We’re having dinner with his parents and I’m on my best behaviour, of course I am, bringing wine and flowers and holding his hand like a power supply and admiring baby photos of the man I love. All is well, dinner is planned late, later, later still because timing is not his mother’s strong suit but I am doing well and he is gently stroking my palm with his thumb, which is the reminder I am doing fine.
“Why don’t you give her the tour of the house, show her your room? Dinner will be a while yet.” his father rolls his eyes in the direction of the kitchen where his mother slaves over pots and pans, clearly run out of conversation to make with me.
So my beloved and I ascend the stairs and he points out the bathroom, his parents and brothers’ rooms, and finally the tiny box room that was his personal space until the age of eighteen. The walls are show home cream and the bed is bedecked with a rosy floral duvet set but there are still glimpses of teenage boy about the place – a shelf full of Adrian Mole and Panini sticker albums; an Action Man precariously balanced on top.
He closes the door behind him and I jump; arms around his shoulders, mouth seeking his – an hour or more without spontaneous kisses and I am weakened. He grips me, allows me his mouth, his tongue, then holds me at arms length, palms firm against my shoulders. He is smiling as he pushes me to my knees, our eyes unflinching, he unfastens his belt, but pauses before continuing.
“Over the bed.” he says at length, and I land across the quilt of roses and peonies and he flips up my skirt and then my tights and knickers are yanked down to mid thigh, just enough to expose the inviting expanse of my backside.
“Five. One for each self-deprecating comment you made tonight.”
“I didn’t think you’d noticed.” I say, honestly.
“And another, for doubting that I listen to you.”
The leather stings with each subsequent stroke, neat blasts over my skin which make me yelp, mindful of the others below us. He makes me count each one, and I am grateful for the calming pain; his fingers on the small of my back when he is done.
“Now, where were we?”
When I turn around, his flies are unbuttoned and exposes his cock.
“Come here and open your mouth. Tongue out too, please.”
I crawl to him, mouth open, almost drooling at the sight of him holding his cock parallel to his abdomen.
“Such a dumb little girl.” He knows the longer he makes me wait, the greater the pool of saliva around my tongue grows and threatens to dribble down my chin, and if that happens he can laugh at me for being even more stupid and cock-drunk than before. But dinner draws ever closer and he lowers his balls into my mouth, jerking the shaft as I delicately manoeuvre my tongue over the sensitive skin, heavy and filling.
Satisfied, he tells me to stop, and allows my tongue to venture over his erection, his impassive eye watching me work until I brush the head; the tender slit with it’s bead of precum and he moans softly.
“Now you can take it all.” He growls simply, angling down into my throat and I brace myself against the door behind him, my head shuttling back and forth over his cock, quicker, fine-tuning my skills and my hand working in unison with my lips and tongue until his breathing quickens and he’s muttering “Oh fuck,” as I hold him firmly in place and his warm, sticky load shoots deep inside me. I keep sucking for a while because I am cruel and every swipe of my tongue invokes a sharp intake of breath until he extricates himself from my grasp and tucks his cock out of sight, muttering that he’s quite clean enough.
He helps me to my feet as we hear the faint sound of his mother informing us that dinner is on the table, slightly annoyed, as if we were the ones who didn’t know that chicken takes longer to cook than carrots.
“Time for your main course.” He holds me in his arms briefly, kissing my forehead, nose, cheek, and finally mouth. His right hand reaches under my skirt and cups my vulva, working one of his fingers pointedly through a hole in my tights to my damp underwear.
“And later, dessert.”