With Interest

Continued for part four, this is part five, the conclusion.

After our major – not to put too fine a point on it – gang-bang, things fell back into the 'normal' routine – surprisingly quickly. Other than a sly smile that persisted for a couple days, Penelope made no mention of her experiences. I wanted to ask her what she thought; how she liked it; exactly how big were her orgasms; but, somehow, that seemed tacky and unseemly, so I just smiled back and we went about our business.

For quite a time then, our 'arrangement' seemed to simply continue. Our directed/compliant relationship had become an eminently comfortable, albeit exciting, way-of-life. But more than that, it was flourishing – 'direction and compliance' seemed to fit us very well.

Several months after our executive meeting – our most successful annual meeting – a client group invited me, and a few of the DML partners with whom they did business, to a soiree at a posh hotel – two weeks hence. We had done a lot of recent financial work for them, resulting in some very, very lucrative deals. "Bring along your wives, partners or lovers," the invitation had proclaimed, "for a night of celebration." Centered at the bottom of the page was a red circle with a diagonal line over the word 'PRUDES'! In fact, they were a group of questionable, if not ill-repute in the business community, and Rolly, the founder, owner and CEO, had a reputation for being brash, lewd and libertine. There was something very intriguing, very carnal about this invite – a feeling that hung in the air, just out of sight. Possibilities and opportunities were about to be presented, although for what, I couldn't quite discern – or I wasn't quite ready to admit. Nonetheless, the excitement in me grew daily. I mentioned it to Penelope with a forced casualness, indicating that we would be attending merely as a professional obligation – and that was partially correct. One must, of course, please the clients.

With our annual-meeting-cum-gang-bang still a very popular topic of conversation within our organization, on getting their invitations, each of my partners going approached me and said, "You're taking Ms. Lord, I presume."

"Of course," I would reply, mildly.

When the day finally arrived, I sent Penelope home early telling her that I would pick her up at 6:00 pm. I knew I didn't need to tell her to dress appropriately; I was very eager to see what she had chosen, as we – she being the last stop – pulled up to her townhouse in the limo – compliments of our host. "Wow!" was all I could say as she greeted me at the door.

"You like?" she asked coyly, grabbing her wrap and hanging a dinky little purse on her shoulder. The chauffeur watched her coolly from behind his shades, trying to look unaffected as she stooped to get in. The buzz of conversation ceased as she entered, and started up again only slowly after greetings and brief introductions.

As we drove off, I said, lamely, "This should be fun, eh?" Everyone agreed, though Penelope just nodded, smiling benevolently at me. Suddenly I felt like a kid heading for the prom – my date, the envy of all. All I could do was stare at her. Her hair was up in an elegant coif, and her make-up was flawlessly understated. Her dress – charcoal, shot with a subtle iridescence – was long and form fitting, with a dangerously high slit, revealing the occasional glimpse of her black stocking tops. It, somehow, stayed just short of looking tart-ish. Hanging from spaghetti straps, it accentuated her shape and beauty without making her lack of underwear too obvious. She looked more beautiful than ever. I stared in admiration for the remainder of the ride.

From the front of the hotel, we were escorted to a huge, lavish and private dining salon, with a large oblong table, set for twenty – there were four of us with our escorts, and six of them with theirs – and a full buffet to the side. Everyone's eyes were on Penelope, so, when I introduced her, we were greeted with all manner of observation and innuendo. "Oh, so this is the famous Ms. Lord," "– or infamous!" "We've all heard about your 'Special Assistant," "I look forward to seeing her perform," "If only half of the rumours are true, my dear, you're sure to be the star of this get together." While my partners sat back watching, sharing my pride in her, our hosts looked Penelope over lecherously, then at one another, expectantly. Only one of them had actually met Penelope before. "Yessiree," he announced to his colleagues, pleased to be in a position of regard, "this here is Jackson's very special assistant I've told you about. I think we're all in for a real treat," adding with an exaggerated wink, "I know I can hardly wait."

I felt, somehow, provoked, as if I, personally, had been challenged. They all looked at me, as if asking, "Well, how does she work? After all, she is your special assistant!" On the one hand, it was appallingly depersonalizing, the way they looked at her and spoke about her, but on the other hand, there was something implicitly exciting about the perceived challenge.

