tagNonConsent/ReluctanceAfter Dinner Treat

After Dinner Treat

byshaunreagh©

It happened in the town's fanciest nightspot. My husband, newly married, three months – Adrian's his name – had never brought me here before. But this was an office affair. On expenses I assume. So was different.

What happened was different too.

I suppose I had the opportunity right at the outset to steer things in another direction. But I didn't know that at the time, so didn't take it. So things ended up ... well, a little embarrassing I suppose.

After traipsing carefully down the wide stairs to the basement night sport in my three inch heels, having already had wine with dinner, we processed around the dance floor in a long important-looking office crocodile of people, making for a thickly-upholstered horse-shoe-shaped banquette before an oval table for dining – though I don't think they served food so late, besides we'd eaten already – that the Chairman had reserved for our party.

'One for the road,' Adrian's Chairman had suggested as we left the restaurant.

The others had agreed. Of course.

He was the Chairman.

So we'd all come here.

How I ended up in the middle, between the Chairman and Brett Villiers, Head of Human Resources, I'm not sure. But thinking back on it now I suppose it was the Chairman himself who steered me into the horseshoe ahead of himself. Villiers – I'm guessing here – probably knew of his Chairman's little idiosyncrasies where pretty newly-weds of junior staff were concerned, so made sure he was heading round the other side. Boxing me in, as it were. Regardless of how it happened, and whether it was deliberate or not, it happened. So there I sat, hemmed in, like the filling in a sandwich, with the hem of my little yellow dress hiked pretty far up my thighs.

I could of course blame Adrian. It was he after all who told me to dress as I did. Who told me to look as 'sexy as a honey pot on heat' as he rather vulgarly put it. Who had me model the little yellow cocktail dress with and without panties, with and without bra, to see what turned him on most. The thinking being, as he explained, cupping my pussy and making me squirm in the mirror of our bedroom when we were meant to be getting ready for the evening, that if it turned him on, then it would turn these older guys on 'something terrible'. Adrian believes, I think, that if they admire his wife of three months, then they'll admire him. Who knows if he's right?

Not me.

Adrian ended up on one of the ends of the horseshoe, diagonally across the table from where I sat.

Then he started telling one of his jokes.

They are never good. But this was worse than never.

It was half way through the joke's set-up that I felt the hand on my knee beneath the table. It is here, on sober reflection, at a later date, when things didn't all become so heated, that I had the opportunity to put a stop to what followed. But I didn't take it. I decided to leave the hand where it was. There were a couple of reasons for this. First, it took me by surprise. This was the Chairman's hand. At this stage in my upbringing I believed Chairmen were fine upstanding gentlemen, despite what you read in the tabloids about all these bankers. Added to which he – in fact we – were in a public place, surrounded by his staff and a scattering of wives. Well, three wives, including me. Second, I wasn't sure what was the right thing to do. I mean, if your husband's Chairman decides to put a hand on your knee, is it merely to indicate he wants to talk to you? Say something? Impart a confidence? Or might he have mistaken your knee for his own? I really didn't know. I could have shot him a covert glance to see if he had, perhaps, some confidence he wished to impart. But I didn't do that either.

I sort of ... froze.

Adrian's jokes tend to be very long-winded. This one, about the coyote that got run over by a ten ton trailer rig that swerved around a traffic island to avoid an old woman with a cat – see what I mean about shaggy – was a long mother of a joke. We had been introduced to the coyote, Jimmy something-or-other. I had done nothing about the hand on my knee. Then I felt the Boss's calf against my own. Again, and largely for the same sort of reasons, I did nothing. I left my high heeled pump where it was, my knee where it was, and the calf of my leg where it was, which now, was hard against the Chairman.

Both of us stayed as we were.

Both of our eyes were on Adrian. My fingers were round the stem of the glass before me on the table. A crème de menthe and brandy, or something. The Chairman's left hand was on the table. His right was beneath the table, on my knee. It seemed to me that we were both pretending nothing was happening, but wondering what would come next. It was certainly what I was doing.

