by Terri George
FeastON ME
An Erotic Short Story
by
Terri George
“The submission of a meek and timid woman
isn’t that much of a prize.
But the submission of a strong woman?
Now that’s a gift.
Something to be treasured.”
Feast on Me
by Terri George
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part maybe reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Terri George 2015. The right of Terri George to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
Prologue
The blue silk robe slid down my arms and he took it from me. I eased my body into a comfortable position, arms by my side, legs parted, and relaxed against the smoothness of the wooden table beneath me. My head rested on a small soft pillow.
I’d spent the day being pampered at the most exclusive salon, my entire body cleansed and buffed in preparation. Muscles were eased under the expert hands of the masseuse. As I’d been instructed, my nails, fingers and toes, manicured and painted scarlet. A bit of a cliché and a departure from the French manicure I usually favor.
I’d been waxed the day before, allowing for the required twenty-four hours before indulging in any kind of... activity. So now I laid pristine. Naked. My lightly tanned skin glistened in the warm glow of the overhead lights; dimmed sufficiently to shroud the corners of the room in semi-darkness.
I closed my eyes as he secured the blindfold in place, lowered my head back onto the pillow, and sighed.
Two settings of china, glasses and flatware made little chinking sounds as he laid them on the table. My senses were already heightened. That and the slight disturbance in the air told me they were being placed either side of my hips. So the diners would be seated close to my pussy.
A tiny shiver rippled through me, but not because I was cold. The room was warm enough. Anticipation caused the slight tremor in my breathing.
Anticipation... The most erotic word in the English language.
Expectation bloomed with the impatience of a child on Christmas Eve, of what lay ahead and the bodily pleasures I would experience tonight.
He’d prepared a plate of fresh fruit earlier, along with their appetizer and entree, which sat ready on the credenza with the San Pellegrino.
Slivers of fleshy papaya and succulent cantaloupe melon slid wetly on my skin. Rivulets of juiciness ran down my thighs and abdomen into little syrupy pools.
Pineapple rings were positioned with care on my breasts. The hole in the center fit perfectly around each nipple, already peaked. Two tell-tale signs of my desirous state.
My pulse quickened as something brushed against my inner thigh. Fingers and thumb parted my outer lips and opened me to receive the soft plumpness he gently inserted. That must be the strawberry.
Air trapped inside the plastic bottle made a small ‘pffft’ sound as the chocolate sauce was generously squirted over my body in an abandoned, gooey zigzag.
All that chocolate. Too sweet, too sticky?
No. It wasn’t just women who had a partiality for cocoa. They too had a sweet tooth, and two tongues with which to lick me clean.
I am not the appetizer, or even the entree.
I am the course they most anticipate.
I am, Dessert.
Chapter One
When I entered the gallery late Saturday afternoon I had no expectations, other than spending a couple of hours looking at art. An exhibition of erotica: black and white photographs that ranged from the tastefully sensual to explicit.
The serene expression I maintained as I moved around gave nothing away; the wetness between my legs a secret, hidden testimony to my arousal; my nipples that poked unhindered against the fabric of my dress, a more public proof.
I stood contemplating one particular photo. The camera couldn’t have been more than two feet away. The female subject was waxed, and there was a small tattoo at the apex of her inner thigh, right in that little hollow. It looked like an inverted number four − the way you would write it (a downwards slash cutting through the base of a capital L) not how a computer types it. It was a striking image.
“Chikara.” His softly spoken word startled me, and I turned. “It means power. And that is where the power lies.” His smile was one of veneration. “Between a woman’s thighs.”
He turned his gaze to me. The dangerous glint in his green eyes burned through my retinas, triggering impulses to pass through the optic nerves and imprint a visual on my mind’s eye; an image of bodies slick with sweat.
“My favorite place to be... I’m David. Shall we go?”
He was disarmingly handsome: unruly dark hair slightly at odds with the immaculate chalk stripe navy suit, crisp white shirt and gray silk tie, but still. The audacity of his assumption that I would go anywhere with him, a complete stranger, stunned me into silence; synapses misfiring, rendering me incapable of speech.
He put his palms together as if in prayer, his brows creasing a little as he rested his chin on his fingertips.
My senses recovered sufficiently and my brain registered his strong hands. Take charge hands. I liked that in a man.
“Oh, I’ve shocked you. I just meant grab a drink. There’s a little bar I know. You do drink..?” He waited for me to offer my name.
“Jessica.”
“Jess-i-ca.” He looked into the middle distance as he repeated my name slowly; almost as if to consider how the forming of it felt on his tongue. “Lovely.” His gaze reconnected with mine. “And do you, Jessica? Drink?”
“Yes.”
“Then shall we?” He held out his hand to me, and I took it.
