The dinner fuck

The evening had arrived, and Peter the butler moved through the foyer with the precision of a general preparing for battle. I stood in the hallway in my silk bathrobe, watching as he arranged place cards around the dining table with meticulous care.

"Peter," I called out, counting the chairs. "There are only six chairs. Eline told me we have two couples plus two ladies—that's six guests. Plus me. That's seven."

He straightened his jacket and turned to me with that unreadable expression of his. "Precisely, sir. Six chairs."

"Then where do I sit?"

Peter walked to the head of the table and pulled out the ornate chair positioned there. I hadn't noticed before, but the seat had been modified and reinforced with polished brass. He pointed to the place card positioned directly above it.

"Here, sir. Under the lady of the house. With your cock inside her."

I stared at him, then at the card. ALINE was written in her elegant script.

"Everybody will see her fucking me," I said, my voice hollow.

"Indeed, sir. It is the centrepiece of the evening."

"Where are my clothes?"

Peter adjusted his gloves. "You won't be needing them, sir. The ladies will mount you one after another; with each course, one lady will fuck you." He paused, studying the table setting. "I still don't know how you will be able to eat your dinner, sir. My apologies. I am... dumbfounded."

Before I could respond, I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. Car doors opened. Laughter drifted through the open windows.

"The guests," Peter said, smoothing his jacket. "The husbands will chat outside with cigars, as is their custom. But the ladies..." He glanced towards the foyer. "The ladies will want to see the entertainment first."

True to his prediction, I heard the husbands' deep voices rumbling outside by the fountain, discussing business and politics and whatever else men in their sixties discussed while their young wives socialised. But the women's heels clicked rapidly across the marble floors, urgent and excited.

I heard Aline's voice first, warm and welcoming. "Welcome, welcome! Now, let me show you what I've arranged for our dinner entertainment..."

"Where is it?" a younger voice asked—one of the trophy wives, breathless with anticipation. "Where's the cock?"

"Patience, my dear. Follow me."

I stood frozen in the living room as Peter pressed a crystal snifter into my hand. The amber liquid bubbled slightly, carbonation rising in tiny effervescent beads. Three Viagra tablets, dissolved completely, waiting to transform me into a machine of pure stamina.

"Drink it all, sir," Peter murmured. "The ladies are... enthusiastic."

I raised the glass and drank. The brandy burned beautifully down my throat, warm and rich, but I noticed the strange effervescence, the way the bubbles danced on my tongue before I could fully process what I'd consumed.

Then it hit me.

My cock stirred against the silk of my robe, then twitched, then surged with such sudden violence that I gasped. It rose rapidly, fully, impossibly hard—throbbing with each heartbeat, heavy and demanding, tenting the silk fabric obscenely.

Peter returned; his footsteps silent on the carpet. Without a word, he reached down and gripped me through the robe, testing my firmness with professional detachment. Satisfied, he gave me a single nod.

"Excellent, sir. Magnificent."

He turned and walked to the doorway, clearing his throat. "Ladies," he announced, his voice carrying into the foyer, "the cock is ready to be used."

The footsteps quickened. Four women swept into the living room, their eyes immediately finding me and the obscene shape straining against my robe. Aline introduced me to them—Margaret and Eleanor, the two ladies in their thirties who were Aline's closest friends, elegant and sophisticated in their cocktail dresses. The two trophy wives were Chantal, who is twenty-two, blonde, and voluptuous, married to a seventy-year-old husband, and Isabella, who is twenty-five, raven-haired, and petite, married to a man who could be her grandfather.

They stared at me with open hunger.

"Oh my god," Chantal breathed, her hand going to her chest. "Aline, you weren't exaggerating." seeing the massive tent.

"He's perfect," Isabella whispered, stepping closer, her eyes fixed on the tented silk.

Aline moved to my side, beaming with pride. "Isn't he? I found him. Trained him myself."

Peter stepped forward, his hands reaching for the belt of my robe. "If I may, sir?"

I stood motionless as he undid the knot and pulled the silk open, letting it fall from my shoulders. The cool air of the room hit my bare skin, and I stood completely naked before five hungry women, my cock standing rigid and proud, veins pulsing along its length, the head flushed dark and slick with anticipation.

"Magnificent," Peter said, and for the first time, I heard genuine appreciation in his voice. "If I may say so, madam, you have found a magnificent piece of cock."

