The dinner

Chapter: The Dinner

Your balls tighten as Erin's throat clenches around your cock, her nose buried against your pelvis, holding that impossible depth. You reach down and grip her hair, pulling her off with a wet gasp.

"Open your mouth. Tongue out."

She obeys instantly—lips parted, pink tongue extended flat, her eyes glazed with submission. A thin strand of saliva connects her tongue to your glistening cock. You take your shaft in hand and drag the head across her tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, smearing precum and her own spit over the muscle. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Her tongue remains still, a perfect altar for your use.

You rub the sensitive underside of your cockhead against the texture of her taste buds, watching her pupils dilate. The bar's ambient noise fades—just the wet slide of your cock over her tongue, her soft, obedient breaths through her nose.

"That's it. Good ****."

You grip yourself tighter, stroking fast, using her mouth like a fleshlight. Her tongue stays out, unmoving, as you pump your shaft against it. The tip catches her bottom lip once, twice, then you feel the pressure building—hot and urgent.

"I'm going to fill your mouth. You're going to show me every drop. Then swallow."

She hums an acknowledgment, her eyes locked on yours. You grunt, hips jerking as the first thick rope of cum splashes across her tongue. More follows—hot and sticky, pooling on her pink flesh, dripping toward the back of her throat. You milk every pulse, dragging the last few beads from the slit, then release her hair.

"Show me."

Erin tilts her head up, mouth wide, tongue laden with your white load. She holds it there, perfectly still, as if presenting a prize. The men at nearby barstools glance over, some nodding in approval. She keeps the cum pooled on her tongue for a full ten seconds before closing her lips and swallowing with an audible gulp. Then she opens her mouth again—empty, clean, a final flick of her tongue to catch the corner of her lips.

"Thank you, sir."

You tuck yourself back into your trousers, impressed. This one's got potential. Raw, eager, well-trained despite her youth. You reach down and cup her chin.

"Get up. You're coming with me tonight."

Her eyes widen—surprise, then gratitude. "Sir?"

"I have a dinner. I need a **** to show off. You'll do."

You lead her to the back quarters, where you strip off your day clothes and pull on a crisp black tuxedo, adjusting the bow tie in the mirror. Erin watches from the corner, waiting for instructions.

"Get cleaned up. There's a dress on the bed."

She finds the tight black cocktail dress you'd picked—a second-skin sheath of stretch fabric, cut low in the front to display her cleavage, hem barely reaching mid-thigh. She wriggles into it, the material clinging to every curve. No underwear. You check her appearance: tonight, she's livestock dressed for the auction block.

"Perfect. Now follow. Don't speak unless spoken to. If a guest touches you, you accept it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

---

The venue is a private mansion, sprawling with marble floors and crystal chandeliers. Men in tailored suits cluster around high tables, each accompanied by their own slaves—collared, leashed, displayed. The air is thick with cigar smoke and expensive cologne.

You spot Marcus, an old rival, with a tall redhead kneeling beside him, a gold chain linking her collar to his wrist. He nods as you approach.

"Evening. New acquisition?"

"Borrowed from the bar," you say, hand resting on Erin's shoulder. "Thought I'd see how she holds up in company."

Marcus appraises Erin like a horse at auction. "Petite. Young. C-cups?"

"Something like that."

He circles her, and Erin stays motionless, eyes forward. He reaches out and cups her right breast through the dress, squeezing experimentally. She doesn't react.

"Nice shape. Perky. How's her mouth?"

"Excellent. Deep throat, no gag reflex."

Marcus grins. "Let me see."

You nod to Erin. She drops to her knees without hesitation, unzips Marcus's trousers, and takes his half-hard cock into her mouth. He groans, hand on her head, guiding her deeper. She works him with practiced devotion, bobbing until he's fully erect, then pulls off and licks the tip clean.

"Fuck. She's good." He looks at you. "Borrow her for the night?"

"We'll see."

Erin returns to your side, kneeling again. More owners approach, drawn by the scene. One older gentleman with silver hair and a walking stick stops to examine her like a butcher sizing up meat.

"Teeth?" he asks.

"Straight. No decay. Slavers kept her healthy."

"Open."

Erin parts her lips. The man runs his thumb across her teeth, then pushes two fingers into her mouth. She sucks them clean without being told, her tongue swirling. He withdraws, wipes his fingers on his handkerchief.

"Trained well. Mind if I test her cunt?"

"She's yours for the moment."

The old man motions for Erin to stand. He hiked up her dress, exposing her bare pussy—tight, clean-shaven. He slides a finger inside her, then two. Erin's breath hitches but she doesn't flinch. He fingers her slowly, gauging her tightness, then pulls out and brings his wet fingers to his nose.

"Sweet. No disease." He reaches into his jacket and produces a small glass dildo, smooth and clear. "Let's see how accommodating she is."

He guides the toy to her entrance and pushes it in. Erin's fists clench but her expression remains still. He twists it, thrusts it shallow, then deeper. Her cunt grips the glass, slick and warm.

"Lovely. She'd take a knot."

You watch, feeling a mix of pride and ownership. Your ****. Your property. Performing for the crowd.

"Bring her to my table later," the old man says, leaving the dildo inside her. "I want to see her take a real one."

Erin remains standing, the glass plug protruding from her pussy, visible beneath the hem of her dress. You stroke her hair.

"Good girl. Let's mingle."

She follows you to the next cluster of owners, the dildo shifting inside her with every step, a constant reminder of her place. Across the room, another guest inserts a vibrator into a blonde ****'s ass while sipping champagne. The conversation flows over Erin's head—talk of breeding programs, discipline methods, comparing **** prices and training regimens.

She is listened to. She is used. She is passed around like a fine cigar, inspected, prodded, and admired.

And she kneels, eyes down, waiting for your next command.