The cigar room

Chantal was already pulling at the zipper of her dress before Aline had fully dismounted. She was clumsy with need, fumbling, and Aline laughed and reached over to help her, peeling the pale gold fabric away until the blonde stood in nothing but a strapless bra, matching panties, and heels. Her body was younger and softer than Aline's—fuller hips, rounder breasts, the kind of figure that her seventy-year-old husband had probably married for the way it looked draped over a yacht.

"Leave the bra," Aline said, guiding her toward the chair. "He likes watching them bounce. Don't you, darling?"

I nodded, dumb, my cock still slick with Aline's juices and my own seed, standing up from my lap like it belonged to someone else entirely. The large amounts of Viagra for sure helped me.

Chantal climbed onto me with none of Aline's ceremony. She simply pulled her panties to one side, grabbed my shaft, angled it, and dropped herself onto it in one long, greedy motion. Her breath left her in a rush.

"Oh," she said. Then, again, softer, almost wounded: "Oh."

She didn't ride me like a woman enjoying herself. She rode me like a woman catching up—fast, frantic, using short, sharp bounces that made the pearls of Aline's discarded necklace jitter against the tablecloth. Her hands gripped my shoulders, and her tits swung against my face, and every few strokes she'd make a small punched-out sound like the air was being forced from her.

"He's thick," she announced to the room, breathless. "God, Aline, he's so thick."

"You're welcome," Aline said from somewhere to my left, and I heard the clink of a glass.

Chantal came once—quickly, cheaply, the way a nervous woman does when she's aware of being watched—and then kept going, chasing a second, her rhythm going sloppy and desperate. When she finally slumped against me, gasping, Aline reached over and tapped her shoulder.

"Your turn's over, sweetheart. Off."

The two elegant thirties—Margaret and Eleanor—took me together, in sequence, side by side, and the whole time they kept up a running commentary between themselves as though I were a piece of furniture they were evaluating for purchase.

"Good curve on it," Margaret observed, settling onto me with a satisfied sigh. "You feel that? He's got that upward tilt. Hits the front wall."

"Good pick, ALine," Eleanor said, watching closely. "My husband got a banker's cock. Straight as a ruler, but too short and half the girth."

"Divorce him."

"Can't. He owns the vineyard."

Isabella, the petite raven-haired one, went last before the men came in. She was so small that the fit was almost obscene—she had to work herself down onto me in increments, wincing, laughing, wincing again, until finally she sat flush and stared at me with wide eyes.

"There," she said, triumphant, cheeks pink. "There. Now I know what everyone's talking about."

And then the dining room doors swung open, and Peter's voice rang out—"Gentlemen, if you would"—and four silver-haired men in dinner jackets filed in to find their wives variously flushed, tousled, and half-undressed, and one of them still sitting on a naked stranger's cock.

Nobody explained anything. Nobody needed to.

---

Dinner had been served at eight, and by then each woman had used me exactly once, and every one of them sat down at that table with the specific, self-satisfied glow of a person who has just been thoroughly taken care of.

I did not sit down. I was positioned at the head of the table as arranged, which meant I spent the first course standing behind Aline's chair with my hips against the table's edge, my cock out, on display, while the women ate and the men pretended not to look.

They looked. They all looked.

"Pass the Bordeaux," said Chantal's husband—a wiry, leather-faced man named Bertrand—without looking away from my lap.

"He's certainly... present," said Isabella's husband, Georges, whose voice carried the weary irony of a man who had been married three times. "Present and accounted for."

And then, because men in their sixties have no shame and no filter, they simply began discussing me the way they'd discuss a horse.

"Good girth on him," Bertrand said, chewing. "That's the thing, you see. Length is vanity. Girth is where the work gets done."

The wives all made sounds of agreement at once—a chorus of "oh yes!" and "mm-hm" and "exactly!"—and Aline, mid-sip, actually set down her glass and applauded.

"Thank you," she said. "Finally, a man who understands."

