Pearls in Oyster

"I figured as much. Do you help with shucking the oyster? Haven't met a customer that didn't like doing that."

"While all will engage in shucking, few are adept. My own technique involves an alternating action of shucking and eating. After each bout of shucking, I find that the oyster becomes more tender and lush, releasing a profuse amount of juice. Out of courtesy, I always offer my hostess a sampling of her shucked oyster, allowing her to taste the sauce directly from the shucking instrument."

"Wow! That sounds like some party! I suppose that a hoity-toity expert such as yourself has chowed down on creamed oyster? I've found that a lot of my guests don't like it that much."

"Philistines! I've eatenoyster a la creme numerous times, without apprehension: a rich, savoury delicacy indeed! But every hostess I've dined with has always required that I supply the cream. Most rude!"

I'm restraining my laughter with all my might and manage to ask, "Hmmm. You're different. So how do you feel about smoked oyster?"

"Madam! You remind me of a most unfortunate incident! Once, as I was about to partake of a morsel, a loud exhalation of acrid gas transpired very near to the oyster. My appetite was immediately suppressed. Smoked oyster? No, thank you!"

He wins; I burst out laughing, unable to hold a straight face over our fertile banter. Fun and games, to be sure, yet I find myself getting awfully squirmy with the ripe, campy allusions. To add to my delectable distress, when I slide my bum forward to whisper to him, the thong tightens against me, pressing against my clitoris and opening; when I slide back, the pressure shifts to my anus and the cleft of my ass. I adjust positions on my seat as subtly as I can, varying the pressure and areas of contact. The sensations build to a point where I absolutely must go to the ladies room.

In the stall, I have to battle an unladylike urge to hike up my dress, sit on the can, lean back, prop my feet apart on the door, and masturbate. Wouldn't that be something, to bring myself off in theGarden washroom? But I resist, maintain my dignity, do my business, pat myself dry, and return the pearls to their cove. The smouldering returns immediately. After washing my hands, I adjust my clothes and gingerly walk back to the table.

He asks about my condition. The alcohol, feast, and sexual heat have loosened my tongue: I whisper what he wants to hear.

"My cunt is on fire."

His eyes widen with a look pleading for more information. I oblige.

"It's so wet that I'm scared it'll show through my dress. I really wanted to finger-fuck myself, but I didn't."

"I could do that for you later?"

"mmm, that sounds yummy."

The end is near. We're consuming dessert, a wonderfully dainty pastry topped, appropriately, with a passion fruit glaze. After this, just a plate ofchocolats, the bill, and the drive home. We chat some more, idle talk with interspersed innuendo. The chocolates arrive, and they are absolutely divine, exploding in my mouth with rich, complex flavours. He handles the bill, signing the credit card slip, and we're on our way. The Maitre d' stops us at the door and, after enquiring if all was to our satisfaction, gives us a little package of chocolate truffles to enjoy tonight or in the morning.

Again, I wait in the lobby as he goes to fetch the car. Disappointingly, there're no potential victims for some subtle exhibitionism. Oh well. He pulls up to the door, and I make my way to the vehicle, exaggerating my wiggle. He laughs as I get in. The drive home is preoccupied with reliving the banquet: favourite dishes, the wine, our hot sexy talk. Lots of laughter, and before I know it we've pulled into my driveway.

I feel his hand on the small of my back as we walk up the steps to my place. His hand slides lower, ever so slowly to my ass. The pressure is light yet effective, but I can't help teasing him and ask, "I suppose you'd like to come in for a night cap?"

"Yes, I would. But only if you behave yourself."

"I'll be good. Very good."

We start kissing as soon as we enter the house, his lips caressing my face and neck, his arms pressing me into him. I feel him grab my hair, gently but with purpose. I respond willingly; I've been in heat all night from looking at him across the table and absorbing the actions of my strategic rope of pearls. We stagger up the stairs toward my bedroom, groping and kissing along the way. He whispers to me, "You look so fabulous tonight! I've brought my digital. Let me take some pictures of you. Please."

How can I resist? I answer by moving away from him and placing my arms above my head in a cheesecake pose. He quickly fumbles within his jacket for his camera. Soon it's out, and the shutter begins capturing me with digital clarity, pixelating me for his computer. He directs me into various poses, constantly telling me how great I look.

Normally I would torment him during a session like this, playing coy until he begs me to remove an article of clothing, but tonight I can't wait. I undo the short zipper on my back, allowing him several shots before my dress falls to the floor. My back is turned to him. I'm clothed in only my thong and heels. It's his first glimpse of the lingerie against my body, with the pearls running down my backside like an exclamation mark. The frequent sounds of the camera thrill me. He's talking less, and when he does, it's obvious that his throat is dry and constricted. I'm pleased by my power to render him speechless.

I grab my breasts, pinching my nipples, and turn to face him. He now sees that I've shaved myself for him. I can tell that he's zooming in on my crotch, my jutting lips and the pearls that divide them. The ooh's and ahh's coupled with the sounds of the camera are gratifying to an extreme. I strut to the bed and, sitting on the edge, begin taking off my shoes. He's abrupt: "No! Please. Leave them on."

I smile and slip my pumps back on: I don't plan to be standing in them any more this evening. Indeed, I decide to take all of my weight off my feet, so I slowly lie down and raise my legs. They're together, straight up and down, and crossed at the ankles. I can feel the pearls pushing against me, but now I don't suppress the urges they incite. I spread myself open and use the thong to masturbate. He's zeroed in on me, framing my shaved crotch in high resolution, the shutter snapping images of the pearls juxtaposed with my labia and opening.

