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“I find that when it’s good and hot like this, it’s really enjoyable.” The tip of his ring finger pushed inside me briefly, then returned to brushing the hard, slick bud. “Don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” I took another bite and eased my hips forward to give him better access. Those dark eyes flickered toward mine, and I met them with a coy smile. “I see you’re a connoisseur.”
His finger penetrated me again, joined by his middle finger. “Oh, yes,” he groaned, a little loudly.
Someone glanced over and nodded approvingly, adding an “Amen!” Apparently Kenneth had just strongly agreed to something the speaker had said. I grinned in the dim light and squeezed his fingers gently.
“Enjoying the speech, are we?” I couldn’t resist.
Kenneth answered with a graceful stroke of his fingers, expertly pulling them almost entirely out, then gliding them back in. “The reverend is a brilliant orator,” he purred, doing it again, slowly so I could feel the ridges in his fingers. “A master of his craft.” He was sluicing in and out now easily, matching his words with his strokes. I imagined his hand must have been soaked. “He enjoys the pleasure of weaving a story, letting the audience’s interest build, and ultimately…” He paused for effect, his fingers still fucking me slowly and steadily while I tried not to pump my hips against him or beg him for more. “Bringing his tale to a climax.” His voice trailed off into a low moan as he felt the beginning flickers of my pussy around his fingers.
“I don’t know,” I huffed, trying to keep my breathing even. “Sometimes I prefer a more direct route.” I shifted again, widening the V of my legs and pushing his manicured fingers deeper, showing him the spot that would push me over.
“True,” he agreed, pumping his fingers into me. I could actually hear the soft, wet sounds of his palm slapping against my mound. “A more forceful and direct route…” He broke off, concentrating.
“Can be…certainly…better…yes…more satisfactory,” I panted, not caring that I was giving up my cool, and clutched the arms of the chair, using them for slight leverage to lift my hips up and down on his hand. I could feel the familiar tickle of the beginning of my orgasm, the buzz in my head, the tightening of my muscles around his pumping fingers.
“Yes…,” he growled gruffly. Impatient. Wanting to see. I’d been right; his eyes were devouring me—the speaker, the audience, the charity dinner, completely forgotten. “You’re so wet, honey, come for me.” The words were low, almost slurred, as if he was as drunk from my pleasure as I was.
And I gasped with his request, my body rigid, hands clamped around the arms of my chair as if for dear life as his fingers twisted wetly inside me, his thumb pressing against the side of my clit, wringing every last drop of cream from my pussy. I bit my lip hard, fighting to not scream or cry out. My eyes fluttered shut as the initial shock wore off, and I felt his fingers ease from me after the last of the aftershocks and tremors of my thighs had ended.
At the burst of seemingly thunderous applause, my eyes shot open, fearing that we had been caught. I looked over to Kenneth with wide eyes, but he met mine with searing want. He was clapping along with the other diners, the digits of his right hand still glistening with my juice. His applause, though, was directed at me, along with a deep-dimpled grin.
“Dessert,” the waiter announced gently, sliding a dish of a raspberry mousse in front of each of us. He retreated, looking curiously at the high color in my cheeks and the light beads of sweat on Kenneth’s upper lip. I shifted in my seat, pulling my dress down discreetly with each wiggle of my hips. My thighs were damp, and my panties soaked. I looked over to see my dinner companion dip the blunt tip of his middle finger into the crest of the pink mousse and bring it to his mouth. I fought not to gape as he brought his tongue out to taste that cream—and my own. He smiled.
“Delicious,” he all but sighed. His eyes were locked on mine. “I’d love to taste more.” An open invitation. His hand was resting on the tabletop again, and I glanced down at the ring, shiny and forbidding. This had been fun, but Kenneth Prince Charming, lucky Mrs. Prince, and the two little heirs was more of a story than I was willing to take on. Not even with his magical fingers and probably even more magical tongue and dick. I’d be kicking myself tonight, but I didn’t want any “ever afters” with him, not even those that involved me riding his fine ass into the sunset. I held my hand out to his. The announcer was back, saying something about the charity auction after dinner. He took my hand as gently as before, his eyes expectant. My honey-sweet smile, I hoped, would soften the refusal. “It was nice meeting you, Kenneth,” I purred softly, barely audible over the closing remarks.
He nodded, disappointed, but still smiling. His dimple deepened. “And you as well.”
I stood up and took my leave, letting my hips sway just a little extra for Kenneth Prince’s benefit. I smiled on my way to the coatroom to quickly collect my wrap. A part of me considered leaving a dramatic token—a shoe? A room key? A phone number? But I shook my head and walked out ont
o the street to hail a cab back to my real life. Sometimes princes were better left in fairy tales.
Daydreamin’
Romeo Walker
Devon sat in class listening to the teacher drone on, his thoughts not on the Shakespeare play that he was supposed to be reading. Rather they were on many different things: music, women, and money.
“Mr. White, what is your opinion of Puck?” the teacher asked.
Devon looked down at his book, drawn back into the play by the question. He searched hurriedly for a passage.
“It’s your opinion, Mr. White,” the teacher quipped, and walked around the room, coming to a stop beside Devon’s desk.
Devon snapped his head up to look at the balding, middle-aged Latino teacher. He stared hard at him. The teacher barely took notice of Devon’s hard looks as he again paced around the class.
“Puck, sir, what do you think of him?”
“I don’t know—”
“He’s a troublemaker!”
Devon turned to see who had interrupted him. His brown eyes fell upon Shantrice Elway. She sat there looking at him with an air of indifference. Shantrice had been in several of his classes. They had spoken on occasion and had even exchanged phone numbers early on, but there was nothing there. She was pretty, Devon thought, but not really a dime.
“Puck seems to like to see comedic things happening in the play,” explained Shantrice. She smiled meekly at Devon.
“That’s good, Ms. Elway,” the teacher said. “When he sprinkles his dust, strange things happen.”