"So there's this ten ton trailer rig ..." the joke goes, Adrian's eyes sweeping brightly round the table, making sure everyone's engrossed. But the only thing engrossing me right then was his Chairman's hand, now travelling up my left leg with the fingertips caressing the inside of my thigh. Something in me said that the hand would wander up my leg a bit, get the idea of how soft the skin was, perhaps, at the top of my thigh-high stocking's self-clinging tops, then return home. Mission accomplished, or something. But then I felt the fingers on the sensitive skin near the inside of the top of my leg and realised that to get there they must have eased my already high hem up another inch or two. It was then that I started to suspect the quick-look-and-then-off hypothesis, probably wasn't going to happen. The caress was too hungry for a start.

The fingers dipped further between my legs. As if they wanted to check to see if the lower curve of my leg was as round and smooth as the curve at the top? Perhaps. Who knows what goes through men's minds when they find the upper regions of an acquiescent woman's leg beneath their fingertips? For that's what I seemed to have become. Acquiescent. Acquiescent, but hardly uninvolved. It was, after all, my leg.

"At eighty miles an hour ..." my young husband, out at the end of the horse-shoe, droned on, as his equally young wife, firmly in the middle, felt his Chairman's fingers make a light pass over her pussy, to find the soft little morsel draped in silk. Adrian had chosen a pair of skin tone panties to go with my dress. It matched the bra I had insisted on wearing. He had suggested I do without underwear, but I'd I told him to take a hike. The finger made another pass, checking geography.

Perhaps I might have stopped him here? Stopped him on the basis that, as he was the Chairman, I had given him certain leeway that would not normally be given ... to most, well, other men. Other, shall we say, less important men. Specifically, in terms of how long I had permitted his hand to remain on my leg ... unobjected-to, as it were. But now that we were into the torso region, it was only to be expected that a well brought-up young lady, married-as-well I might add, would have to – regretfully, even – draw the line. But I didn't draw the line.

I didn't draw anything. Other than a slightly muted breath. Part of the reason for this, was to do with where we were. And the company we were with. And the importance of the occasion to Adrian's career. And consequently my quality of life, I suppose – although I'm sure that was of secondary importance at the time. But another part was, that I didn't know how to properly bring it to an end. Other than reach down and catch his hand, or wrist, or forearm, and pull it away. But what if he didn't want it to be pulled away? We could end up in a tasteless wrestling match.

Besides, would the other men around the table be particularly concerned if all their Chairman had done was touch young Adrian's wife? Would it really be considered a matter of such importance that I ruin the evening for everyone else? For I might, if the wrestling got really unpleasant. Or even spilt a drink.

Men never like it when that happens. Especially if it's theirs.

I might spill the Chairman's drink. Then where would we be?

Another consideration, of course, was the fact that most men consider me ... well, pretty ... sexy. 'Dishy' is an adjective often used. As is 'hot'. So most of them, I remember thinking at the time, would probably themselves be thinking at the time, if they were in the Chairman's shoes, sitting where the Chairman was, with Adrian's rather dishy wife displaying as much leg as I happened to be displaying right then – and so handily placed – that they might be tempted to feel it as well. So I left the fingers where they were, between my legs, starting to toy with the silk and the softness beneath. I tried to focus on the stupid joke.

"On highway ninety-three..."

Who cared about highway ninety-three, I wondered, as for reasons I even now can't entirely explain, I let my knees drift apart. I didn't even find it in me to object when the Chairman's hand went between my legs and started to fondle. Seriously.

I did not object, either, when his fingers slipped my panties aside and started to work on the skin, and the bits between, that had started to moisten alarmingly. I kept the rapt expression on my face. But I was hardly as calm inside.

This was clearly not going to be as easy as a quick 'stroke and go'. He seemed to be set for the season. I took the corner of my lip between my teeth, and unobtrusively started to chew it.

By the time Adrian had got to the bit about the crossroads, and the coyote's changing plans, his Chairman had eased my leg over his own. It now sat apart from its pair, angled up and over his knee, the right leg still demurely on carpet. His fingers had found my clit, travelled the length and breadth and depth of my pudenda, and all it comprised, and played around, some, at the entrance to my now freely discharging vagina.