"Oh, he stretched me," Chantal announced, and then, because she had clearly been waiting all evening to give this speech, she gave it. "You have no idea. He stretched me wide. When he first pushed in, I felt every single ridge of him—every vein, actually, dragging along my walls—and there was that one moment where you think oh, this is too much, this is going to be too much, and then your body just... gives. And then he's inside, and you feel full. Not just filled. Full. Like you've been hollowed out to exactly his shape, and nothing else will ever fit properly again. It's like being reamed. In the best possible way."

"You're describing it well," Margaret said, approving.

"I took him in my butt," Isabella said, and there was a small hush.

Georges turned slowly to look at his wife. "Butt, you say."

"Your turn to be quiet, dear." She turned back to the table. "I have to—I have to talk about it, because the pain was beautiful. It was the most beautiful pain. When you first lower yourself onto a cock that size, it's like your sphincter doesn't believe it, it fights you, and it burns—and then he was in, and there was that ache, that deep hot ache, like you've been opened past where you thought your body ended. And every time I sank down on him, it burned again, and then it turned into the other thing, the good thing, and by the end, the burn was the pleasure. It was the same nerve. The same feeling. You know?"

"Oh, we know," Eleanor said, smiling at her.

"Write it down," said Aline.

The husbands listened to all of this with the attentive, faintly humbled expressions of men who have just been publicly informed of their second-place finish. Bertrand refilled his own glass without being asked. Georges studied the ceiling. The other two, whose names I'd never learned and whose wives had used me fourth and fifth, said nothing at all, which was probably wisest.

Peter glided through, cleared the plates, and served the filet en croûte, and the conversation turned to the vineyards and the yacht and the business of the evening. And then the subject came back, the way it always did, the way it was always going to.

"Shall we have him again in the cigar room after dessert?" Aline asked casually just like a woman proposed a port.

"Yes," said Chantal.

"Yes," said Isabella.

"Obviously," said Margaret.

"I came twice," Eleanor said, and she said it with a small giggle, like a girl reporting her marks.

"Good for you," Aline said warmly. "I managed three before the first course."

"Show-off."

"Is it a competition, then?"

"Not at all; I had an advantage over you, testing him."

They carried on like this for the whole dessert—discussing my stamina, my curve, my balls, my seed, the specific quality of the sounds I made—while I stood at the head of the table with a cold half-finished plate and a warm, heavy cock and the strange floating sense of having been reduced to a very good appliance. Which, I was beginning to understand, was the entire point.

The woman next to me kept fumbling my fat cock.

Aline caught my eye across the table and lifted one brow. Enjoying yourself? I gave the smallest nod. She smiled the way a woman smiles when she's won something.

---

Peter came to me during the coffee service.

He appeared at my shoulder with the silent efficiency of a man who could find you in any room in the house and chose to do it precisely when you'd stopped expecting him. In his gloved hand was a small silver tray, and on the tray, a tablet. Not paper. A tablet—an actual screen, dark, reflecting the candlelight.

"Sir," he murmured. "For the cigar room."

I looked at the tablet. Then at him.

"Explain."

"Of course, sir." He turned it on. A single note-taking app, a running list, dated and numbered in his tidy hand. "The evening, as you know, will continue. The cigar room is a large space, and the ladies, over the aperitifs, have adjusted their expectations. Based on the duration of the second session—call it ninety minutes, generously—and your current refractory pattern, my recommendation is three pills minimum. One now for the immediate effect, one at the ninety-minute mark, and one held in reserve for whatever the ladies decide is the real end of the evening."

He scrolled down. "You will note I have also logged the first session, sir. For the record. The first course ran forty-one minutes. The ladies rode you in rotation, and the effect of the initial triple dose was, if I may say so, satisfactory but front-loaded. We do not wish to peak too early in the cigar room."

"You're keeping statistics."

"I am keeping records, sir. A butler without records is merely a man in a nice jacket."

I stared at him. Then at the list. Then, because the whole evening had the strange logic of a fever dream and I had long since stopped making decisions, I said, "Four."

Peter paused, tablet half-lowered. "Four, sir?"

"Four pills. One now, one at ninety, two in reserve."

He considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly, and for the second time that evening I caught the ghost of genuine respect in his face.

"Four is aggressive, sir. Four is a statement. The ladies will appreciate the gesture." He made a note with one thumb. "I will prepare the brandy."

