“It really is,” my father agrees, giving my mother’s hand an affectionate squeeze.
“We’re happy to be here, Mom,” I reply for the two of us, placing a hand on your thigh, under the table. I look to you for approval, and you nod, smiling at my parents.
Joining the four of us for dinner are my aunt, uncle and four cousins. My aunt is my mother’s sister, a nose on legs with a voice akin to nails scratching a chalkboard. Her husband, Bernard’s personality isn’t at all palatable for anyone without hard liquor involved. His skin is the color of distressed leather, his teeth abnormally bleached-white. He is the type that tans in a salon until he can be described as “extra crispy”. His obsession with remaining “hip” quickly tires most people around him. His job revolves around business, a subject which doesn’t offer much interest to me.
I pick at my food as he launches into a story that I can’t be bothered to listen to. My aunt interrupts every couple of minutes to make sure her painfully shrill voice gets heard. I glance at my cousins, who seem to understand what their father is talking about. I nudge one of them, Marie. Of all my cousins, she is closest to my age. She gets her personality as well as personal style from my uncle, and is “lucky” enough to inherit my aunt’s shriek of a voice. She doesn’t respond to me at all. Jerk. My chances for decently interesting conversation dwindle by the second.
Can people die of boredom? I hope not.
You take a sip of wine, and I’m reminded of your presence. My eyes follow the smooth movements of your hands; confident and strong. Memories of what those hands can do makes me shiver. I want to leave this table, you’re so much more interesting than anyone here. And as much as I love my family, you never fail to keep me excited.
How can I distract you from the conversation without anyone noticing? It’s not as if I can get your attention the usual way; I can’t just strip my clothes and kneel at your feet. I have a sip of my own wine, searching for ideas on how to get the two of us excused from the table without raising suspicion or inviting a ton of questions. My other hand falls to my lap to play absentmindedly with the embroidered fringe as I think.
Oh! I notice how long the table cloth is, and an idea hits me. One that will surely get me punished later. The thought twists my stomach in a deliciously sinful knot, and I know immediately what to do. I look around to make sure no one is paying attention to me as I shift just slightly closer to you, hoping you can provide excitement. I begin by sliding my fingers over the inseam of your pants at your thigh, applying just enough pressure so you can feel it through your slacks. I glance around, making sure that no one has noticed my shift.
Good. No one has.
My fingers inch closer to you, keeping my eyes on my food. Finally I find my prize. I run my thumb over your length, from tip to base, hooking my other fingers into the outline of you over your pants. I watch your back stiffen just a bit and I know I’ll pay a price for teasing you. I bite my lip and continue with my heart pounding in my chest. I find myself praying that no one drops a fork or takes up a sudden urge to look under the table. My luck holds, my uncle is still chattering away, my aunt is still interjecting, and everyone else seems to have forgotten my presence. That doesn’t bother me at all; my family is blissfully unaware of my indecency.
You continue to eat, to your credit. No one would ever guess by looking at your face what I’m doing to you under the table. I remember I’m supposed to be eating, and take another few bites and a gulp of wine, listening as my uncle continues the most boring story I’ve ever heard.
Not being caught emboldens me. The sensation of your pants sliding between my hand and your hardening cock is electrifying. My fingers find your zipper and inch it down, careful of the sound it would make. I swallow a few more hurried bites. My arousal spiking, crossing my legs, rocking forward just a little to try to get a bit of relief from the raging wave of lust washing through me.
Your hard cock is out moments later, my hand running up and down its length. This isn’t the first time I’ve had your cock in my hand, and I know just where to squeeze to get you going. Glancing up, I see a familiar spark in your eyes. Uh oh, you already know how you’re going to be dealing with me for this. My nipples tighten at the thought, and suddenly my bra seems absurdly tight. I try to keep my breath steady as my aunt and mother clear the plates off the table.
They still haven’t noticed. I know I’m wet, and probably ruining the panties you picked out for me this morning. I slide my thumb over your cockhead, gathering the precum that’s oozing from your slit. I take a sip of wine, then run that precum-covered thumb over my bottom lip, my tongue tracing in its path. The mixed tastes of wine and cum surprisingly pleasant. My clit throbs, and I can’t help but imagine taking your hard, hot cock into my mouth…
I chew my bottom lip as post-dinner coffee is poured, thankful that my stroking is still going unnoticed. I can tell how close you are. I take my cloth napkin in my other hand, ready to catch your hot, sticky cum. Enduring your retribution for being a cock-tease will be less severe if I can get you to climax. My panties are sticking to me from how wet I’ve gotten, and I want your hands there. I want your fingers stroking inside me. I need you to bury yourself in me. I bite my lip harder, suppressing a building groan of desire. I wish you could hear the mantra playing on repeat in my twisted lust-clouded mind: Please cum for me, Sir…
Just as I’m sure you’re about to fall over the edge, your hand pushes mine away. You tuck your cock back into your pants, zip up and somehow pull your phone out of your pocket, all in one fluid motion.
Did I do something wrong? I rack my brain, studying the faces of my family for any clue that I’ve blown my cover.
“Excuse me, I just received a call from the office. Mind if I borrow your daughter and step into the powder room to take it?” you ask.
Using our cover story that I help you organize your work files at home is brilliant. The world knows me as your assistant, making it easy to explain why I’m with you at all hours of the night and day at work, as well as our unconventional personal dynamic.
My mother nods with a smile, and we stand. You skillfully hide your arousal by guiding me to walk in front of you. I don’t know what you’re planning for me in the powder room, and my stomach is turning nervously. I fight the urge to rip off my dress and lingerie set, bend over and beg for you to fill me.
We finally get upstairs, and you grab me by the arm, pulling me firmly into the bathroom.
