The Drinks Rehearsal

Well, my egg sure had a drink rehearsal, Penelope thought, and she laughed at her own little joke as she lifted her dress back up to her shoulders, the silk settling against her hips with a wet, guilty little sound. She could feel it, that warm trickle, making its lazy way down the inside of her thigh, and she didn't lift a finger to stop it. Let it leak. Let the whole hotel smell like her.

"Come with me," she whispered to her stud, ignoring Biederman and his tiny penis entirely. The man was still on his knees in the sand, still half hard, still staring at the ground like he'd just seen God and God had a foreskin.

"Come with me as a special guest," she cooed, hooking one finger through his belt loop. I will make you a very happy man tonight.

She turned, high heels dangling from her hand, and gave the two men her instructions the way a general gives orders.

I need a sluttier outfit for the drink's rehearsal. "You—she pointed at her bull without looking—go mingle with the guests. "I will tell my fiancé you are an old college hubby of mine. Be charming. Be boring.

Then she was gone, walking barefoot across the cold sand toward the hotel, her ass still marked with Biederman's first-ever cock-induced offering, drying into a thin, salty shine on her lower back. Another drop of warm semen slid free and dripped onto her thigh, and she shivered, deliciously, all the way to the service door.

In her room, she kicked the door shut with her heel and went straight for the wardrobe, still buzzing from the whiskey and the fucking and the sheer criminal joy of it all.

I need something that says I have been properly bred, and I want everyone to know it without saying a word.

She found it. The penthouse dress. She remembered now. Black, cut low and wide at the sides, the kind of thing that bared the heavy swell of her sideboobs the second she moved her arms. Backless, held up by little more than faith and two thin straps. She stepped into it, zipped it, turned in the mirror, and watched her tits shift and press against the side of the neckline with every small movement.

Yes. That's the one.

She freshened up without washing. A wipe of the armpits and a new spray of perfume on the wrists and the throat, but left her cunt exactly as it was—full, used, still slowly giving back what her bull had pumped into her. She wanted to feel that drip the entire evening. She wanted to sit at a table with her future husband's business partners and feel another man's seed shift inside her when she laughed.

She texted her fiancé: An old school friend of mine is here, Robert. Ran into him at the bar. Brought him along; hope that's ok.

Sure nice! came the reply, with a little heart. Happy for you; at least you have somebody from your side.

He has no idea, she thought. Not one.

She fixed her ruined lipstick in the mirror, redrawn now, a little bolder than before, sluttier, and went down.

The drinks rehearsal was in the long terrace bar off the ballroom, all fairy lights and hired jazz and men in loosened ties. She walked in bare-armed and bare-backed, and the room did that thing rooms do—the small lag, the half-turn of heads, and the conversation that drops a beat. The dress did its work. Every step swung the fabric and flashed the pale side of her breast, and by the time she reached the middle of the floor, half the husbands present had already committed some small infidelity with their eyes.

One of them, she noticed, watched her a lot longer than was allowed. Not Karl—Karl was somewhere at the far end pretending to be normal. This was another one, a banker type, and his wife was talking at him, and he was nodding at nothing, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. She teased his wife by giving him an inviting smile. The dress made wonders occur. And stirred cocks, she added.

Her dress, black, and barely a dress at all—really just a drape of soft, matte stretch jersey held up by a single silver ring at the throat. It's a halter, but not the safe kind: a deep, plunging V that swallows both breasts down to the navel. There's no bra anywhere in the design and no room for one either—the neckline is cut so low and so loose that the whole front of her is on display, and every time she leans forward, the drape swings away from her body and shows everything it's supposed to cover.

The sides are simply gone. From the armpit all the way down to the waist, the dress is open, so the full swell of her sideboob spills out against bare skin, uncontained, the underside of her breast fully visible in profile from across a room. It's the kind of cut that makes men look twice and then pretend they didn't.

The back is the same story—bare to the waist, only the halter strap crossing the shoulder blades, so the whole long line of her spine is on show. Displaying the beginning of her lovely butt crack. A true invitation to anal sex.

Matched with red lipstick, bare shoulders, bare back, bare everything, and heels. Barely formal enough for a drink's rehearsal but for sure filthy enough for a pool table fuck in a dark corner.

Good, she thought. Suffer.

She found her fiancé by the bar, took his face in both hands, and kissed his cheek, leaving a soft red print there like a stamp of ownership.

"This is Robert," she said, sliding her arm around her bull's waist. "Old college friend. We lost touch for years; can you believe it?"

The two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries—weather, travel, the resort—and the whole time Penelope's hand was on her stud's ass, squeezing, kneading, right there in the open where anybody could see. Her future husband clocked it, glanced at it once, twice, and filed it away as a thing between old friends. He had no idea. He never had any idea. That was his whole charm, really.

Penelope scanned the room. The ballroom was bright and crowded and loud. She needed somewhere dim. Somewhere with a door, perhaps, that nobody used.