He was back in under a minute with a crystal snifter, the amber liquid already faintly fizzing, four tablets dissolving in a lazy spiral at the bottom. I took it and drank it in three long swallows, and it burned going down, and I felt the first one hit almost immediately—that hot flush spreading outward from my chest, down into my thighs, and into the base of my cock where it lay heavy against the table edge.

It swelled, thickened, lifted, and rose back to full rigidity in a matter of seconds. Veins filling. Head flushing. Standing out from my body like a thing with its own opinion about the evening.

Peter watched it rise with the calm appraisal of a man checking a barometer.

"Ah," he said. "Very good, sir. That's the response we want."

From the dining room, glassware clinked. Aline's laugh rang out, bright and certain. Outside, a match struck somewhere in the direction of the terrace, and the husbands' voices rumbled low, discussing cigars and trade routes and their wives.

And the cigar room waited down the hall, lit and warmed and smelling of leather, for whatever the ladies had decided was coming next.

Peter picked up the tray and turned and walked for the door.

"Shall I announce you, sir?"

"Yes, Peter."

"Very good, sir." He paused at the threshold, looked back at me once, and adjusted his gloves.

"The cigar room is on the left."

…

The cigar room was all dark leather and low amber light, and by the time I walked in the ladies had already arranged themselves.

Two Chesterfields facing each other across a low glass table. Four wingback chairs. A fire that Peter had clearly lit some time ago and which was now doing the slow, satisfied work of a fire that has nowhere to be and nothing to prove. On the table: a crystal decanter, five balloon glasses, a humidor, and a silver coffee service that Peter must have set before dinner and which nobody had touched.

There were five women in the room, and they had all, at some point in the last hour, undone the top buttons of whatever they'd worn down from dinner. Aline was barefoot. Isabella had kicked off her heels and left them in the hall. Eleanor was curled sideways in a wingback with her legs tucked under her, which meant her dress had ridden up to mid-thigh, which meant she knew exactly what she was doing.

Nobody looked up when I came in. That was the first sign of how the rest of the night was going to go.

"Sit," Aline said, without pointing.

I sat. There was a footstool in the center of the arrangement, low and upholstered, and I took it, which put me at exactly the right height for five women on the furniture around me to look down at me. Which was, I understood immediately, the entire architectural purpose of the room.

Peter came in behind me with the tray, set two more balloon glasses on the table, and withdrew to a chair by the door, where he sat with his hands folded and a small notebook he did not appear to be ashamed of at all.

"Coffee?" Margaret asked, not to me.

"For the coffee drinkers," Aline said. "The rest of us are drinking."

He poured brandy into four glasses. Coffee was poured into one by Peter for Eleanor, who was the only one who wanted it. Then Aline leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and looked down at me and my cock, which had risen the moment I sat down and now stood between us like the item on the agenda.

"Well," she said. "How's he holding up?"

"Better than the husbands," Chantal said.

"That's a low bar."

The conversation resumed as if I were not present, which is to say it resumed about me, which is a very specific form of presence. They talked about depth.

"Not too deep," Margaret said. "That's the thing. Everybody thinks deep is the goal. It isn't. You want him bumping."

"Bumping exactly," Isabella agreed. "You want the head of it knocking on the door, not going through it. My first husband used to just keep going and going, and I'd feel it up behind my navel, and by the end I wanted to be sick."

"Up behind the navel," Eleanor said, into her coffee. "That's a specific complaint."

"It's a specific cock. He was long as a drain."

"He was as long as a drain," Eleanor repeated, delighted, and wrote it down, or pretended to.

"But this one," Chantal said, and reached out and took me by the shaft—casually, the way you'd pick up a chess piece—and angled me toward the firelight so they could all inspect me from the side. "Look. Look at where he stops. He doesn't go past the cervix. He arrives at it. Every stroke, right on the mouth of the womb. Bump. Bump. Bump."

"That's a breeding length," Aline said. "That's the whole point of it. Not a decorator's cock. A breeding length."

They all agreed. Loudly. Overlapping. Like a committee signing off on a budget.

