Chapter 7: The Feast Multiplies
The bourbon was gone, the glasses leaving wet rings on the marble like planets in a tiny, forgotten system. The room felt different now. The air wasn’t just thick with sex; it was layered with it, a geology of sweat and salt and surrender. Jen lay curled on her side on the table, one hand resting on Stacy’s hip. Dylan had pulled a chair close, sitting slumped with his fingers loosely threaded through Jen’s. A quiet understanding passed between them, a communication deeper than the bruises rising on their skin.
Pete stood at the window, looking out at the blackness, his powerful frame a silhouette against the faint reflection of the room. He sipped water, his mind clearly working.
“Joey’s gonna be pissed he missed the warm-up,” he said, not turning around.
Stacy laughed, a low, hoarse sound. “His loss.” She stretched, a long, cat-like movement that made her breasts shift. “I feel hollowed out.”
“Good,” Pete said, finally facing them. The strategist was back. The momentary softness was gone, replaced by that focused intensity. “But you’re not done. And neither is she.” He nodded at Jen.
Jen’s eyes fluttered open. A slow, hungry smile touched her lips.
A key turned in the studio’s outer door. Moments later, Joey stepped into the lounge, his face a picture of eager apology. He was a bear of a man, with a silvered beard and eyes that always seemed on the verge of laughter. “Traffic was a bastard on the bridge, I swear to god. Did I— oh.”
He stopped short, taking in the scene: the discarded towels, the two naked women on the table, the charged stillness. His nostrils flared, catching the scent. His easygoing smile widened into something decidedly more greedy. “Well, shit. You didn’t wait for me.”
“We started without you,” Pete said, walking over to clap him on the shoulder. “But the main event’s still on the table. You’re just in time for the feeding.”
Joey’s gaze traveled from Stacy’s languid form to Jen’s watchful eyes. “Christ, Pete. You’ve been busy.”
“She has,” Pete corrected, pointing a thumb at Jen. “She’s been a very good student. Aren’t you, Jen?”
Jen pushed herself up on one elbow. “I’m learning,” she said, her voice still rough.
“He wants to see you suck a cock, Good Girl,” Pete said to Stacy, his hand moving to cup the back of her head. “A proper, messy, deep-throat fuck of a blowjob. You up for it?”
Stacy’s blue eyes found Joey’s. A spark lit in them, the pleasure of performance, of being the absolute center of a man’s desire. “Always.”
Pete turned to Joey. “Knees. Middle of the room. Let her work.”
With a grunt of anticipation, Joey shucked his jacket and shirt, fumbling with his belt. He wasn’t shy; he was enthusiastic, his cock already half-hard as he freed it. He sank to his knees on the plush rug, his body a pillar of solid muscle and anticipation.
Pete guided Stacy off the table. She moved with a practiced sway, sinking down in front of Joey until she was on her own knees, a queen before a worshipper. She didn’t hesitate. She took his thickening length in her hand, gave it a firm, slow stroke, and then leaned forward, her lips parting.
“Look at that,” Pete murmured to Dylan and Jen. “Watch how she takes it. No tease. She knows what she’s there for.”
Stacy enveloped Joey’s cock head, her tongue swirling around the crown before she plunged down, taking half his shaft in one smooth, wet slide. Joey groaned, his head falling back. “Fuck, Stacy. Yes.”
Pete watched for a moment, a connoisseur. Then he turned to Jen. “You see where she is? You see how focused she is? That’s where you belong right now. Not on some cock. On her.”
He helped Jen off the table, positioning her behind Stacy. “On your hands and knees. Get your face right in there. While she’s feeding on him, you feed on her. You taste what she tastes. You feel her get wet for it.”
Jen’s breath hitched. She got into position, her ass in the air, her face hovering just inches from Stacy’s spread folds, which were already glistening anew. The proximity to Joey’s thrusting hips, the sound of Stacy’s gagging swallows, was overpowering.
“Dylan,” Pete said, his voice a command. “You know where to be. Fuck your wife. Let her feel it while she eats.”
Dylan was already moving, his renewed erection a blunt, urgent fact. He positioned himself behind Jen, his hands gripping her hips. He caught Pete’s eye, and Pete gave a single, sharp nod.
It was the permission, the orchestration, that undid him. He pushed into Jen with a single, deep stroke that made her cry out, the sound muffled against Stacy’s skin.
“Now, Jen,” Pete growled. “Lick. Make her squirm.”
Jen’s tongue lashed out, a flat, desperate stroke along Stacy’s slit. Stacy jolted, a muffled squeal escaping around Joey’s cock. The vibration made Joey curse, his hands tangling in Stacy’s hair, his hips beginning a shallow, involuntary pump.
“Double-fed,” Pete whispered, circling them, his own pants now painfully tight. “Look at my Good Girl. Cunt full of tongue, throat full of cock. She’s in heaven.”
Jen was relentless, her tongue plunging into Stacy’s opening, then circling her clit with frantic speed. Each of Dylan’s thrusts jarred her forward, mashing her face deeper, making her work harder. She was drunk on the taste, a mix of Stacy’s unique musk and the faint, salty pre-come leaking from Joey that she could smell on the air.
Stacy was losing her rhythm on Joey’s cock, her perfect deep-throating interrupted by sharp gasps and shudders as Jen’s tongue found a particularly sensitive spot. Spit was dripping down her chin, down onto Jen’s forehead. Joey, sensing her distraction, took control. He fisted her hair tighter and began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his balls slapping against her chin with wet, rhythmic smacks.
“That’s it,” Pete urged, his voice raw. “Use her throat, Joey. She loves it. She wants to choke on it. And you, Jen… make her come. Make her come while she’s gagging.”
The command ignited them. Joey’s thrusts became brutal, pounding strokes. Stacy’s eyes streamed tears, her nose pressed into his pubic hair. Her body was a bowstring pulled tight, trembling from both ends.
Jen felt the change, the tightening flutter under her tongue. She focused everything on Stacy’s clit, sucking it, flicking it fast and hard.
Stacy’s orgasm hit like a seizure. A raw, guttural scream was trapped around the cock in her throat, becoming a choked, buzzing vibration that made Joey shout. Her back arched violently, her cunt clenched around nothing, and a fresh gush of wetness coated Jen’s chin and mouth.
The sensation of Stacy coming, the sound of Joey’s ragged roar as he felt it, was the final trigger for Jen. Her own climax ripped through her, a silent, breathless convulsion that clamped down on Dylan so fiercely he saw stars. He hammered into her through it, his release erupting in hot, pulsing waves that felt ripped from his core.
Joey followed, shouting Stacy’s name. He held her head down, grinding into her throat as he came, his body rigid with pleasure. Stacy swallowed desperately, her throat working, taking every last drop.
The collapse was gradual. Joey slid from Stacy’s mouth with a wet pop. She slumped forward, coughing, spit and come trailing from her lips. Jen collapsed under her, face still buried in Stacy’s thighs. Dylan pulled out and stumbled back, bracing himself against the wall, his chest heaving.
Pete walked into the center of the wreckage. He looked at Joey, spent and grinning stupidly on his knees. He looked at Stacy, wrecked and beautiful, drawing ragged breaths. He looked at Jen, her face a glistening, used map of their desire. Finally, he looked at Dylan, who met his gaze with a kind of shattered reverence.
Pete reached down, running his thumb through the mess on Stacy’s chin, then did the same through the wetness on Jen’s face. He examined his glistening fingers.
“Perfect,” he said, the word final and complete. He turned and walked back to the bar, the quiet click of a fresh glass being set down the only sound in the room.