth and trapped his fingers between my clutching thighs and squeezed and let him suck the spoon as I climaxed as quietly and as secretly as I could.
The spoon stayed where it was, in his mouth, as the waves of bliss rolled through me. I could no more have pulled it out then than I could have bench-pressed a Greyhound bus. Sensing my dilemma my attacker sucked on the spoon some more and gently lifted the growing bulge of his crotch into my grinding buttocks, and let me get through it in silence as the others changed the subject and talked of something else.
When the waves of lava lushness ebbed, ran from my thighs and hips and trickled from my innards like a slow departing sea, I withdrew the spoon from his mouth. Time to draw the line, I decided, resolve replacing lust, lifting my hands to his shoulders and pushing our torsos apart. I dipped the spoon in the bowl. "Finish up now, there's a good guest," I said, as I might to a child, for this was becoming insane. I glanced at Jim. He was staring right at me, with a look on his face that was questioning. This was more than insane, this was stupid! Straight faced, thighs closed tight around his fingers so they couldn't move, I fed our guest. Thus deprived of any opportunity to feed on me, as I fed him, he ate, as he was bid. If he minded this forced deprivation (of me) he made no sign. Or if he did I didn't notice.
When it came time to deliver the last spoonful of strawberries and cream to my Financial Agreement Invigilator, as I was starting to regard him, I did so with aplomb. No sooner had I done so than I disentangled my limbs from his, slid from his lap to the floor, lowering my hem as I did, (it had been suicidally high,) and landed lightly on my feet next to his chair.
"Coffee?" I asked brightly.
The only one talking. The only one bright.
Jim appeared dumbstruck. Whether he was dumbstruck because of the sudden change in chemistry around the table, or the altered geography of who was where doing what with whom, or dumbstruck because he knew I'd just climaxed dramatically on our guest of honour's lap, I did not know. Nor was I about to enquire. Not with him at any rate. Not with anyone, in fact. I headed for the kitchen. They could help themselves to cheese.
Once in the kitchen I made for the sink. All I had in my hand was one empty bowl and the spoon I had used to feed Dunkerly. I had grabbed them on leaving. As props I suppose. I put them in the sink and turned on the water. Hard. I needed the rush of cleansing H2O to clear the heavy air, the crash of water on metal to cleanse my troubled mind, the din of kitchen sounds to wash away the ... sinfulness, I guess. I tried to ignore the way my thighs still pressed each other tight and how one knee had lifted off the floor and squeezed across its partner; the way my shoulders were up around my ears, and that my eyes had tightly closed.
I heard a gasp behind me. "Sheeooow!" or something close. "Damn!" came next. Said with venom. I knew I was in trouble. It was Jim. He'd followed me into the kitchen. Clearly upset. I didn't turn round. My face I knew was flushed. The flush of sex as clearly writ across my brow as if someone had written, in balloon-like graffiti five feet tall, SHE FUCKING CAME, THE BITCH!
I dropped my head to the froth of water tumbling into the sink, the single bowl, the single spoon. How would I get out of this one? Where could I hide? "I cannot believe it!" He hissed. I knew how he felt. Neither could I. But isn't this just what I'd warned him about? A half hour ago, here in this kitchen. 'How nice is nice?' I'd asked. How compliant must I be? Well, that was that. Now we knew how compliant I must be. Compliant enough to let that great ox of a guest of honour excite me to orgasm. That's how compliant I'd had to be. Was that my fault?
Well okay, a bit, I concede. But was it ALL my fault.
"Look, Jim, honey ..." was as far as I got. I had said it to the sink.
"Where the hell will I get it at this time of night?"
I didn't react. Get what? A whip, to teach me a lesson? A knife, to cut it off? (What off?) A gun, to make a clean break for us both.
Was he going to shoot me?
"Help me here, sweetie pie," he said, spoken with pleading in his tone.