And then Eleanor, still holding her coffee, said the thing that would have made a lesser man blush and made me, at that point, merely harden visibly in Chantal's fist: "And it's not just the length, is it. It's the rhythm of it. The bump. When it lands on the womb like that, with the beat—you feel the echo. You feel him against the door, knocking. And if he's got a proper rhythm, it's like someone's thumbing a nerve you didn't know you had. It's not a fuck at that point. It's a message."

"There's a woman who's thought about it," Aline said.

"I've had two children and thirty years of it; of course I've thought about it."

The door to the terrace opened, and the husbands came in to say goodnight before they would smoke their cigars on the terrace. They did not leave. They stood by the door and listened, because the coffee had just been poured and the wives had not yet stopped talking, and the wives, by design or not, were talking about cock sizes.

"You know what your problem is, Bertrand," Margaret said to her husband, in front of everyone. "You've got a good length. But you're thin. And this is a Tuesday."

"A Tuesday," Bertrand repeated.

"At best."

The other husbands made sounds of support. Georges refilled his own glass from the decanter, standing, entirely unsupervised.

"They're all talking about the wrong metric," Aline said, and now she was in her stride, and the room had gone quiet to hear her, which was how she liked it. "It's not one number. It's a week. You don't want the same cock on Monday as you want on Friday. On Mondays—Mondays you've had a long weekend, you've had the children under your feet, and you've had the man snoring next to you. On Monday you simply need a longer cock. Deep. Slow. Get right up in there. Don't you all agree?"

"I agree," said Chantal, instantly.

"Monday is a long cock," said Isabella, as if reciting a rule of law.

"Tuesday, Wednesday, you're getting back into the swing of the week," Aline continued. "You want length and girth. Middling. Workmanlike. Nothing dramatic."

"And Thursday?" Eleanor asked.

"Thursday you're tired. Thursday you want it thick." She said it flatly, the way you'd state the weather. "Because thick doesn't need to work. Thick just fills. Thick is a Thursday, because on a Thursday you want to be full and left alone."

"And Friday," Margaret said, and there was something almost religious in the way she said it.

"Friday," Aline said, "if I do not have a long and thick cock inside me by Friday, I go crazy. By Friday you want all of it. Everything. The whole instrument. Friday is the reason men should fear Friday."

"Friday's tomorrow," Bertrand said, checking his watch, and everyone laughed.

The husbands, sensing that this was a good moment to leave the room, excused themselves. Bertrand kissed Margaret's cheek and said he'd be on the terrace. Georges made a vague gesture at the ceiling. The other two followed them out, and the French doors clicked shut, and through the glass we watched them light up on the terrace and stand in a small semicircle, three feet apart, discussing something with the studied nonchalance of men who have just been publicly rated.

Aline watched them go. Then she turned back to the room and picked up her brandy, and nobody had to ask whether the conversation was finished, because it wasn't.

"While we're on it," Eleanor said, "and since the men have gone, there's another thing. My own thing. I keep it in the week too. Thursday's my anal day."

"Eleanor," Margaret said, impressed.

"It's not a scandal; it's a schedule." She set down her coffee and counted on her fingers. "And for the back door, the metric's different, because the back door doesn't want girth. The back door wants length. It wants a long, smooth cock that can go deep and stay there. Girth is a fight, back there. Girth is work."

"Girth is a fight," Isabella agreed. "It's the beautiful fight, but it's a fight."

"Exactly. You want a cock that negotiates, not one that insists."

"Whereas the front door," Chantal said, "wants girth. The front door is insisted on to be fine. The front door insists it is the whole point."

"The front door wants to be told what to do," Aline said. "The back door wants to be persuaded."

"Which is why you don't put the same man on both doors," Eleanor said, "unless he's got range."

And all five of them, at that exact moment, turned and looked at me, sitting on the footstool, cock standing straight up out of my lap, four dissolved tablets humming in my blood, having listened to an entire forensic lecture about the exact dimensions of my own body delivered over my head and to my own face simultaneously.

"He's got range," Aline said, thoughtfully.

The fire popped. Peter turned a page in his notebook.

"Chantal," Aline said. "You've been hogging the shaft. Let go of him. He's got a whole evening of range ahead of him."

To be continued.