And then she saw it—at the very far end of the bar, past the last fairy light, a darker corner with a low ceiling and a single lamp. A pool table. The lights over it were off. A lone cue leaned against the wall like it had been left there in 1997. Nobody was there.

Oh, that's perfect.

She went hunting for Biederman and found him by the window, nursing a whiskey and radiating guilt. He flushed red the second he saw her approach, the poor man going from pale to beetroot in a single step, and she had to put a hand on his forearm to calm him down before he confessed everything to the entire party.

"Relax, Karl. You're doing fine." She whispered to him, calming him down. "I won't say a word to your wife."

"Do you like pool, Karl?" she purred, letting her fingers walk down his sleeve. "Would you like to see me handle a big cue stick and some big balls?"

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

"Join me at the back of the bar in half an hour, Karl." She leaned in, and her lips brushed the shell of his ear, and then her teeth closed, softly, on the lobe. "Bring a camera."

She felt him shudder. She left him standing there with his whiskey and his erection and his ruined little life.

Then she found her stud again, standing exactly where she'd left him, being boring and charming at the same time, and she slid up against his side under the pretense of reaching for a napkin.

"Meet me in thirty, at the pool table, honey," she breathed. "And sink your seed inside my tight pocket."

…

Not much later she was sitting on the edge of the pool table.

She'd kicked her heels off onto the carpet and climbed up, and now she sat there with her legs spread wide, the black dress ridden up to her hips, nothing underneath it but the drying evidence of the afternoon. The single lamp caught the wet shine between her thighs. On the low bench by the wall, Karl Biederman had his phone up, hands shaking, already taking pictures—click, click, click—building his little secret collection one shot at a time. He had a little hard-on in his dinner trousers; you could have hung a coat on, a stiff, obvious ridge pressed up along the seam of his thigh.

Behind the bar, the young bartender had given up pretending to work. He'd polished the same glass four times. Now he just stood there, rag forgotten, watching the open side of the terrace where the dress had gone, and when he caught Penelope's eye across the room, he had the decency to blush. She gave him a slow little wave. He waved back with the wrong hand and knocked over a shaker. She heard it clatter from thirty feet away and smiled.

And at the far corner table, a woman in emerald silk—one of the wives, young, bored, a glass of champagne sweating untouched in front of her—had angled her chair just slightly toward the dark end of the bar. She had a good view. She intended to use it.

Then the door at the back opened, and her bull walked in.

He took one look at her, spread and waited on the green base like an offering, and grinned. He'd rolled his sleeves to the elbow. He'd loosened the collar. He was already hard through his trousers—she could see the long, thick weight of it pressing down one leg, and the sight of it made her mouth go dry and her cunt clench around nothing, that empty little throb of a body remembering.

"Fuck me here, honey," she commanded, and her voice came out rough. "Right here. On the table."

He unzipped and pulled himself out, already thick and heavy, and stepped between her cheating thighs. She watched it swing free—that gorgeous, fat, half-limp-looking thing that was anything but limp, flushed dark at the head, glistening at the tip where he'd already started leaking from the walk over, the vein running up the side of it standing proud like a rope under the skin. She reached out and took it in her hand, squeezed, felt it jump against her palm, and gave it one slow stroke from root to tip that made him grunt low in his throat.

"Look at that," she whispered. "Look at that big fucking thing. Look at what's about to split me open."

She hooked one leg around his hip and pulled him in, and he fed the head of his cock up against her slick, ruined opening and pushed.

She was so wet and so used that he sank into her in a single long stroke, all the way, until her body had to make room for him. She gasped and let her head fall back, her tits spilling sideways out of the neckline, the side boob now fully out and shameless, and the sound she made was half moan and half choked laugh, because it was so much, because he filled her completely, because she could feel every last ridge and throb of him pressed up against her walls. The table creaked.

Her nipples had gone hard the second he'd walked in. Now they were stiff little stones against the loose black jersey, standing out, aching, obvious, the fabric dragging across them with every breath, and she could see her bull's eyes flick down to them and stay there, and she arched her back a little to give him the show.

There, she thought, as his pelvis pressed flat to hers. There it is.

Then he started to move.

He fucked her slow and deep first, dragging that thick shaft all the way out until only the head stayed gripped in her lips—she could feel the wet drag of it against every tender inch, could feel her own cunt trying to hold on, sucking at him, reluctant to let him go—and then driving back in until his balls slapped wet against her ass. The table shuddered. The cue stick rattled against the wall. Biederman's phone clicked and clicked, and the poor man had stopped breathing properly, sweat already dark at his temples, that hard-on in his trousers straining so hard against the cloth it had begun to tent, a small dark spot of pre-cum spreading on the grey fabric.