It all became too much and I had a difficult-to-conceal, but pretty emphatic, orgasm, just as Adrian was coming to the end of his joke. The two sort of came together. The loose-limbed shudder that swept through me was thankfully masked by the polite laughter and changing of positions that usually goes with the end of a long boring joke that nobody likes but everyone is too polite to stop in case they have to tell their own joke in its place and they can't think of one to tell. I changed my position, but only to ease down further in the seat. The Chairman's hand still up my skirt, in control of my private parts, sort of prevented me moving too much. Then, I must confess to my surprise, not to mention mounting horror, the Chairman himself told a joke.

You can imagine my discomfort. Everyone staring at his large ruddy features as under the table, not that far away from his sparkling green eyes, his broad fingers toyed with one of his employee's relative's hot and bothered pussy. He seemed to have the measure of me now, because he brought me to my second climax, this one fortunately more languid than the first, at the same time as he came to the end of his story. All of them laughed at this ending, even though I'm not sure it was meant to be a joke, though right now, with two of his fingers up my snatch, eagerly easing in and out of me, I was not really in much of a position to judge, regardless of the way I kept my expression pretty neutral throughout. At least I thought I did. I could feel I was beetroot red, of course, but then so were half the men. Them from serial booze. Me from sensual buzz.

The Technical Director was a sleazy-looking oily-haired type who had been studying me lustfully throughout the evening. I almost got the impression he knew exactly what his Chairman was doing to me beneath the table. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he wished I was next to him. He was next to dominate our after-dinner conversation. He did so with an exposition on the new machinery they were planning to introduce to the plant. By this time I had been coaxed by the Chairman, by the simple expedient of him leaning towards me, reaching for one of my hands, the one nearest him, taking it up to his lips, giving it a secretive kiss – did no-one see that? – then taking my hand below the table to his lap. I now had my fingers around an erection that was an awful lot bigger than Adrian's has ever been. Or is ever likely to be, come to that.

Unless they invent something.

What do you do when your husband's Chairman puts his prick in your hand? Especially if his hand has just brought you to two fairly definitive orgasms? I don't know about you, but I moved my hand on him. Just as he continued to on me. And the pair of us listened to the boring long haired nerd who was Adrian's Section boss, in my case as if it were the most fascinating thing I had ever heard.

Then I felt the Chairman lean across behind me. I leant forward to allow it without missing an up or a down on his throbbing penis. He said something to the HR boss on my right that caused them both to chuckle, as if at some private joke. This was followed, fairly quickly, by another hand. On my other leg. Had the Boss invited him to play? Did he have the power? Was it even fair?

On me, I mean.

But what could I do? Other than keep my attention on the sleazy nerd's exposition on machinery I knew nothing about, had no interest in, wasn't sure what it did, and probably couldn't pronounce.

Now there were two of them had me. As their little plaything. I was fast becoming one extremely excited and aroused little girl about now. So when my other leg was taken off to the other side and hooked over the knee of yet another strange male, I'd only been introduced to both of them tonight, I guess I was fairly resigned. I didn't see I had an awful lot of choice. I had two hands between my legs. But being quite polite about it, it had to be said. There was not a lot of fighting over bits of me ... like my honey-coated clit, or vagina. One took one, the other took the other. One rotated gently while the other eased in deep and I flared my pelvis for both ... then pulsed down HARD!

I had my eyes closed. All of us had. It was some sort of séance thing that the HR Boss was taking us through, but in fact I think it was just a ploy to keep the others from seeing the state they were turning me into. All were advised to breath deeply and hard. I was doing that already. Then – which is when I started to figure they'd done this before – everyone was advised to keep their eyes closed and change places with the person on their left without standing up. I was half-way across the Chairman, my left leg stretch across his legs, my right just leaving the floor the other side, when the HR Boss shouts out.

"Hold it there!"

As if he's just connected with an afterlife.

All of us froze as we were. I caught my breath, the shout so suddenly.

