Chapter 14 #4
Showered and in our robes, we join a dozen people at a huge oval table in the club’s restaurant.
Today it’s even busier than yesterday and there’s a scene going on at the far end of the big greenhouse annex, with a pair of ponies in full regalia being bred.
Our table has a good view of the scene and I’m surprised it doesn’t stir more interest in me, but the flashes of Bren’s colorful skin through the open front of her robe are what hold my attention.
I lean in and whisper in her ear, “I’d rather be eating you. You look fucking edible.”
She freezes for a second in the middle of a mouthful of tomato and mozzarella salad before shooting me a grin. “Totally up for that, Sir.”
“Plan on that for dessert, girl.”
“Yes, Sir. Could I have you for an entrée instead of this?” She pushes a pile of chicken wings around on her plate with her fork.
“Here, now?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Not against the rules?”
Although I’ve seen subs displayed on tables before, the pony scene is the first sex I’ve seen inside the restaurant, and its partitioned off from the dining area by a good ten feet of clear space.
“Not on festival weekends, Sir.”
“Then finish that up and get on your knees, girl.”
She polishes off the salad so fast I’m concerned she’ll give herself indigestion. I smile at her eagerness and before she slithers off the chair, clamp my hand around the back of her neck and give her a deep kiss.
I’m just releasing her when a hand falls on my shoulder.
“Mac. DirtyGurl.” I turn at a deep voice behind us and nod at the club’s chairman, Chess.
He’s young to run such a prestigious establishment.
Probably just a few years older than Logan and a decade younger than me.
No gray in his thick, black hair. Few wrinkles around his black eyes.
He has a seasonless tan played up by a white, button-down shirt and a slightly hatchet nose, but whether that’s from Native American, Mediterranean, or South American genes is impossible to tell.
There are murmurs of greeting all around the table. Chess nods to everyone but keeps his attention focused on us. “DirtyGurl, any chance we could move that meeting to this afternoon? I may need to go out of town tonight.”
Bren glances at me; I nod.
“Of course, sir.”
Chess twists his wrist to look at his watch. “How about in an hour?”
She checks with me again before agreeing. Each glance, each gesture she makes to show she’s mine, under my hand, fills me with so much warmth I’m not sure what’s going to explode first, my chest or my balls.
After Chess says his goodbyes, I catch Bren with my fingers under her chin and look into her eyes. “I’m very pleased with you, girl.”
She absolutely lights up. “Does that mean I get multiple orgasms, Sir?”
“You do. On your knees now, girl.”
“Yes, Sir.” She salutes with two fingers to her forehead and the world’s sassiest grin before she slides under the table and moves between my knees.
As the warm heaven of her mouth envelops me, I slide my hand under the tablecloth, trace my way up the arm she has draped over my thigh, and cup her nape.
I can’t see her and somehow the disconnection makes the sensation of her wet tongue licking my shaft, her hard palate clasping my head, all the hotter.
And she just knows how to work me now, my well-trained girl, bringing me to a fast peak with her tongue stud working into the sensitive join between my head and shaft, teasing me with the heated clutch of her throat until my hips are pumping up off the chair, but not taking me over.
She keeps one hand loosely cupped around my balls, teasing them with little rubs and pinches, until she feels them draw up.
Then she backs off. The third time she works me towards white bliss, I growl at her and squeeze the back of her neck.
With a laugh I feel as a near-painful vibration on my overstimulated cockhead, she sucks hard and tears me over the edge.
I silence the entire table by screaming “Fuck!” as she yanks my soul out of my balls.
I nearly face-plant into the remains of my lunch as I pant and groan through an eruption so violent it leaves me shaking.
The table, and several others nearby, break into applause.
Bren gives me a sweet kiss on my tip and each thigh before wiping my dick with the robe, sliding out from under the table, and taking an exaggerated bow.
As soon as she sits, I grab her and smother her in kisses, tasting my own musk on her tongue. Finally, she bats me off and seeks refuge in her water glass.
“A baker’s dozen orgasms for you, girl,” I growl at her.
“I won’t be able to walk, Sir,” she laughs.
“I don’t give a single fuck. You’ve earned them. I’m so pleased with you, my girl.”
She gives me a look so open, so vulnerable, that it winds me almost as thoroughly as that orgasm. “Good BJ, Sir?”
That is not what this moment is about. Not in the slightest. “Am I your Sir, girl?”
She nods, that aching openness still filling her eyes.
“Does one blow job make me your Sir?”
“No, Sir.”
“Does one fuck make me your Sir?”
She shakes her head.
“Is any Dom you submit to your Sir?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then don’t cheapen this by making it about one blow job or one fuck or one scene.” I cup her nape and draw her to me so I can rest my forehead against hers and look into those soft, brown eyes. “I’m your Sir, girl, and you’ve pleased me.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“That’s my girl.” I release her neck, slide my arm around her shoulders and pull her tightly against my side.
Instead of maintaining her own space, she tucks in, melting against me, and when I offer her a bite of cracker dipped in the restaurant’s spinach-artichoke dip, she eats it off my fingers.
I hand-feed her the rest of the food on my plate while the conversation laps and flows around the little oasis of my girl and her Sir.