His voice has returned; he's very bold now. He touches me, pulling outward on my lips, spreading my flaps apart, revealing my centre. I'm told that my entrance is only somewhat covered by the strand and that it will be a great photo. Each touch electrifies me, inducing currents of sex to flow from my core; each stroke initiates a line of force—a wild circuit from which I have no resistance—turning me into a dynamo of craving. I've been wet all night, but now I'm a torrent, with the soaked cleft of my backside as the litmus test. His adjustments of my pearls and labia become brazen. He manipulates my props and fires more shots. Now he wants an unobstructed view, so he moves the string to the side, petting me in the process. I feel him split me apart, fully exposing my fermenting cunt.

I'm the one without a voice now. If I were to speak, it'd be incomprehensible babble interspersed withfuck, cock, andcunt as the only recognisable words. The camera flashes several times between each of his arrangements. His fingers slide into me with ease, working my opening. He tells me that he wants to widen me a bit for the next shots. God! I arch my back and stretch myself open to accommodate him. His look alternates between my eyes and cunt as his fingers plunge rhythmically into my moisture, creating a luxuriant squishing sound. He stops—prolonging my torture—and begins taking pictures of my gaping hole, asking me to widen it with my hands. My heat is near capacity, causing my rift to expand and my mind to divide into incongruent, near-orgasmic components. I want him to drop the damned camera and bring me to a climax.

I know his game, and I adore playing it. He loves the contrast—a lady dressed to the 'nines, with a façade of class, giving in to wanton abandonment. But he senses my need. He dispenses with the camera and quickly strips himself of his clothes. His cock is erect, beautiful, and laden with potential. I remain open and exposed, my legs drawn up and apart, hungrily waiting for him. He mounts me, sliding into me entirely, seemingly filling my belly with his cock. My pelvis responds immediately, bucking with want. The sensations are gorgeous, intense, yet subtly different due to my lack of pubic hair. My clit, exposed and bare, is rubbing directly against him. I thrust wildly, trying to bring on the orgasm that's been teasing me all night. But he diabolically withdraws.

All night I've been the one doing the teasing, but now it's him. I'm in a desperate state, almost insane with lust. He lowers his face into me and begins ever so gently to lick and nibble at my folds. His tongue wanders to my clit, bringing me ever closer to release. He senses that I'm almost there and then cruelly backs off, positioning himself next to me, his hand between my legs, fingers easily slipping in, stretching me, finding the special spot within. My hands have been busy with my nipples and cunt, but now one of them searches for his cock, fondling it with awe and desire. It's slippery from my insides, and the resulting sheen gives it a dazzling, edible lustre. He kisses me deeply and whispers next to my ear.

"What kind of a woman would wear a pearl thong to dinner, and then let herself be photographed stretching her cunt open as wide as possible?"

His talk is raw and earthy now. I eagerly co-operate, telling him that I'm a slut; I live to get fucked; I'll suck and drink his every drop, anything he wants, so long as he finally satisfies me. He's got me wild, fucking me with I-don't-know-how-many fingers, activating that spot, and making me respond to his sweet dirty talk. With his hand still buried within my sodden insides, he crawls on his knees towards my face and feeds me his cock. I devour it, wishing but unable to swallow him to his balls.

"So you suck cock, too?"

I manage a weak, preoccupied nod.

"And you like sucking cock, especially while you're getting fucked?"

That one gets me really hot. I answer him by opening my cunt even wider for his fingers, giving him greater access, and trying to take him yet deeper into my throat. I hear him groan and then say, "You're a real slut, aren't you? We need to let everyone know about you."

He takes one of the truffles, withdraws himself from my throat, and, with his free hand, paints his erection with chocolate, mixing it with my saliva. He starts rubbing my face, smearing his candied cock onto my chin and cheeks. My mouth is frantically trying to grab him. Finally, I grasp enough of it with my lips to direct him into my throat, deeper than he or anyone has ever been before. The taste of chocolate cock and the stretching and selective rubbing of my insides have me close to coming.

He gives me the final push by writing on my belly with the truffle. Across my stomach, I sense the wordSlut printed out, branding me in decadent brown ink. I crave for him to write a thousand words upon my skin, describe in novel form how I open myself to the fullest for him, scribble poems dedicated to my depths and his knowledge of them: sonnets for the sweetness between my thighs, songs for the shape of my breasts and nipples, crude graffiti in praise of my tits and ass, odes worshipping my orgasms...

And I'm there, transported to that singular, mystical place. I abandon and erupt with volume and exuberance, the sensations heightened by the concurrent intrusion of my cunt and mouth, the trickles of chocolate sliding down my throat, the emblazoned message on my torso, and the mad fractionated thoughts whirling in my head.

My climax sets him on his path. His hips thrust with that divine, distinct urgency, and I ready myself for his gush of sperm, my palate anticipating a rich mixture of cream and chocolate. But he pulls out of my mouth, hurries to between my legs, and uses the base of his cock to rub my clit. Several strokes later followed by a convulsed cry, he sprays my breasts and belly, covering me with his sap. He's been aroused all evening, producing an opulent volume of seed: Every drop is expelled, drenching my body.

He collapses beside me, spent. After recovering, we kiss softly. He rubs his milk into my breasts and tummy. There's so much creamy liquid that he massages some into my thighs, crotch, neck, and face. In turn, I rub my chest and stomach against him, ensuring that both of us are saturated with his scent. Eventually, I speak.

"Thank you for the pearls: both sets were divine."

We laugh at my little quip and spend some more time cuddling and whispering. At length, we kiss and drift off to sleep in each other's arms.