Chapter 41: The Dinner Table
The collar was a hidden weight beneath his shirt. Julian had chosen a high-necked sweater, the wool scratchy and warm, a feeble attempt to hide the brand Izzy had placed on him. The leather seemed to pulse against his skin, a secret heartbeat of shame.
The dining room was a theater of subdued opulence. Candles flickered in the crystal chandelier, their light fracturing across starched linen and polished silver. The long mahogany table could seat twenty; tonight, it hosted three. Izzy sat at the head, Sloane to her right, Julian directly opposite the blonde girl.
The women were visions in silk and shadow. Izzy wore emerald green, a dress that plunged in front and back, cinched at her waist. Sloane’s gown was ice-blue, strapless, hugging the youthful curves of her body. Both looked utterly at ease, as if waiting for a photographer, not a silent teenage boy.
“The flat in the 7th arrondissement is available for the full month,” Izzy said, sipping a glass of burgundy. “I’ve spoken to the curator. A private viewing has been arranged.”
“Mother would prefer the Ritz,” Sloane said, picking at a rocket salad. Her tone was bored, practiced.
“Your mother prefers what I tell her to prefer.” Izzy’s smile was brief. “You’ll love the flat. The balcony overlooks a courtyard. Very discreet.”
Their conversation was a smooth, gliding river. Julian was a stone on the bank. He kept his eyes on his plate, on the seared scallop, its surface caramelized to perfection. He tasted nothing.
Then he felt it. A pressure, light at first, against his shin. A slippered foot. It traced a slow line up the inseam of his trousers.
He froze, his fork hovering.
Izzy was still talking to Sloane about gallery openings. Her expression was one of polite interest. But her foot continued its ascent, over his knee, along the tense muscle of his inner thigh.
He dared a glance. Sloane was watching him, a faint, knowing smile on her lips as she listened to Izzy. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs under the table, the whisper of silk on silk loud in the space.
Izzy’s foot found its target. The arch of her foot pressed firmly against the rigid bulge in his trousers. She rubbed, slowly, a casual, grinding rotation.
Julian’s breath hitched. He dropped his fork. It clattered on the china.
“Something wrong, Julian?” Izzy asked, not missing a beat in her conversation.
“No.” The word was choked.
“Good.” Her foot continued its work, a relentless, maddening pressure. “As I was saying, Sloane, the impressionist collection is unparalleled. But it’s the modern pieces that will truly… stir you.”
Every word felt layered, aimed at him. His cock, already sensitized from hours of humiliated arousal, throbbed under the fabric. Pre-cum dampened his briefs. He was painfully hard, and she knew it. She measured it with her foot.
The main course came and went. Venison in a reduction. Julian ate mechanically, each swallow difficult. Izzy’s foot never stopped. Sometimes it was a firm press, other times a lazy, teasing stroke. Sloane began to play her part. She would lean forward to ask a question, giving him a generous view of her cleavage, or she would stretch, causing her skirt to ride higher on her thighs.
By the time the delicate peach tarts were served, Julian was sweating. The conflict was a war in his gut—revulsion at the public degradation, and a raw, hungry need that made his hands shake.
Izzy finished her last bite, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and set it aside. The conversation died.
The only sounds were the faint crackle of the candles and the low hum of the estate around them.
“Julian,” Izzy said, her voice clean and sharp as a knife in the quiet. “Under the table. Now.”
His heart slammed against his ribs. He looked from her serene face to Sloane’s expectant one.
“We’re waiting,” Sloane said, her voice soft.
He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping horribly on the parquet floor. He slid down, disappearing from the candlelit world above into the shadowed cave beneath the vast table. The smell here was different—cedar from the wood, starch from the linen, and the intoxicating, intimate perfume of the two women. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light between the tablecloth and the floor.
Above, he saw the underside of the table, the twin landscapes of their laps. Izzy’s emerald silk. Sloane’s blue. Both women shifted, spreading their legs in unison.
“You may begin,” Izzy said from above.