It was still early, the dimly lit bar all but empty. We sat in a booth in the corner. There’d been flirting and touching. The ice tinkled against the glass as I swirled a finger in my vodka. I held his gaze as I slipped my finger in my mouth and sucked.
He whispered his palm up my inner thigh. A small groan of appreciation passed his lips as I opened my legs a little wider. He leaned in, his mouth close to my ear. “Go to the ladies’ room.”
I slid along the banquette, smoothing down my dress as I got to my feet. I walked to the ladies’ restroom without a backward glance. I knew he’d follow.
He pushed into the stall, slid the bolt in the lock and maneuvered our bodies so he had me pressed up against the door. My pussy spasmed in anticipation as he trailed his fingers down my cleavage and teased at the V neckline of my wraparound dress, pulling it apart. His hot breath rushed over my bare breasts as he flicked each hard nipple with his tongue. One firm tug had my belt undone and my dress fell open, leaving me, for all intents and purposes, naked.
I trembled as he ran his middle finger up my slit.
“No panties,” he tsked. “I knew you were a slut when I saw how turned on you were at the exhibition. I could smell your arousal. And you know what happens to sluts like you.”
Raw sexual heat poured off him. My nerves fizzed and sparked as my clit throbbed out a rhythm in time with my rapid pulse.
“What?”
He unzipped his fly and took out his dick. It was hard and thick. Pre-cum oozed from the tip. “They get fucked. Hard.”
He scooped
me up, held me against the door and slammed in. I wrapped my legs tighter around his hips. The heels of my knee-high boots scraped against his ass with every deep thrust.
“This is for me. You won’t come. Sluts like you don’t deserve to come.”
The bolt on the door rattled against the latch as he powered into me. He grunted with every forceful thrust, digging his fingers into my ass. He came ferociously with a snarl.
The moment he was done he pulled out, tucked himself away and zipped up his fly. He squeezed me out of the way, unbolted the door and was gone.
I heard my husband moving around the kitchen as I closed the front door to our apartment. Having made my way down the hall, I stood at the doorway admiring his ass as he bent down to take a bottle of wine from the lowest rack.
Worn jeans hung low on his hips while his white T-shirt clung to his muscular torso. He was fresh from the shower, his dark hair a roughly dried mess.
We’d been together five years and yet I still marveled at how much younger he looked in casual clothes and freshly shaved; almost boyish even though he was well into his thirties.
He sensed me watching and turned. “Hey, babe.” His warm smile reached up to green eyes that shone with love. “I ordered in. Chinese okay?”
“Sure.” I smiled back. “I’m just going to take a quick shower.”
“Where shall we eat? Kitchen table or laps in front of the TV?”
“Laps,” I replied over my shoulder as I headed down the hall to our bedroom; the unrelieved ache persisting between my thighs.
He’d ordered too much food, as usual. Once the leftovers were stashed in the fridge and the empty wine bottle deposited in the recycling bin, David returned to the couch and pressed the button to play the DVD. The remote tossed on the floor, he stretched out his legs on the coffee table and crossed his bare feet.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to my temple. “I love you,” he whispered, pulling me in close.
I snuggled into his side; David’s affection soothing after his earlier harsh supremacy. “I love you, too.”
After rough play scenes, David always felt the need to reinforce our relationship as husband and wife, not just Dom and sub. That night he took his time; every caress and lick a benediction. I writhed and moaned under the sweet torment as he brought me to the brink again and again. Tears tumbled down my cheeks as I begged him to let me come. Finally he let me fall; his love a soft murmur as he shuddered in climax.
***
Sex with previous boyfriends had been fine, great even, but there was always something lacking; for me anyway. Sure, some of them liked it a little rough, taking me from behind, but then, who didn’t love it doggie style? But I needed more. I wanted my hair pulled, my ass spanked. I wanted them to call me a slut as they took me.
Then I met David. And I knew he was different.
Yes, he was charming and attentive. We made each other laugh. Yet there was more; a primal undercurrent to our mutual attraction.
The first time we had sex, David grabbed my wrists and pinned my arms to the mattress high above my head. I remember sighing as my body surrendered under his strong hold.
At last.
I recall how intense his gaze was as he looked down at me, cock fully immersed.
He moved inside me, and smiled. “Oh, you and I are going to have such fun.”
We still did all these years later.
David brought me to the deep understanding of my desire to submit. That it was a natural, fundamental trait within me and something to be reveled in. As was his need to dominate and control.
We didn’t broadcast this side of our relationship, didn’t belong to any clubs. We felt no need to partake in public scenes. Our sex life belonged to us: private and to be cherished.
There would always be those too closed-minded to understand. My job was all about damage control; I spun other people’s public humiliations. I knew how reputations could be trashed by gossip and had no wish to be the target of malicious tittle-tattle.