If they all really wanted to see how well she performed, I decided, I'd give them something that would make their heads spin. "Yes," I said to myself, looking at Penelope, "we're really gonna put on a show tonight – that we are – you 'n me, m'dear." I don't know why, but I needed to show-off – show my cohorts the magnificence and of my – our – delectably enviable position. I'd make them eat their hearts out before the evening was over. I knew I was being childish, but I couldn't help myself.

My musings notwithstanding, we were seated at the table and enjoyed a gourmet meal that was almost profligate. Wine flowed and the conversation that rallied about the table was predominantly ribald and crude. Such were our hosts for the evening. When in Rome…, of course. Once the main courses were complete, the serving staff appeared to remove the remains. As they left momentarily to bring on dessert, Rolly, the 'supreme commander' of the salacious bunch, said, with a hearty guffaw, while gesturing down at his lap, "Hey! Ms. Lord. I got something here you might like better for your dessert." Penelope blushed and responded by looking at me. "Whaddya say?" Rolly bellowed again, amidst the chuckles and giggles of the others.

"Okay," I thought, surveying the table, "let the show begin." Turning to Penelope, I said quietly, "Go ahead, Ms. Lord, show him what you can do." I winked, then, feeling almost gleefully provocative, I added, "In fact, show them all – hosts and hostesses first – how well you…," I paused, then finished, "just how oral you can be." Penelope's eyes may have betrayed an instant of surprise, but she recovered her composure immediately.

"Of course, Mr. Jackson." She folded her napkin primly at her place then, with liquid grace, she slouched in her chair and slipped silently beneath the table, to an amused chorus of 'Ooooohs' and 'Aaaaahs'..

"This bodes well for a very interesting evening," I reflected silently, smiling as I watched her vanish beneath the white linen.

The serving staff entered moments later with the dessert. If they thought it odd that one place was empty, they never showed it, but I could see Rolly having trouble concentrating on the choices from the tray. He was obviously getting his treat from beneath. Penelope stayed well out of sight, but she was obviously not out of mind for any of us. The chatter over dessert was subdued as everyone watched one another's eyes, trying to determine just who was being serviced at any given time. It rapidly became a game – we could all tell during Jake's turn but many minutes passed during which the only clues were sly smiles on the faces of Alan, Constance and Dave as they slowly and deliberately enjoyed their desserts.

Suddenly, however, Cindy, the boss' wife, froze, forked poised before mouth, jaw working, oh-so-slightly, eyes wide. Slowly returning her fork to her plate, she placed her hands palm-down on the table, and stared straight ahead, her breath beginning to puff through her nose. The conversation stopped entirely as everyone's attention focused on her. Despite the hovering waiter still in attendance, Cindy began to vocalize her arousal.

Our server stood poised to do something – frightened – as Cindy appeared to be having a seizure of some kind, but no one else moved. He watched, bewildered, while tiny initial whimpers grew rapidly, until, writhing on her seat, Cindy's voice rose in a desperate crescendo, "Oh! Oh! Ohhh!" Overcome by the throes of orgasm, she shrieked uncontrollably, and as the crisis passed, her head, lolling on her shoulders, dropped forward, limply, her hair dangling in her unfinished mousse. The waiter, still frozen, stared wide-eyed at distressed woman, but when the rest of us guests merely applauded politely and returned to our own desserts, he shook his head silently and looked about, wondering what to do next.

"Don't worry," Rolly laughed, "she's fine!" Cindy slowly, raised her head. "More than fine, I might guess, eh, dear?" Turning to the stunned young man, he said, "Thank you. That will be all. You can leave the dessert tray, though, just in case." He laughed as he rose and followed the disconcerted fellow to the door, pressing a tip into his hand, then seeing him out. Rolly hung something on the outside handle, then, ensuring the doors were latched, he returned to his seat. Penelope had not yet surfaced.

"Is everybody satisfied?" Rolly asked. While his whole contingent nodded enthusiastically, not all of us had apparently received Penelope's services yet – I know that I hadn't; still, it was time to press on.

"All rightie then, Ms. Lord," I called, summoning her, "time to come back up top-side." It's hard to imagine someone emerging gracefully from under a table, but that's what she did – stealing sylph-like, without bump or jostle, to virtually materialize poised next to her chair. It was fantastic how, with no fuss, she looked, once more, both elegant and enticing.