Which is when I felt it.

The Chairman's 'Little Chairman', probing at the entrance to my pussy.

One didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure this was a move they had planned. Nor did one have to be Einstein to know that the heat radiating off the head of the not-so-Little Chairman my pussy entrance was poised on top of, should rightly, next, ease up inside me. Which it did. I eased down as willingly on it, it has to be said, as the not-so-little guy eased up into me. It seemed to go on for an age. As soon as I felt he had filled me, I found another inch to be filled, and he filled that too.

As I sensed he found my G-Spot – he sure as heck found something – and I arched my back, and sighed – we were encouraged to sigh a lot – the pressure of the bits of him that aroused and excited the inner secret parts of me, led him to discover yet another G-Spot to titillate, converting my arousal into a sharp, yet liquid-thick electric charge. Then he was inside me to the hilt. To the full. To the mutual satisfaction of us both. I was aroused to distraction. He started to move me. Gently up and down.

After not a lot of this kind of treatment I reached yet another orgasm with a starburst of lights and a nectar-surge of feeling, and a spine snapping arch of the back.

This guy knew sure how to fill a girl up!

I cried out, and felt all was done. But the boss of this unlikely séance called out sharp and loud.

"We have made contact!"

A nervous titter rippled round the table like an uncertain breeze. Who was convinced, I wondered – now being bounced up and down with more verve as the Chairman sought to bring himself off. I did my best to help. I kept still in his hands, I helped with the brace of my thighs and the push of my toes either side of his legs. I let him fondle my breasts as he moved me into his embrace, then eased me up, then let me arch my back and stretch away, moving him inside me all the while ... until I felt him start to come like a steam train.

"Give the gods a bellow!" yelled HR.

All at the table gave a bellow and a roar. Some of them beating on the surface with their bottles or a glass. The Chairman's was the best of all the roars for as he gave forth cupping my breasts as he did, jammed up inside me as far as he could go, I felt him erupt. It went on for a minute at least. Pumping and thrusting and throbbing inside. So bad it was, the effect so intense, I came myself, again, with a gasp and a groan like a punctured balloon.

"Resume earlier positions," said the HR boss, when the pair on his left were all done, "smooth your auras all around," he encouraged, obtusely. We did as he said. In my case more smoothing and straightening my dress, and removing all evidence of mauling.

Then we all opened our eyes.

I don't know if anyone looked at me. I certainly didn't at them. Just gazed at my strange green drink, my fingers round the stem of the glass, and lifted it up to my lips.

And drank.

"We should be going, I think," I heard my husband say.

"So early, don't," came the voice of the HR Boss as his hand slithered back between my legs. To examine the carnage and damage, no doubt.

But I'd had about as much as I could take.

So eased my hips away, and crossed my legs.

"I have an early start," I said, turning to the Chairman. "Thank you for a lovely evening." I held out my hand for him to shake. He took it to his mouth, and kissing the back of my fingers lightly, he replied,

"A pleasure, Mrs Fleming. We must do this again sometime soon."

And then they let me leave.

But as I stepped over the laps of the men I had to pass, for they chose to let me climb from my position, every one of them surreptitiously put a hand up my skirt, and explored the Chairman's lair, and to my chagrin and shame I paused as each did, and pulsed at every one.

Report Story

byshaunreagh© 13 comments/ 160555 views/ 28 favorites

Share the love

Similar stories

Tags For This Story

Report a Bug

1 Pages:1

Please Rate This Submission:

Please Rate This Submission:

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Please wait
Favorite Author Favorite Story

heartbobbywallia, wilywise and 26 other people favorited this story! 

Recent
Comments
by Anonymous

If the above comment contains any ads, links, or breaks Literotica rules, please report it.

There are no recent comments (13 older comments) - Click here to add a comment to this story or Show more comments or Read All User Comments (13)

Add a
Comment

Post a public comment on this submission (click here to send private anonymous feedback to the author instead).

Post comment as (click to select):

You may also listen to a recording of the characters.

Preview comment

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar:

   Cancel