Good Vibrations Magazine

Just after the soup, I realize you’re not wearing much of anything under your cocktail dress. The top part, I knew about; you never wear a bra under this particular dress. It’s one of the things that makes it so sexy, just a bit too low-cut to support even the slightest of bras, while being not quite thick enough to entirely hide the swell of your nipples under the thin fabric. It’s decent, but just a little adventurous to wear to a dressy dinner party like this one. I know why you’ve worn it. I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of your breasts the whole evening, off the way your nipples gently tent the fabric underneath. And that hasn’t escaped your notice, which just makes them tent the fabric more.

The panties I find out about when you reach out to hold my hand under the table. At first I think it’s just a casual gesture of affection. Then I feel you tugging my hand into your lap. You snuggle forward on your chair, leaning back slightly so that your upper thighs are safely under the drapery of the tablecloth. Covering my hand with yours, you place it between your legs, against the satin stripe of your garters and the filmy lace-tops of your stockings. Then you inch it higher.

I resist at first, as my mind fights with the realization of what you’re doing. Then, when you insist, I let you guide my hand up under your dress, where I feel in a rush of sensation the shaved softness of your pussy, slippery and open. You wrestle one finger apart from the rest and force it into you, laughing at a joke told far down the table — as if to cover your exhalation of breath as my finger penetrates you.

Then you pull my hand out from between your legs, your fingers entwined with mine, and casually bring it to your mouth to kiss it. As you might any other time, not caring that people are watching our casual exchange of affection.

Except this time, your tongue manages to trace a path up my middle finger and swirl around my fingertip, licking your juices. I’m quite sure that no one spots it, and if they did they probably wouldn’t appreciate the lasciviousness of this gesture. But I notice it. You lean over and kiss me on the lips, quickly, your tongue tracing just the faintest path between my lips. I taste you, sharp and tangy and insistent.

When you let go of my hand and retrieve your own, it makes a quick detour into my lap, discovering that I’m as hard as you are wet. Putting your hand to your forehead, then your fingertips to your cheeks, you murmur to me that you’re suddenly feeling hot.

“Excuse me,” you say. “I’ll be right back.”

You disappear into the hall behind us, and one of our longtime friends, across the table, flashes an expression of concern.

“Is she all right?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I better go find out.”

Excusing myself, I turn quickly to hide my hard-on. When I hear the chorus of concerned sounds, I manage a shrug. “She hasn’t been feeling well lately — perhaps coming down with a little something. I’ll make sure she’s all right.”

I make my way up the stairs, my cock throbbing in my pants as I near you. It’s like I can smell you, the scent of your feral lust mixing with the tang of your pussy on my lips. I race up to the bathroom. The door is closed.

“Honey?” I call softly, for the benefit of those downstairs. I open the door and go inside.

You’re seated on the bathroom counter, your dress a rumpled pool beside you, your thighs spread wide as you lean back against the big mirror. I’m on you in an instant, kissing you hard, our tongues entangling as my hand finds your pussy, finds it not just wet but gushing. I slip two fingers inside as you grasp my cock through my pants, tearing at my belt, getting it open. My cock’s in your hands before I tear it from your grasp so I can go down on one knee and bury my face between your spread legs. I’m glad you turned on the fan to cover the uncontrolled sounds of your gasping as my tongue slides between your swollen lips, teasing your hard clitoris.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Are you okay?” comes the voice.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, your voice husky. “I just need a minute.”

We hear her footsteps going away, and I’m back at it, my tongue forcing its way into you, my thumb teasing your clit as you run your fingers fervently through my hair. I slide a finger inside you, then two, pressing hard on your G-spot as I lick my way up to your clit and suckle on it hungrily.

You’ve got my tie in your hand, pulling me up insistently as you slide off the counter and turn around, bending over at the waist. You drag me up against you, reaching behind to grasp my hard cock. I’m inside you even before I can get my fingers in your mouth, pressing them deep against your tongue as I close my mouth on the back of your neck, biting gently and breathing hard. I can feel your body spasm as you try to suppress moan after moan as I pump into you. I grab your carefully-coiffed hair with my spit-slick fingers and hold your head tight as I bite your shoulder, gently pinching your nipples with my other hand. And then, as I sense you mounting closer, I reach down and work my fingers into the hollow above where my cock penetrates you, into the place where your clit throbs desperately with each thrust. It’s time already, our illicit coupling having driven us both so high so fast that there’s almost nothing we could do to keep from coming. You climax first, the muscles of your pussy clenching my cock in uncontrolled rhythmic pulses just an instant before I come inside you, shuddering with the release.

There’s so little time for kisses, afterwards, but we share a few, as you lick my fingers clean, as I get a wad of toilet paper and wipe you down. I splash cold water on my face and make sure I’m not too red from the exertion of fucking you. The toilet’s flush covers a series of moans as we press our bodies together, hard, one last time before parting.

I zip up and buckle, leave you to get dressed, and rush downstairs just as they’re bringing the main course.

“Is she all right?” asks the chorus of concerned voices.

She’s more than all right, I want to tell them, but I manage to suppress it.

“She’s fine,” I say. “Just feeling a little under the weather. She’ll be down in a minute.”

Thomas S. Roche’s books include the Noirotica series and the short story collection Dark Matter. His stories have appeared in many anthologies, including the Best American Erotica series and this year’s Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica.