Dinner Comes with Dessert

Copyright © Kingswoman 2015

For You (my fans).

All participants in this story are well over 18 - except for the whisky ;)



I think you saw me in the first interval, at the bar. I was chatting to the barboy about my drink for the second interval, but you wouldn't have known that.

You recognised me from the function earlier in the evening. You had been giving the talk, so you hadn't paid attention to the audience until the glasses of wine and trays of canapés were circulated. Then you must have clocked me, in a figure-hugging little black dress, holding out one of the trays of canapés to someone-else. Probably you liked the look of me even then. You were busy fielding serious questions about the serious topics raised in your serious talk, so you brushed off awareness of a piece of eye candy among the snacks.

I'm collecting my drink at the start of the second interval when you appear at my elbow.

"Hullo," you say. "You look just as nice without a tray of tasty nibbles on offer."

The success of your talk must have gone to your head! I stare at you blankly, waiting for the barboy to serve my drink. (He of course has lost his braincells somewhere in his bollocks at sight of me. I don't know why I have this effect so powerfully on young barmen in particular.) It takes me a moment to remember that when I dressed earlier, I carelessly chucked on a flattering little black number, not expecting to need to impress people with my senior status in our line of work.

Then you totally put your foot in it. You check out my face and assume I hail from an immigrant community of casual waiting staff with low English speaking ability. In a slow careful voice, you enunciate: "Are you serving food here too? Food? Snacks?"

I burst out laughing. "No thank you," I say. "I'm saving my appetite for dinner after the concert. Chrissake, darling!" I add to the barboy. "Don't put ice in it."

I collect my 16 year old Lagavulin and sniff it lightly, eyeing your discomfiture over the top of my glass.

"I'm so sorry," you say, mortified.

"It's fine," I reply. "That was an interesting point you made ..."

You're hesitant to talk about your presentation. Like the barboy's, your brain has wandered into an entrancing garden of bright images, enticed from other subjects of almost equal importance. Your eyes keep coming to rest in my cleavage. Then you become embarrassed and look away from me altogether so our conversation is inevitably disjointed.

At the end of the interval, you collect your wits sufficiently to ask if I would like to eat out with you. "Since you've been saving your appetite," you add, with a flashing smile.

With waiters rather than barboys I can often have a reasonable conversation. You tactfully choose a pleasant Italian restaurant rather than some flashy place aimed at impressing young females. I'm pretty easy (wink). If I hadn't already forgiven you, I would have done so over the meal.

I pull out my reading glasses, perch them on my nose and give the menu a thoughtful scrutiny.

You're grumbling about some colleague who has done something predictable which is a bit dull, but hopefully you will get back to flirting soon.

"Oh yah, yah," I murmur without listening very carefully. "What an effing basturd," I drawl idly, lifting my eyes to flick a glance at you over the tops of my dark-rimmed glasses as I reach for the wine menu.

You're staring intently at me.

"Oh my God," you say. "You are Kingswoman."

I'm thrown by this. I sit looking back at you over my sexy dark-rimmed glasses, biting my lip and not sure what to say. I mean, if you know my voice well enough to recognise it, you must have listened to enough of my stories for it to be just as embarrassing for you to admit that, as for me to be known to have voiced them. I pretend Charlie the Wanking Wanker writes all the very dirty ones anyway. I mean, he does write them. I just ... embellish them sometimes.

"Oh my God!" you continue in an ecstatic tone. "I'm having dinner with Kingswoman! Please let me treat you, you will let me pay, won't you."

To be honest, it's not unknown for men to beg to treat me even when they aren't fans of my audio smut. I had assumed you were going to pay, but I start to wonder if I can turn the puppyish eagerness you are displaying to my advantage.

"Well ..." I say, pretending to hesitate. "As long as afterwards you let me suck your dick."

Oh dear, your face is a picture. Your mouth falls open, you say in horror: "You don't have to do that, I'm happy to buy you dinner. It would be a privilege." You absently take a bite of bread, on which you choke.

The waiters and I solicitously pour water for you and pat your back. When you're at last sitting with the tears settling down in your eyes, I say soothingly: "What are you intending to eat? Something that might go with a red wine? How about we have the Barolo."

You cast a distracted glance at the menu. "Really," you say in an urgent murmur. "There's no need for .... I'm delighted to treat you to dinner."

"Oh yes, darling, I know," I say, weighing up the merits of the carpaccio and the arancini for starters. I do like raw meat, although crunchy balls also have their appeal. I say: "I'm so sorry. I was unable to resist chancing my arm. Or rather mouth."