I stood and moved to her side, still role-playing. "Penelope, if I may, allow me to assist you to mount up onto our table." Offering her my hand, she climbed confidently and serenely from her seat to the table top, stepping carefully among the dishes to the very centre, where she pirouetted easily to freeze in a haute couture runway pose. Motionless she stood as we all admired her. Breaking the silence, in a low voice I said, "Undress for us, if you will," then, walking to the wall-unit, I tuned in an easy-listening, pop channel.

Penelope's body had started to sway to the music before I got back to my seat. Slowly at first, swinging her hips, her breasts, her hair, she raised her arms serpent-like above her head, making her whole body wave like kelp in the ocean swells. The undulations, starting at her feet and travelling smoothly up her body to erupt from her fingertips high over her head, gradually grew in magnitude, still keeping time with the music. Penelope closed her eyes, and the melody seemed to seep from her pores, her movements in harmony with the sounds. Purrs of sultry contentedness emanated from her lips as she lowered her arms ever so slowly until her fingertips danced over her hips. Walking her hands, like feet on a treadmill, Penelope languidly reefed her dress, the hem inching past her knees, over her thighs, stopping just below her crotch. Now skipping her fingers across her front in a sort of 'Doe-see-doe', she hooked her hem, arms crossed, and, gathering the silky material along the way, raised her hands, baring her neatly trimmed thatch. Continuing the slow ascent, the beat of the accompaniment still manifest in her movement, she paused momentarily just below her bust – a single beat's rest, just for emphasis – before revealing her luscious breasts, their pert nipples proud and erect. Artfully slipping the sheath up over her head, she completed her emergence, like a beautiful butterfly from its cocoon. Casually tossing the dress – her only garment – onto her chair, she continued to sway, clad only in her stockings and heels. Applause erupted about the table, but it was the women of the group who whistled and hollered and stood, banging their hands rhythmically on the table where Penelope kept up her dance.

"Stockings and shoes, my dear," I intoned just loud enough to be heard over the table-slapping of her fans. "Just before you tire yourself out." Without missing a beat she kicked off her dainty pumps and rolled the stockings down, alternately until she was able to flick each off her toes, in a perfect arc, to land on her crumpled sheath on her chair. At that, the throbbing of the spectators spontaneously disintegrated into hearty roar. I stood and raised my hand. The cheering stopped; Penelope stopped. I really was, I thought to myself, directing this entire performance, wasn't I?

"Now, Penelope," I ordered, keeping my voice deliberately low, "just lie back on the table here – supine, as it were – and let us give you our attention in another way." As she lowered herself, moving things aside so that she could stretch out, I retrieved the dessert cart and brought it back to the table. Speaking to the rest of the assembly, who awaited my direction with eager amusement, I said, "As the desserts come around again, please anoint our living centre-piece with a little of your favourite confection and/or liqueur. Like this." Taking a dollop of strawberry flan, I plopped it onto the toes of Penelope's right foot, which was the part of her closest to me. "Don't move," I whispered, as she flinched. "Relax." And amazingly, she did. Her limbs went limp, her eyes closed, and her breathing eased. Passing the dessert cart along, I added to the others, "Don't do anything until everyone has placed their treat." Very quickly, amid giggles and titters, the tray made its way completely around the table, every guest carefully choosing and daubing, paying special attention, I was glad to note, to all her erogenous zones. Penelope was inert, like a sacrifice laid out on the altar. And in a way – a communal serving of sweets – that's exactly what she was about to become.

"Dig in," I commanded, with a flourish, and the nineteen of us began to lick and suck Penelope's body clean. Hoots and laughter soon gave way to a chorus of mmms, and ahhhs. All around the table the company leaned into Penelope's nakedness; probing her nooks and crannies with fingers and tongues; lapping up puddles of liqueur; sharing, with neighbours, servings of mousse or pudding from fleshy hollows; the sucking and slurping echoing about the room.

Our attentions and ministrations were definitely having the desired effect. While endeavoring to stay still, Penelope's hips, nevertheless, began to bounce ever so slightly. Her closed eyes seemed now to be squeezed shut. Tiny sounds – whimpers and mews – emanated from her pursed lips. Still, it was very disappointing how quickly we finished – even allowing time to complete the tongue-bath, lick off much of the residual stickiness.