Her scent was stronger here, spiced and deeply feminine. He saw she wore no underwear. The smooth skin of her inner thighs led to dark, neat curls, her lips already glistening with arousal. Sloane was similarly bare, her folds puffy and pink.
He didn’t know where to start. The leash was invisible but felt taut around his neck.
“My little cuck needs direction,” Izzy sighed. Her hand came down, not gently, and gripped his hair, guiding his face to her center. “Start with me. Get me wet for your tongue.”
He obeyed. He pressed his mouth to her. She was hot, a furnace of silken flesh. He licked a broad stripe, tasting her distinct, tangy flavor. She let out a soft sigh above. “Good. Now Sloane. Don’t let her get cold.”
He turned his head, his cheek brushing Izzy’s thigh as he moved to Sloane. Her taste was younger, lighter, but no less demanding. She ground down against his mouth immediately, a hungry little motion. “Use your fingers on Izzy,” Sloane whispered, her voice husky. “Make her feel good.”
Julian’s mind fragmented. He thrust two fingers into Izzy’s soaking cunt, feeling her clench around him, while his tongue circled Sloane’s clit. The noises were obscene—wet, sucking sounds, ragged breathing from above. The tablecloth trembled with their movements.
“Fuck, just like that,” Sloane moaned, her hands now gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
Izzy was quieter, but her breath came in sharp hitches. “Deeper,” she commanded, and Julian curled his fingers inside her, finding a spot that made her hips jerk. He worked them both, a frantic, clumsy rhythm, his own neglected cock aching against the constraint of his trousers.
The world shrank to taste and touch and sound. The clink of a wine glass being set down. The rustle of silk. Sloane’s escalating whimpers. Izzy’s low, approving hum.
“She’s close,” Izzy said, her voice strained. “Make her come. Then you’ll finish me.”
Julian focused all his attention on Sloane’s swollen clit, sucking it hard, flicking his tongue rapidly. He felt the tension coiling in her thighs. She let out a choked cry, her body seizing as she climaxed, her juices spilling over his chin. He kept licking, gentler now, through the shuddering waves.
“Enough,” Izzy said. “Now me.”
He turned back, his face dripping. Izzy’s cunt was flushed dark, utterly drenched. She guided his head with brutal precision. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
He licked and sucked, his fingers still pumping inside her. Her control began to fray. Her thighs tightened around his ears, muffling all sound. Her hips began to piston against his mouth, fucking his face with a desperate, driving rhythm. A low groan escaped her, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure.
“Yes… you filthy… fucking… slave…” she gritted out, each word a thrust. Her orgasm hit her silently, a violent tensing of her entire body, a flood of hot release against his tongue. He drank it down, obedient to the last drop.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing. Julian knelt, spent, his face a wet mess, his fingers slick.
A napkin fluttered down from above, landing on his head.
“Clean yourself up,” Izzy said, her voice regaining its composure, only slightly breathless. “Then return to your seat.”
He wiped his face with the soft linen, the smell of both women embedded in it. He crawled out, his knees protesting, and pulled himself into his chair. The candles had burned lower. The women were adjusting their dresses, their faces flushed, their hair slightly disordered. They looked radiant.
Izzy rang a small silver bell. The housekeeper entered, clearing the dessert plates, her eyes never leaving the tray she carried.
“That was lovely,” Izzy said, as if commenting on the tart. She looked at Julian, her emerald eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “You may be excused. We’ll have coffee in the drawing room, Sloane.”
Julian stood, his body feeling heavy and used. He couldn’t meet their eyes.
“Julian,” Sloane called softly as he reached the door. He turned. She gave him a slow, satisfied smile. “Good boy.”
He walked out into the dark hall, the taste of their mutual pleasure still coating his mouth, the ghost of their commands echoing in his skull. The collar was no longer just leather; it was a truth he wore, a fact of his bones. He climbed the stairs to his room, each step an effort, the memory of their combined scents rising from his skin like a confession.