There is a pause. I feel you are not really paying attention to the day's choice of soup. I say helpfully: "I bet the deep fried zucchini flowers are delicious. We can have a white wine if you prefer. Although I like to go French for white as a rule, unless it's Prosecco. We could have Prosecco and the zucchini flowers."

"Yes. Prosecco," you say absently. Then you look up and say: "You ... you want to ... to ... suck my dick," and begin blushing. So English! I try to hide it that I am laughing.

"Oh yes, I love it," I say. "I like to have something creamy to top things off. I don't get the chance very often. I'm so sorry I blurted it out like that. I went into audio slut mode. I do try to be more restrained at work. I believe they think I am very demure."

I start laughing and you join in. We swap some work-y stories that are more fun than the boring effing basturd story you've been telling and have a professional argument which we both enjoy. I am content, as you have ordered us a glass each of Prosecco and the Barolo, so I feel I'm in with a good chance of giving head before the night is done. Regretfully I give the Vin Santo with cantuccini a miss. I have a bicerin instead. I've had enough to drink. I don't like to slur my cock-sucking. They give us some Baci di Dama with the bicerin, which is a nice touch.

We walk out of the restaurant. I take your arm, nestle into your side and look up at you through my lashes with my eyes half-closed in a smile. I'm not sure if it's me pulling or you pushing but we're soon in a convenient alleyway, pressing into a kiss.

Oh so warm and tender, your mouth on mine, just a respectful lip kiss. I slide my arms up inside your jacket to hug your chest, you begin groping my back. There is something so pleasurable about the simple gentle touching of lips, the pin-prickling rushes of desire in my loosening thighs and my belly. The puckering caress of your mouth, the warm strength of your body in my hugging arms, your hands on my back. My cunt is wet, I can feel my clit engorging.

I slide a hand to your front and explore the waistband of your trousers. I make sure I lightly press the heel of my hand on the turgid bulge in your crotch. I find a button.

Your mouth has slipped from mine and you are panting delicious curls of warm breath in my ear. "Let's go back to my place," you say urgently.

"Oh no, I don't think that would be proper," I object. "I hardly know you. Let's do it here."

"Oh Christ!" you moan.

You have to take consent as and when you find it sometimes. I continue to gently massage your erection through your trousers while easing the button out of the hole and fumbling for the zip. I slide my other hand down to grope your buttock; the muscles are gripped tight hard to hold yourself in. You bring your head back round for a more urgent pressing kiss, a tip of tongue pushes in my mouth, I press my tongue back to yours.

I've got the zip down and am pushing you round so you can lean your back on the wall. "Fuck me!" you moan. I don't mean to do quite that, but I slide down to kneel in front of you. The ground is dry, not that I care. I'm pulling your trousers and some soft cotton boxers down enough to ease your dick out. The ground is gritty under my knees.

It's been a long day, you're musky with sweat. I lean my head on your belly and smell that masculine odour, letting its tones mingle like a good cigar with the memory of the warm rich Barolo, the dark bitter chocolate of the bicerin. I'm letting your thick engorged dick rest in the palm of my hand, taking my time, savouring the scents.

You give a trembling moan. I stoop my head and place my kissed lips on the smooth head protruding from your foreskin, the first bitter salt of your precum coating my mouth. Quickly I slide my mouth over your cockhead, halfway down your shaft. I take the rest of your shaft in hand and use my fingers in tandem with my mouth.

I suck softly on your cockhead, curl my tongue around your dick. You grunt: "Fuck, fuck! Oh Christ!" and start gently thrusting your hips. In the haze of good wine and musky male scents, we get a good rhythm going between us. I suck harder, press my fingers around the base of your shaft, put my other hand to squeeze your balls. Your cockhead thrusts to the roof of my mouth, I press my tongue around you, suck you. I put my finger down behind your balls and press where I guess your hot spot might be. You give a guttural exclamation and are suddenly shooting cum in bursts at the back of my throat. I gag, move back on you so I can collect your snowfall in my mouth, and I suck your cockhead softly.

I had been wondering if you would still be willing to kiss me, afterwards, with your cum all over my mouth. Just as I start fretting about it again, you take hold of my shoulders. You pull me up, press your mouth to mine. Before I can swallow you're sucking your share of the snowball of cum into your own mouth. Your tongue, my tongue are fiercely interlacing in the sticky salty strands, we're clutching close and kissing more passionately than before I sucked you off. I press my quivering mound between your open legs, onto the now soft bundle of your wet sticky cock. I thrust my breasts to your chest, my arms under your jacket to grip you across your back. One of your hands is on the back of my head, to press it harder into your kiss. You suck my tongue, your cum, my lip.

Kiss me, kiss me, a kiss burning with passion to melt the sucked snowball in my hot mouth.