This was my choice. I didn’t need to think, only obey. My work days were filled with decisions. There was a freedom in relinquishing control. My submission didn’t make me weak, just as David’s domination didn’t make him a bully; far from it. Outside of the bedroom, David was the kindest man I knew.
My submission didn’t extend beyond the bedroom, or play scenes though. Outside of sex, David and I were equals. We made decisions about everyday things together. We were partners in our marriage, both opinions had equal weight. Of course we argued, but he didn’t have the final say like it was his automatic right. Sometimes he won, sometimes I did.
If people knew, they’d probably think David flogged and spanked and tied me up all the time, but sex wasn’t always kink. During the week we were usually too tired for a prolonged scene. We’d try to add an element of kink, but weekday sex was pretty vanilla, albeit great vanilla.
Of course, every couple had their own thing. We weren’t into the extreme stuff. Some kinksters would probably consider us pretty tame.
David loved scenes like the gallery, where we pretended we were strangers and fucked somewhere public.
He loved to surprise me.
In the car he’d order me to masturbate to orgasm as we sped down the highway. Or spread my legs, one foot rested on the central console as he fingered me. He’d get so hard we’d have to stop at the next gas station and fuck in the women’s restroom.
I’ve lost count how many times we’ve been at a function and he’d whispered at the table to go to the ladies’ room and take off my panties. The knowledge that under my elegant evening gown I was bare assed drove him insane.
Our sex life was most definitely fun, which made me wonder why more people weren’t into kink. Or maybe they were, but kept quiet about it like we did.
***
Both of us worked long hours, and weekends were precious. When we had no plans to see friends, phones were turned off and we devoted the forty-eight hours to each other. Mornings were lazy and spent in bed. We got up late on Sunday and, as it was bright and sunny, David suggested a picnic lunch in the park. My husband could be charmingly old fashioned at times.
David took the picnic basket from the back seat and locked the car. We found a secluded spot in the shade and he spread the plaid blanket on the grass.
I’d gone to the local deli and bought his favorites: roast chicken breasts, Mediterranean salad of baby plum tomatoes, green olives and crunchy Romaine lettuce, with ripe Californian figs for dessert.
All washed down with Cherry Bombs. The non-alcoholic kind we drank as kids, thinking we were so grown up. Chablis, crisp and chilled, would’ve been a better accompaniment, but David was driving, and he loved Cherry Bombs. Along with moments of charming whimsy, David could be as endearingly sweet as those cocktails.
But there was nothing quaint about how he ate his fig. He split it open with his thumbs, folded out the inner flesh and just went for it.
Mesmerized, I watched him devour the fruit. Wanton need pooled between my thighs. I bit my bottom lip as I fought the urge to lean over and lap up the juices that ran down his chin.
My pussy ached for his mouth. I wanted to be that fig. To be consumed by him. Wanted him to sate his hunger on me.
He saw me watching and smirked around his mouthful as he swallowed. His gaze darkened with delicious intent as he leaned in. “You’re imagining my mouth on your cunt aren’t you? Eating you ‘til you come hard in my mouth.” He used his Dom voice.
I nodded.
“You filthy, little slut.”
David clicked the car’s central locking. “Take off your panties.”
We had continued picnicking for another hour, but I knew he hadn’t forgotten my dirty imaginings, so wasn’t surprised by his order.
I lifted my ass enough to pull off my lacy panties, and dropped them in the footwell as I awaited further instructions.
“Unbutton your blouse halfway and pull your skir
t up to your waist.”
David’s gaze was riveted on me as I complied, undoing my blouse and hitching up my skirt.
My seat tipped back as he reclined it a little before he moved his to give us room.
“Pull down your bra. Let me see those tits.”
My fingers brushed against my hardened nipples as I slipped my hands under the cups of my bra. I moaned lightly as I pushed them down, baring my breasts.
“Now rest your right foot on the dash and your left leg on my right shoulder.”
I did as I was told. My breathing became shallow as I laid there, open and waiting. Although the windows were tinted and no one could see in, just the thought that people could walk past within inches of the car had me all kinds of turned on.
David’s hands formed a V as he pressed his thumbs against the inside of my legs just above the knees. “I’m going to feast on your cunt, and you will come.”
He slid his palms up my thighs as he lowered his body and brought his mouth close to my pussy.
I was so wet, the air redolent with my arousal, even before he placed his thumbs on either side of my slit and spread me open.
“Fuck,” he marveled. “You’re dripping. Even juicier than that fig, and sweeter I bet.”
I moaned deeply, my head tilted back as David closed his mouth over my pussy and licked and sucked voraciously.
Within minutes, I was on the brink. I clawed at the dash with my right hand as I clung to the seat with the other, fingers pressed into the leather upholstery.
David’s grip on me tightened as I started to spasm. He pinched one of my nipples hard and buried his face further. Growling sounds emanated from deep in his chest as he sucked me over the edge.
