Jemma’s command hovered in the haze: “See what she can take.” Monica, trembling, lay sprawled on the table before me, her naked skin slicked with chocolate, streaked with streaks of red from berry juice, and prickled with a fine, feverish sweat. Her wrists were cuffs; her knees parted wantonly, the soles of her feet braced on the polished tabletop. Her body was a banquet. And I was starving.

Sami, still wrapped around my back, nuzzled my ear. Her breath sent jolts down my spine; her palms pressed flat against my abs, holding me in place as if I might try to escape. I wasn’t going anywhere. The two of them—Monica moaning before me, Sami clutching me from behind—had me locked in a living vise.

I bent forward, palms sliding along Monica’s trembling thighs, and lowered my mouth to her sex. Her scent was heady, sweet and sharp, with a musk that undercut the sugary notes of melted chocolate. I pressed my tongue to her clit, just the tip, and her hips bucked so hard that a fleck of fondue splashed onto my cheek. Her voice broke out of her in a soft, ragged moan.

I started slow—tiny, deliberate circles, the kind that drove Bridgette wild at home. But Monica wasn’t Bridgette. Monica was so worked up, so over-stimulated, that every flick of my tongue made her whole body judder like she’d touched a live wire. I felt her thighs tense, her calves clamp around my head, and I loved it—the way her body didn’t know whether to flinch or pull me closer. I sucked her clit between my lips, gentle, then harder, then let it go with a flick of my tongue. She whimpered. Above us, Sami let out a breathy laugh and leaned forward, her hands slipping lower.

Jemma watched eyes dark with delight. She held a wine glass in one hand; the other toyed idly with the riding crop resting across her lap. She didn’t say a word, just watched me work, as if I was a show she’d commissioned and was waiting to see if it lived up to the hype.

I let my tongue dance down, tasting the seam of Monica’s opening—slick, sweet, tangy with the drip of fruit and her own juices. I pushed my tongue inside, slow at first, then deeper, twisting, curling, licking up every drop she gave me. She arched her back off the table, a gasp tearing from her chest. I gripped her thighs to steady her, then slid two fingers inside, curling them forward, just barely grazing that hidden spot on the front wall.

Instantly, Monica’s voice went up an octave. “Oh my god. Yes. Yes!” She thrashed against her bonds, her chest heaving, nipples hard and shining where chocolate had dried in glossy patches. I reached up and pinched one, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, and she screamed—one sharp, beautiful note that echoed off the walls. Jemma called out. “Time.”

From behind, Sami ground her hips against my ass, the motion urgent, greedy. Her teeth grazed my neck. I could feel her nipples poking through the velvet of her uniform, and I ached to turn around and devour her too, but Monica demanded all of me. I focused on her, tongue and fingers working in concert, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always keeping her on the edge, never quite letting her fall over.

The taste was insane. Every time I pulled back to breathe, I licked the flavors from my lips—berry, dark chocolate, and the deep salt-sweetness of Monica herself. I didn’t care how messy it was, how smeared my face was, or that my own cock was leaking into my Calvin Klein’s like a teenager at his first prom. I wanted to ruin her for anything else.

“More. Please. Don’t stop.” Her voice was raw, desperate, almost animal. “Please, more!” She didn’t even know my name before tonight, but now she chanted it like a prayer. Each time her hips jolted up, I pressed my mouth harder to her clit, sucking and swirling in a way that made her legs shake uncontrollably.

Behind me, Sami squeezed my waist, her fingers clawing at my shirt until the fabric bunched under her nails. She pressed her cheek to my shoulder and whispered, “You’re so good at this. You’re going to make her lose her mind.” Her tongue flicked against my ear, and I almost lost control myself.

I wanted Monica to explode, to show Jemma I could do it, to impress those watching with how thoroughly I could break a woman with my mouth alone. So I doubled down—switched to faster, tighter circles on her clit with the tip of my tongue, fucked her with my fingers at the same rhythm, and pinched both nipples at once, hard enough to make her entire body convulse. She was crying now, tears leaking from under the blindfold, her whole chest blotched with flush.

“Yes. Oh god. Yes. I—” Monica’s voice broke, a wail, and her thighs slammed shut on my head, nearly crushing me. I kept going, relentless, until she spasmed so violently that her heels knocked over one of the bowls. Strawberries spilled over the floor. Juice splattered down the leg of the table and onto the floor. She didn’t notice; she was somewhere else entirely.

I didn’t stop until she begged me to. “Please—fuck, I can’t—too much, too much.” Her words dissolved into a long, high moan, her hips writhing in frantic, involuntary waves. I let her ride it out, kept my mouth on her clit until her body finally went limp and she collapsed back onto the table, twitching and sobbing softly.

I surfaced, face drenched in a mess of chocolate and Monica’s own juice. I tried to wipe it away, but Sami held my hands and kissed my neck, licking a smear off my jawline. I turned to look at Jemma. She was grinning, her eyes glittering with satisfaction.

“Bravo,” she said, her voice low and husky. “I should have expected as much. However, you went over time.”

Monica was still shuddering on the table, her hands flexing helplessly against the silk scarf. I caught her breath as she gasped, “Fuck. I’ve never—god, that was—” She didn’t finish, just groaned and melted into the table, every muscle slack.

Jemma stood, heels clicking on the hardwood, and came around behind me. She leaned over my shoulder, her lips brushing my ear. “You can let go of her now, Damien.” Her hand rested on the back of my neck, warm and heavy. “Get up and clean yourself up. Dessert hasn’t started quite yet.”

I staggered upright, the blood roaring in my ears, my hands sticky with every flavor in the room. Sami let go of my waist and steadied me with a gentle squeeze. Monica whimpered, but Jemma untied her blindfold and wrists with a casual flick, whispering something into her ear.

I wiped my face with a napkin, hands shaking. My whole body buzzed. I didn’t know if it was from the adrenaline, the arousal, or the satisfaction of having just made a stranger lose her mind with nothing but my mouth. Maybe all of it.

Jemma turned to face me. Her gaze had sharpened, her lips parted. “You’re a natural,” she purred. “But you still need training. And obedience.”

She took my hand, the one still wet from Monica, and brought it to her mouth. She licked a line of chocolate from the base of my thumb to the tip, her tongue slow, savoring. Then she bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to make me wince. “Do you think you can obey, Damien?” she asked.

I nodded. I’d have done anything she wanted.

“Good,” she said. “Because that was only the beginning.”

The room spun. I was drunk, high on power and sex and the unhinged permission of it all. I knew I should feel some level of guilt, of something but the anticipation was too high. I didn’t know where we’d go next, but I knew Jemma would be at the center of it. And I would follow.