Aline laughed, delighted. "I know! And he's all ours for the evening." She grabbed me—not by the hand, but by my shaft, her fingers wrapping firmly around my girth. I gasped at the contact, at the possessiveness of her grip. "Let's have him in the dining room, shall we? The husbands can stay outside smoking their cigars. This is for us."

She pulled me forward by my cock, leading me like a leash through the doorway and into the dining room. The other women followed, a procession of rustling silk and whispered excitement and the scent of expensive perfume.

"Sit down here," Aline commanded, pointing to the chair at the head of the table.

Peter pulled it back for me, the brass fittings gleaming in the candlelight. I sat, my bare ass meeting the warm velour, my cock standing straight up like a flagpole, throbbing with the triple dose of pharmaceutical enhancement coursing through my veins.

Peter turned to Aline and extended his hand. "May I, madam?"

She nodded, turning her back to him. "Please, Peter. Help me out of this dress."

The butler's hands moved with practiced efficiency, unzipping her gown at the back and sliding the expensive fabric down her shoulders. She wore nothing underneath—no bra, no panties, only sheer black stockings held up by a delicate garter belt—and her pearl necklace, the pearls catching the light as she stepped out of the pooled fabric. A red, whorish waist cincher gave her the final slut look.

She was exquisite. Her body was that of a woman in her prime—full breasts with dark nipples already hardened with arousal, a narrow waist flaring to hips that had known childbirth and emerged more voluptuous for it, and a dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs, glistening with her readiness.

"Beautiful, madam," Peter said, gathering her dress.

"Thank you, Peter. Now leave us. And stall the men. Give me... twenty minutes before you bring the first course."

"Very good, madam."

Aline placed her hands on my shoulders, her breasts swaying inches from my face. "The others will have their turn," she said softly, for my ears only. "But I go first. I'm the hostess, after all."

She straddled me, one knee on either side of my hips, positioning herself above my straining cock. I could feel the heat radiating from her and could smell her arousal—rich and musky and demanding.

"Watch this, girls," she called over her shoulder, her voice rich with amusement and lust. "Watch how a real woman takes what she wants."

“Peter, could you please hold up his cock or mine?"

“Of course, madam," and his gloved hand carefully grabbed me around my shaft and bent my curved cock a little away from my fat stomach, aligning it perfectly with Aline's married slit.

The head of my cock kissed her wet folds, sliding through her slickness, and then she began to lower herself.

"Oh god," she moaned, her eyes fluttering closed as she sank onto me. "Oh god, he's thick. He's so fucking thick."

She impaled herself slowly, deliberately, letting every woman in the room see the way her married cunt stretched around my intrusion, the way her body accepted me inch by inch. I groaned as her heat enveloped me, tight and wet and perfect, her muscles fluttering around my shaft as she adjusted to my size.

"That's it," she breathed, settling fully onto my lap, her ass resting against my thighs, my cock buried to the hilt inside her. She was so deep I could feel the mouth of her womb kissing my tip. "That's it. I'm full. I'm so fucking full."

The butler withdrew, closing the dining room doors behind him, leaving me alone with five women, four of them still fully dressed, watching with predatory fascination as their hostess prepared to mount me.

The other women had moved closer, forming a semicircle around us, their eyes glued to where we joined. Chantal's hand had drifted to her own breast, squeezing herself through her dress. Isabella was biting her lip, her cheeks flushed. Margaret and Eleanor exchanged glances, their breathing shallow.

"Now," Aline said, gripping the back of the chair for leverage, "I'm going to fuck him. And you're all going to watch."

She began to move, lifting her hips slowly before sinking back down, creating a rhythm that was deliberate and obscene. The chair creaked beneath us, the brass fittings holding firm as she rode me, her breasts bouncing with each descent, her pearls swinging against her chest.

"Look at him," she gasped, her pace quickening. "Look at his face. He can't believe he's fucking me in front of all of you. He can't believe his luck."

I couldn't touch her—my hands gripped the chair arms, white-knuckled, as she used me. I was merely the instrument of her pleasure, a living dildo for her entertainment, and the humiliation of it, the raw objectification, only made me harder.

"Fuck," she moaned, her head falling back, her hips rolling in circles now, grinding her clit against my pelvis with each downward stroke. "Fuck, he's hitting my spot. Right there. Right fucking there."

