Sami’s arms tightened around me, and now her hands were moving lower, brushing the waistband of my trousers, teasing but not quite trespassing. I picked up a wedge of kiwi, its green skin rough and fibrous, the fruit sticky with sugar, and pressed it against Monica’s lips. She licked it hungrily, her tongue darting out, then I slid the wedge between her teeth. She bit down, juice spilling over her chin, and I chased it with my mouth, licking it off her skin, savoring the faint tartness and the taste of her. Monica’s eyes fluttered closed as she chewed, her body relaxing for a moment before tensing again, as if she was riding some invisible roller coaster.

Sami leaned her head over my shoulder. “Feed me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. I twisted, awkwardly, to bring a piece of pineapple to her lips. She took it with her mouth, her lips brushing my fingertips, then sucked the fruit into her mouth with a deliberate slowness. Her eyes, brown and mischievous, locked on mine the entire time. She swallowed, then pressed her face closer, kissing my ear, letting her tongue circle the outer edge. She giggled, a low, sultry sound, and I realized she was getting off on the audacity of it all—the spectacle, the trespass, the way she could make me squirm with so little effort.

Monica’s breathing grew ragged again. She was squirming on the chair, hips rolling back and forth, seeking friction that the straps wouldn’t allow. I’d barely even touched her below the waist. I looked at Jemma, uncertain if I should continue, but she only smiled, nodding once. I took another strawberry, dipped it in a little more of the dark chocolate, and ran it over the swell of Monica’s left breast, spiraling inward to the nipple. Juice and chocolate pooled, glistening, and I licked it up, slowly, scraping with my teeth at the very end. Monica jerked—actually jerked, like she’d gotten an electric shock—her entire body spasming, teeth gritted. A hoarse, wordless moan shot out of her mouth. I was almost afraid for her. But she didn’t say stop. She didn’t even look like she could form the word if she wanted.

Sami’s hands dipped even lower, one of them finding the button on my pants, popping it open with a single deft movement. The zipper followed, and suddenly her hand was inside, fingers wrapping around my cock, squeezing it through the thin material of my underwear.

Jemma said something so low I didn’t hear it. When Sami and I didn’t respond, Jemma made a motion, taking her arm and swiping long way and in one smooth move sending metal dishes and silverware flying, clanging, a couple of plates circling on the floor until they came to a stop.

Sami stopped. I wanted to beg for her to keep going to keep touching. But she stepped away, untying Monica and walked her to the long medieval looking wooden table. Jemma came over to the chair, offering her hand Monica took it, getting up clumsily. Her legs shook as she walked unsteadily to the table. She climbed naked on the table. Jemma and Sami helped her lay her naked on the table, Jemma grabbed some cuffs that were hidden under the table, cuffing her hands and feet.

Once done, Jemma grabbed a silver bowl, she dipped her finger in. The scent of chocolate filled the space. She started painting her chest with chocolate. After strategically laying on cut strawberries and mango in an intricate design, she looked back at me where I stood breathing heavy. I saw Max across the way where his expression of longing echoed too closely to what I was feeling.

Jemma motioned me forward again. “Eat.” For a heartbeat, I hesitated, my pulse hammering in my throat. Then, with deliberate slowness, I leaned down and started licking. I took one of Monica’s taut nipples into my mouth. The taste of chocolate and fruit exploded on my tongue, sweet and decadent, as I swirled my tongue around the sensitive peak. Across the table, Jemma mirrored my movements, her mouth closing over Monica’s other breast. Monica’s body levitated, a cry tearing from her lips as pleasure wracked her frame. Sami, ever the artist, took a handful of fruit from other silver dishes and began arranging it on Monica’s skin—slices of kiwi, wedges of mango, a scattering of pomegranate seeds—each piece placed with care, turning her body into a living canvas of desire.

Jemma’s eyes gleamed with approval, her voice a purr as she spoke. “Monica has been such a good girl. Should we reward her?” I didn’t hesitate, my voice thick with need. “Yes, Mistress.” The title rolled off my tongue, too easily. It felt foreign yet intoxicating. Jemma moved to my side of the table, her fingers deft and sure as she began to strip me of my clothes. Each motion was deliberate, unhurried, her touch sending electric currents skittering across my skin. She peeled my shirt over my head, her nails grazing my chest as she tossed it aside. Her hands paused at the waistband of my boxer briefs, her lips curling into a smirk. “These are unexpected,” “cute” she murmured, her voice dripping with amusement and something darker, hungrier.

She hooked her fingers into the fabric and tugged, the briefs sliding down my legs with agonizing slowness. I stood before them, bare and exposed, my cock jutting proudly, thick and hard. I was no stranger to my own body—I knew the way the internet stats had praised my 8 inches, knew the way my physique turned heads. But standing there, under Jemma’s appraising gaze, I felt a flicker of vulnerability. Sami’s sharp inhale and Monica’s wide-eyed stare, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, only amplified the heat pooling in my gut. Jemma’s hand wrapped around my shaft, her grip firm as she gave a single, deliberate pump. “My new cock is beautiful,” she murmured, her voice thick with approval. “So big.” Her fingers tightened, and I bit back a groan.

She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear as she whispered, her words for me alone. “I can’t wait to have this in my mouth.” The promise in her voice sent a shudder through me. Then, louder, for the others to hear, she said, “Alas, we can’t move on to the next course until all the food and chocolate is gone.” She pressed a pair of chopsticks into my hand, her touch lingering. I turned back to Monica, my mouth watering at the sight of her now—chocolate smeared across her skin, fruit scattered like jewels. I set to work, my tongue and lips tracing every inch of her, licking and sucking the sweetness from her body. Sami was beside me, her own chopsticks moving with practiced ease, her mouth following the path of the fruit.

Jemma watched us for a moment, her gaze heavy with approval, before she stepped behind Sami. She nuzzled into the crook of Sami’s neck, her hands sliding up to cup her breasts. “Give me your chopsticks,” she murmured, her voice a command wrapped in silk. “You seem to have missed some pieces.” Sami handed them over without hesitation, her breath hitching as Jemma’s fingers teased her nipples. Then Jemma crouched in front of me, her eyes locked onto mine as she plucked a piece of fruit from the table. She brought it to my lips, her fingers brushing against my mouth as I took it, the sweetness bursting on my tongue.

She stayed there, crouched before me, her gaze never leaving mine as she leaned in. Her tongue darted out, a slow, deliberate lick that traced the length of my cock, gathering the bead of precum at the tip. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pleasure so intense I nearly buckled. Fuck. I hadn’t thought I could get any harder, but I was wrong. So wrong.

“Make Monica cum with your mouth,” Jemma commanded, her voice a low, sultry purr, “and I might allow you a turn. Otherwise, you only get to watch in punishment.” She thumbed towards Max who had taken a seat. He looked dejected. She reached onto the sideboard and pulled off a delicate gold chain, attached to a small watch, the chain glinting in the soft light. It looked like an antique, something precious and timeless.

Jemma continued. “Now she is primed and should be ready to cum any second. You have two minutes.” She held the watch up, the second hand ticking away with agonizing slowness. “If I were you, I’d hurry up.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I scrambled onto the table, my hands gripping Monica’s thighs as I spread her legs wide. There was no gentleness in my touch—only raw, desperate need. I needed to slow down. I wasn’t getting what I wanted until she came again and I was on the clock. Monica’s eyes locked onto mine, her pupils blown wide with desire, her body already trembling on the edge. Jemma was right; she was primed, soaking wet, her arousal glistening between her thighs. I’d never been particularly confident in my oral skills—Bridgette had never been one for it—but Monica was so responsive, so ready, that any doubt melted away.