With a yank of my hair, you order me onto my knees. The hard tile hurts my knees as I drop, but my excitement overrides my minor discomfort. “Take it out, slut,” your voice is quiet, but commanding.
I obey your order, undoing your pants so I can take your cock out once again. I try to stroke your cock, but my hand is slapped away. Using your control hold in my hair, you pull my head closer to you. Another moment passes before you’re rubbing my lips with your cock; I let my mouth fall open, my tongue lolling out of my mouth automatically as you’ve trained me. A quick thrust of your hips, and you’re in my mouth. I allow myself to drool around you a little, knowing well how it turns you on. My reward is an appreciative grunt, and the hand in my hair loosens its grip slightly. I take this as a sign to continue, and push your cock further, my eyes watering from the force.
“That’s my whore,” you whisper. “Just like that. Teasing me at your family’s table? What would your parents think if they knew what a whore you are for me?”
I don’t have the opportunity to answer, or even blush in embarrassment; I feel a pressure at the back of my head and know what you want me to do. I push forward until my nose rests against your pelvis, tears spilling down my cheeks as I swallow over and over again to suppress my gag reflex. Your cock throbs at the back of my throat. My own arousal is almost painful now, but pleasing you is so much more important.
“Fuck,” you mutter. “What a damn slut you are!” Your hips thrust forward, forcing your cock deeper into my throat. I’m accustomed to being used this way, and remember to relax my throat and neck as I’m used as your personal fuckdoll.
“Lift up your dress,” you demand. “I want to see those tits while I throat-fuck you like the whore you are.”
“Yes, Sir,” my speech is muffled; your still-thrusting cock gets in the way of my verbal acknowledgement, the vibrations from it thrumming around you. I reach down and lift up my dress and bra, exposing my C-cup breasts to you. Still thrusting, you bend down and squeeze my painfully erect nipples until I cry out around your throbbing member. I hear you grunt, and the pressure on my nipples is replaced by a sharper pain at the top of my breasts.
I feel another stinging sensation, then hear the sound and realize that you’re slapping my breasts, knowing that my soft, lightly tanned skin is turning red with each time your hand connects. This only lasts a few moments before you pull out of my mouth, grabbing another handhold of my hair, forcing me to my feet. I wince as you slap my breasts again, twice to each.
Another slap, harder this time. “What the fuck do you say, slut?”
My voice is hoarse and my throat is raw, my body is shaking in arousal, “Th-thank you, Sir!”
No sooner was my gratitude expressed before I was bent over the sink, my chest pressed against the freezing porcelain sink. My pants and underwear are tugged down, my bare ass exposed to your mercy. My hips jerk when your fingers find my desperate clit, and I bite my lip hard to keep from crying out. Another hand reigns a hard slap to my ass, and my fingers curl into the counter for more support than my weak and shaking legs are offering me.
“What a wet pussy you have, slut,” your voice is soft as you manipulate and pull my clit. I can’t seem to catch my breath.
“Yes, Sir.” My voice is barely a squeak.
“I bet you want it fucked, right?”
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir!” I don’t bother to try to keep the longing out of my voice. You’d see right through any attempts anyway.
I hear your tongue click, and a spank is delivered to my other cheek. “I don’t believe you.”
My desperation overtakes me, and I begin pleading with you, “Please, Sir. I need your hard, throbbing cock in my tight little cunt, Sir. Please fill me up and use me! I know it will please you the way you should be, Sir! Enjoy this soaking pussy, it’s yours!” My voice is little more than a series of pants and whispers.
My begging seems to please you, because mere (agonizingly slow) moments pass and I feel your cock posed at my pussy before it’s pushed in. Buried in a single thrust. Yes! I finally have you in me! This is what I’d been craving since the beginning. And it was completely worth the wait! It isn’t long before you begin thrusting into me, using similar hard, fast thrusts that you took my throat with.
My pussy immediately clamps around you, milking you with each thrust. More spanks redden my ass, I’m no longer sure if they hurt, every nerve is begging for your touch in one way or another. Your grip in my hair tightens, and my head pulled firmly until my back arches. “That’s my fucking slut,” you mutter, grunting with the effort now. You’re close, and I want you to cum. I need to you to cum for me. I want to be totally filled by you, and then I’ll feel like I’ve served you properly.
My own climax overtakes me, and I have to bite my lip hard again to keep from screaming. My body is reduced to a shuddering mass of nerves as my hips jerk uncontrollably, forcing the inner walls of my convulsing pussy to milk you more violently. I feel your chest on my back as you hunch forward, forcing your cock deeper as you explode inside me. It fills my throbbing, soaked cunt immediately, and we both groan in satisfaction. We stay there, slowly catching our breath. I adore the heightened sensations of your skin on mine.
Panting, your shrinking cock slips slowly out of my pussy, “Have you learned your lesson, little whore?” Your voice is soft in my ear, and has lost its demanding edge.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe.
“Good girl,” you straighten up and hand me a cloth.
I take the cloth and set it on the sink, moving to my knees yet again and close my lips around your soft cock, sucking our combined juices from you, careful not to be too intense. I hear you groan in pleasant surprise; it’s music to me.
“Very good girl,” you chuckle, helping me stand and clean up. Your touch is steady and gentle as you run the cloth over my skin. I always enjoy serving you, but these moments hold a special erotic meaning for me.
We pull our clothes on, my legs still shaking. After I fix my hair, you snake an arm around my waist and kiss me deeply. It’s a warm, tender kiss, and I enjoy every second of it. I murmur against your lips as the kiss ends, “Thank you, Sir.”
You chuckle and take my hand, leading me back to whatever my family is doing.
One thing’s for sure, this won’t be the last time I tease you, Sir. My punishments are far too much fun!