Her first orgasm hit her suddenly, making her cry out, a sharp sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Her cunt clamped down on me, pulsing rhythmically, milking my shaft with involuntary contractions. She shuddered, her nails digging into my shoulders, her whole body trembling with the force of it.

But she didn't stop. If anything, she moved faster, chasing the next peak, greedy for more.

"Again," she panted. "I'm going to come again. Watch me, Chantal. Watch what you could be doing if your husband could still get it up."

Chantal whimpered, her hand now blatantly rubbing between her legs through her dress.

Aline rode me harder, slamming her hips down onto mine, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room—wet, obscene, and rhythmic. Her second orgasm built more slowly, a wave that rose and rose until she was screaming with it, her body convulsing, her cunt gripping me so tight I saw stars.

"One more," she gasped, her hair coming loose from its elegant updo, strands sticking to her sweat-dampened forehead. "I want three before the steak. I want three before I let him fill me."

She changed her angle, leaning back slightly, her hands braced on my thighs behind her. This new position had her riding the full length of me, the head of my cock dragging against her front wall with every stroke, and she used me mercilessly, her eyes locked on mine, daring me to come before she was ready.

"Don't you dare," she warned, reading my expression. "Don't you dare spill until I say. You're my toy tonight. My beautiful, hard toy."

Her third orgasm was the most violent yet, a shattering thing that made her scream and convulse, her body going rigid, her cunt squeezing me in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever. She collapsed forward against my chest, her breasts pressed against me, her heart hammering against my own.

"Peter," she called out, her voice ragged. "Peter, how do I make him come before the main course? I want his seed. I want to feel him pumping into me while you all watch."

The butler's voice came muffled through the closed doors. "Play with his balls, madam. Moan for him. Talk to him like a whore. Men are simple creatures."

Aline laughed, breathless, and raised herself up on shaking arms. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with satisfaction and renewed hunger. She reached down between us, her manicured fingers finding my heavy balls, cupping them, rolling them gently, then with more firmness.

"Like this?" she asked, squeezing just enough to make me groan.

"Yes, madam," Peter called back. "And tell him what you want. Tell him what a dirty girl you are for him."

Aline leant close, her lips brushing my ear, her hand still working my balls, her cunt still gripping my throbbing shaft. "Do you feel how wet I am?" she whispered, her voice low and filthy. "Do you feel how my married cunt is dripping all over your big hard cock? I've been thinking about this all day. Thinking about fucking you in front of my friends. Thinking about being your whore, your slut, your dirty little toy."

She squeezed my balls again, and I felt the pressure building at the base of my spine, the familiar tightening that meant I was close.

"That's it," she cooed, sensing my approaching climax. "That's it, give it to me. Pump me full, you beautiful stud. Fill my married cunt with your seed. I want to feel you dripping out of me while I eat my dinner. I want to feel you inside me all night."

She began to move again, small rocking motions that ground her clit against me, her hand still fondling my balls, her whispers continuing—"Fill me, fill me, be a good boy and fill me"—until I couldn't hold back anymore.

I came with a shout, my hips bucking up off the chair, driving myself deeper into her as my cock pulsed and jerked, spurt after spurt of hot seed flooding her depths. She gasped at the feeling, her eyes widening, her cunt milking me with fresh contractions as she felt me emptying into her.

"Yes," she moaned, her forehead pressed against mine, her body trembling with aftershocks. "Yes, that's it. That's my good boy. Fill me up. Fill me up."

I pumped her full, my orgasm seeming to go on forever, enhanced by the drugs, by the watching women, by the sheer depravity of the moment. When I finally finished, I was breathless, sweating, my cock still hard as steel inside her—thanks to Peter's pharmaceutical assistance, I was far from finished for the evening.

Aline stayed seated on me, her cunt full of my seed, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She turned to her guests, to the four women who had watched every moment, their faces flushed with arousal and envy.

"Who's next?" she asked lightly, as if discussing the wine selection. "Chantal, darling, would you like to try him? He's quite... accommodating."

Outside, the husbands continued their conversation, knowing what their wives were doing inside, and they would be taking turns riding the naked man at the dinner table, filling themselves with his seed, Aline first, while they waited for the first course to be served.

And Peter stood guard at the door, checking his watch, calculating exactly how much longer he needed to stall before the men came inside to find the first young wife properly fucked and filled, glowing with satisfaction, ready to discuss business over steak and potatoes.

The dinner had only just begun.

To be continued.