But the show must go on, and I was the de facto entertainment coordinator; I embraced the role. I was becoming almost obsessed, in my desire to demonstrate the talents of my very own – very special 'special assistant'. It took a moment of self-talk to calm myself – subdue the frenzy I was creating within; although, I don't think anyone noticed my pause of introspection. They were all either still licking up their own special part, or busy wiping their faces – waiting eagerly to see what would happen next. So, when I gestured to those still engaged, everyone turned their attention to me. I could see the tension in Penelope's body, as she waited for the next indignity-delight.

Standing at my place, I addressed her with a phony dinner-speaker's aplomb. "Well, my dear, we seem to have left you a little agitated." Her eyes opened, and scanned briefly to find me. "I do believe you deserve an orgasm for your own dessert." There was a general murmur of approval around the table. "So I'd like you to masturbate." I put just a little extra emphasis on the word 'masturbate', and paused for a moment, watching her. Her body quivered once, head to toe. I went on, "Put on a show for us. Bring yourself off. We'd really like to see you do that," I looked about, "wouldn't we?" The assent was unanimous. I sat down, feeling satisfied, as Penelope's left hand crept down into her snatch, her right hand to her nipples.

"…a little agitated," was, indeed, an understatement. Penelope's hands had already established a rhythm, mirroring each other – tit and clit. Eyes closed, the tip of her tongue traveled over her parted lips, imparting a shininess that complemented her body's glow. Penelope's arousal was audible in her sighing breath, the subtle working of her hips, and the quiet squelching from her vulva. Her slick labia lay open to her skating fingers as she pulled and pinched first one nipple then the other, squeezing and caressing her boobs while she did. The dance of her left hand became more and more intense, more violent, more aggressive. No longer content with stroking the engorged genital flesh, she began to pinch and pull her lower lips and her clitoris, her left hand now mimicking her right. And with every tweak her hips twitched, her bottom bouncing slightly higher from the white of the tablecloth. The onset of her orgasm was rapid and violent. Stretching her own nipples as she pushed her gaping sex up hard against her own grabbing hand, her puffing and panting became a high, whistling scream. "Oh! Ohh! Uunngh! Ahhhhh!" She exploded into the gasps and groans of ecstasy, swinging her head and squirming her butt, writhing and whimpering in the throes of an extended climax. Only as the crisis gradually passed, did she finally grow slient, lying limp on the table, her eyes still closed, her respiration slowing – a wilted, yet contented centre-piece.

Once again, there was a moment's silence before the table guests came alive with a hearty round of applause. As Penelope regained her senses, she propped herself up on her elbows and looked around as if trying to decide how to extricate herself from a compromising position.

Rolly, always full of extroverted bravado, stood abruptly and began pulling off his clothes. "So much for the preliminaries," he chortled, "let the orgy begin!" He reached onto the table and grabbed Penelope by the arm, looking over at me for some sort of tacit permission.

I simply nodded and smiled, and said to him, "Go right ahead!" With barely a word, he pulled Penelope from the table onto the floor in front of him, spun her around, and pushed her forward. Leaning on her forearms, her hands clasped and her head down, she was the picture of submission. Perhaps I was taking liberties with our 'arrangement', I don't know. But I was sure enjoying myself. She didn't look wholly unhappy, either. Rolly held his hand against the back of her neck as he took her in a peremptory doggy-style – ramming and recoiling like a pneumatic pile-driver. Right away, Penelope was rocking back to meet his every thrust. It was fast and furious. Pulling roughly at her hips, Rolly threw his head back as he slammed himself against her buttocks and let out a primal howl. Pulling out his still turgid meat, he slapped her bottom, then turned, leaving a snail-trail across her cheek, his thirst slaked for the moment.

While everyone quickly got into the spirit of the event, discarding their clothes and falling into many and varied passionate embrace, I still looked for opportunities to direct Penelope's performance. Of course, none of the other guests were at all shy about engaging her in sex of one form or another. As the activity in the room became increasingly lascivious – outrageously titillating – I called over two of the host company, who were spectating at the time. "Give me a hand, will ya?" They sauntered over with curious smiles. "Walter, you lie on your back right here. Penelope, get him stiff, okay?" She followed him to the carpet, her mouth engulfing his penis before his head even hit the floor. "Okay, now Dave, as soon as Ms. Lord, here, mounts him – that's right, hop right on, my dear – I'd like you to thread yourself up her backside. All right?"