Penelope braced one hand on the rail and one on her bull's chest and watched her own tits bounce in the dim light, the dress straps sliding off her shoulders one by one. Let it fall, she thought. Let them all fall. He grabbed her hips and sped up, and the sound of it—wet, rhythmic, obscene, the slap of skin and the suck of her, that schlick-schlick-schlick of a thoroughly used pussy taking a thorough fucking—filled the little dark corner like a secret.

"Harder," she grunted. "Don't be nice to me. You've got all night to be nice."

He gave it to her harder. His hips slammed, his balls swung and slapped, and she heard him start to grunt with each stroke, short and sharp, the air pushed out of him—uh—uh—uh—and she matched him, moaning low, the two of them making that animal two-note music that carries down a hallway. Her heels were somewhere on the floor. She didn't care. Her hair was coming down. She didn't care.

The first orgasm rolled up on her fast and mean. She clenched around him and shook and made a noise halfway between a moan and a word, and he held her through it, buried deep, grinding, until she went boneless and laughed against the felt.

Behind them, the young bartender had leaned both elbows on the bar and stopped moving entirely. In the corner, the woman in emerald had quietly moved her hand into her lap, under the napkin on her thigh, and her face had gone pink in the lamplight—and she was moving it, slow and small and steady, fingers working under the silk, watching the two of them like it was a film made for her.

And Biederman—Biederman had unzipped himself. He'd told himself he wouldn't. He'd lasted four whole minutes. Now his cock stood out of his open fly, smaller than the bull's by a mile and twice as eager, shiny at the tip, and he was squeezing it at the base with one hand and clicking photos with the other, breath coming in little panting huffs.

"Again," she said. "Don't stop. Make me do it again."

He pulled her up off the table and turned her, bent her over the rail so her ass was to the door and her tits pressed flat against the green, and took her from behind like that—harder now, rougher, the kind of fucking you do when you've both stopped pretending. Her tits squashed and slid across the felt with every thrust, her hard nipples scraping the cloth, and her whole body rocked forward on the balls of her feet and back onto his cock, forward and back, a machine of it. She turned her cheek to the table and watched Biederman out of one eye and gave him a little wink, and the man nearly dropped his phone.

The woman in emerald had abandoned all pretense now. Her hand was in her lap in the open, moving faster, and her lips had come apart. She was watching Penelope's face, not the man, not the cock—Penelope's face as she got fucked, and there was something hungry and envious in the way she watched it.

The second orgasm hit her like a wave she hadn't seen coming. It started deep and spread out through her whole body, and she pushed back onto him and cried out into the felt, and her cunt clamped down so hard it nearly pushed him out.

"That's it," she gasped, muffled against the green. "That's it, feel that, feel how tight I get, that's what you do to me—"

That did it.

He drove in one last time, hilted, and she felt it—the swell, the pulse, the twitch of those heavy balls drawing up tight against her ass. And then the first hot spurt, deep inside her, then another, and another, a long, slow unloading right where her body was already soaked in him. He groaned—a real one, from the chest, the sound of a man losing an argument with his own body—and his hands tightened on her hips hard enough to bruise, and he held her there, pressed flush, pulsing into her over and over. She stayed there and took every drop, feeling her already-full cunt being filled over again until it was more than she could hold and started to seep around his shaft and run down the inside of her thigh in a slow warm line.

Yes, she thought, pressing her cheek to the table, dizzy with it. Yes, stay in there, you beautiful thing. Find my little egg.

When he finally pulled out, she stayed bent over the table for a long second, breathing hard, and then straightened up and laughed—a real laugh, bright and filthy—and looked over at Biederman, who was standing there shiny and red and utterly wrecked, his phone still up in one hand and a wet spot spreading across the front of his open trousers.

She could feel it the second she stood up straight. It came out of her in a fat, lazy dribble, the whole afternoon's worth and now the evening's too, and it slid down the inside of her left thigh in a slow bead, past her knee, and she didn't wipe it. Let it run. Her cunt was sore and swollen and still fluttering with little aftershocks, and her nipples were still so hard they ached, and her hair was wrecked, and there was a red print of the felt on her cheek. She had never felt better in her life.

"Karl," she said, sweetly, swinging her legs back down off the table. "Did you get the pictures?"

He nodded. He couldn't speak.

"Good boy."

She smoothed the dress back down over her hips, felt the warm cum shift and settle inside her, and stepped back into her heels. She reached down, very deliberately, and ran two fingers up the inside of her thigh, gathering that slow trickle, and then put them in her mouth, tasting the two of them together, and swallowed.

Behind the bar, the young bartender let out a breath he'd apparently been holding for five minutes and finally poured himself a whiskey he wasn't allowed to drink on shift.

In the corner, the woman in emerald had her eyes closed and her hand still in her lap, riding out a small quiet climax of her own under the napkin, and she was smiling like a woman who had just decided something about her own marriage.

And Biederman was still standing there, penis out, phone up.

"Come on, stud," Penelope said, and she hooked one arm through her bull's and blew a kiss across the room at the bartender. "The rehearsal's not over yet."

To be continued.