Chapter 6 #2
“It’s an acquired taste. One that comes with aphrodisiac properties, supposedly.”
“They’re slimy,” Jean mutters, eyeing the basin suspiciously, like it might launch an attack.
“They’re sensual,” I correct, leaning on him to whisper against his neck. “Like the ocean made something dirty.”
He flushes again, which was also the point. His knees are now pressed together too tightly for a man his size. He’s pink, lips damp, unsure where to look. I want to ruin him right here.
Hessou leans in from his other side as he slides the slender fork into another shell.
“Open again,” he says.
Jean obeys. The oyster slips into his mouth, and Hessou’s fingertip rises with the poise of someone born to command. He touches Jean’s chin, thumb against the curve of it, and closes his jaw for him like one would a pet that needs to be fed by hand.
“Good,” Hessou murmurs. “Now swallow.”
Jean does, slowly. I watch the way his throat works, the tension in his neck, the way his eyes flutter half-shut as if he isn’t sure if what just happened qualifies as dining or foreplay. He shudders. Exhales hard through his nose.
“Still weird,” he declares, his voice small and uneven.
I reach for another oyster, but this time, I don’t offer it immediately.
I slip the meat delicately from its shell with my fingers and hold it between my thumb and index finger, feeling it slick and quivering.
I let it drip for a moment, then drag it slowly across Jean’s bottom lip, painting his mouth with brine.
He shivers.
It travels all the way down his spine, visible even in his posture—his chest rising slightly, knees tightening beneath the table. Hessou sees it too. I see his thigh press more firmly into Jean’s.
“A few months in a village and you already forgot everything about etiquette,” Hessou remarks.
“Not important. I’m training him in something better than etiquette.”
Jean still hasn’t opened his mouth.
So I press my fingers to his lips.
“Open.”
He does.
I slide the oyster into his mouth, my fingertips grazing his tongue. He closes around them instinctively, lips wrapping the way he’s been taught, so warm and so pliant, sucking my fingers clean.
My cock gives a hard, interested twitch.
Hessou leans in quickly, fingers brushing his jaw.
“Don’t swallow yet.”
Jean freezes, obedient, my fingers still resting on his tongue.
Hessou reaches across the table for the small silver dish of sauce.
Then, with the same elegant fingers he uses to tie a cravat or guide a cock into a waiting mouth, he dips two fingertips into the sauce, breaking every rule of etiquette he usually embodies.
I snort, thinking about calling out the hypocrisy, but my cock is more interested in watching what he’s planning to do.
I pull my fingers from Jean’s mouth, and Hessou replaces them with his own. I watch as Jean’s lips close around Hessou’s knuckles with a quiet sound.
Hessou hums in approval.
“There we go,” he says, eyes fixed on Jean’s lips as he pulls his fingers out. He drags them across Jean’s bottom lip, over his philtrum, to the corner where his mouth tenses to hold back a moan. “Bite it this time. Before you swallow.”
Jean obeys.
His jaw works gently as he bites down on the oyster, savoring it now—mouth messy, breath uneven. I watch the tension build in his thighs, the way his hips shift subtly under the table, needing friction he won’t ask for.
He swallows. Gasps.
And then he just sits there, mouth parted, lips sticky with oyster brine and sauce, trembling slightly. He looks thoroughly debauched. As if he’s already been fucked senseless, though we’ve barely begun.
Hessou cups Jean’s face in both hands, thumbing his cheeks, tilting his head back a little to examine the ruin he’s made. Then he leans in and licks slowly across Jean’s bottom lip.
“I’d say we should stop,” he murmurs against Jean’s mouth, “but I want to see how red you can get.”
Jean’s eyes flutter down, lashes trembling. The flush has crept past his collarbones, over the curve of his throat, blooming red up the sides of his neck. His pants are straining visibly, the outline of his cock thick and twitching, the damp spot spreading at the front too dark to ignore.
“You’re hard,” I state. “Again.”
He chokes and grabs his napkin, his grip white-knuckled and pitiful.
“You always are, aren’t you?” Hessou adds, fingers stroking lazily down the column of Jean’s throat, resting there for a moment. “You get hard so easily. So good for us.”
Jean says nothing, but his thighs flex under my palm. I slide my hand up, thumb pressing into the soft inner muscle of his leg, watching him squirm just slightly in the seat.
I pull the oyster tray closer, and take another one.
“This one’s different. You’ll like it.”
I lean forward and slurp the oyster into my mouth, feeling it briny, cold, soft and obscene. I turn to Jean, grab his chin again, and kiss him.
His eyes go wide.
He swallows the oyster right from my tongue, lips sticky, a small noise leaving his throat. His mouth is hot, and I feel him shudder when I press deeper, our tongues sliding through the briny mess.
I can feel Hessou’s hand moving beneath the table, brushing mine as he works Jean’s pants open.
I feel the soft shift of fabric. The faint, rhythmic movement of his wrist. The moment the heat of Jean’s cock escapes into the air and the slick tip grazes the back of my hand.
Jean moans, deep in his chest, and I drink it from him.
By the time we pull apart, our breathing is ragged. Jean’s face is wet and flushed, eyes glassy. My lips are tingling.
“See? Better like this.” I murmur against his cheek. “But it would taste even better with your cum all over it.”
“The only proper garnish,” Hessou says, watching us through half-lidded eyes. He then leans in and kisses Jean too, his mouth sweeping over what’s left of mine, tasting it from Jean’s tongue.
His fingers stroke Jean beneath the table, and this time I watch the way his hand is wrapped around Jean’s thick, throbbing cock.
It looks massive in his fist, already leaking so much that Hessou’s palm glistens with it.
Jean’s hips give a tiny, involuntary lift, fucking into the circle of Hessou’s fist, and a choked-off sound catches in his throat.
He’s beautiful like this. Shameless and pulsing with need.
The tablecloth hides most of it, but if any waiter came here now, they would be able to see it too.
I wonder if they would like the sight.
Jean gasps into Hessou’s mouth while they kiss, hips jerking when I reach down, my hand joining Hessou’s, sliding along the wet length.
“So shy,” Hessou says as they part, licking again at Jean’s kiss-bitten mouth. “But not saying no.”
Jean tries to shake his head, but his neck just arches back instead, exposing the line of his throat. His hips rock helplessly between our hands, searching for rhythm.
“Because I… I like it,” he whispers.
“What was that? Say it again,” I tease, biting the shell of his ear.
“I like it,” he groans louder, eyes squeezed shut, face tipped toward the ceiling.
The velvet curtain shifts slightly in the breeze from the open door to the main dining room. But no one comes.
Only Jean.
The oysters become delicious.