Chapter 57: Unexpected Audience
The alley behind Camilla’s café smelled of damp brick and discarded coffee grounds. Paul leaned against the wall, the cold stone seeping through his suit jacket, and tried to steady his breathing. His tongue felt thick, coated with the distinct tang of her. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a useless gesture. The taste was inside him now, part of the day’s ledger.
He paid his bill on the way out, leaving a fifty-pound note under the sugar bowl with a trembling hand. Camilla caught his eye from behind the counter, gave a slight, imperceptible nod, and went back to polishing cups. Transaction complete.
The walk back to his chambers was a blur of grey pavement and faceless crowds. His body hummed with a dull, post-service quietude, the craving sated but replaced by a hollow fatigue. He worked late, annotating briefs until the cleaning staff’s vacuum cleaner echoed in the hallways. He ate a tasteless sandwich at his desk. He thought of Odette in Zurich, in some sleek hotel room, and wondered if she was thinking of him at all.
He texted Odette to tell her that Camilla had solved their problem. Her reply was instantaneous: Good. I’ll thank her when I get back.
It was the “I’ll thank her.” that lodged in his brain. His fiancé would personally thank a woman who had allowed him to pleasure her.
The next day passed in a similar haze of muted routine. Court, paperwork, polite conversation. The clock ticked towards evening with a relentless, mocking slowness. Odette was still in Zurich. Paul would need to find another pussy to lick, another hundred quid plus tip for Camilla? Somehow that felt mucky, once had been a game twice would feel like the transaction Camilla had balked at.
Odette had a suggestion. It arrived by text. Hey, go for a drink after work at the Tanner’s arms. she had provided no further detail.
The pub was busy, a mixed crowd of whoever was local to the pub for work or home. He ordered a pint, took it to a shadowed booth in the corner, and sank into the cracked leather. He was staring into the amber liquid, when he noticed he was attracting attention.
She had been loitering at the bar for a while, chatting. Punkish, early twenties, with a sharply angled bob in her straight black hair. A silver ring gleamed in her nose and one in her lip. She wore a ripped band t-shirt under a leather motorcycle jacket, and a short, pleated tartan skirt that ended high on her thighs. Her eyes, lined heavily with kohl, scanned the room and kept returning to him. Paul wondered nervously if, alone, he was being singled out, was this why Odette had sent him or was this something else? When she tapped a giant shaven headed man on the shoulder and they both started moving towards him he began to panic.
The man was a monolith. At least six foot five, his skull was a landscape of tattoos, his neck as thick as Paul’s thigh. He moved with a silent, dense power that parted the crowd without effort. The woman, all sharp angles and dark liner, slid into the booth opposite Paul with a grin, while the giant, Earl, simply stood beside the table, his arms crossed, saying nothing.
“Alright?” she said, her voice a friendly London rasp. “You’re Paul Ashworth, yeah? Don’t look so shocked, mate. I’m Davina. This is my boyfriend, Earl.”
Paul’s mouth had gone dry. He managed a nod, his eyes flicking between Davina’s animated face and Earl’s impassive, brutal mask. “I… yes. How do you…?”
“Know you?” Davina leaned forward, her leather jacket creaking. “Friend of a friend. Well, friend of a client. I do the piercing up at Siren’s Call. You know Clarissa, right? And Nadia?”
The names detonated in Paul’s chest. Clarissa, the dominatrix. Nadia, Clarissa’s friend, just as sadistic but without the structure. His secret world was bleeding into this pub, coagulating here in the shadow of this silent giant.
“I’ve… met them,” he whispered.
Davina’s grin widened. “Yeah, I bet you have. Nadia’s got a big mouth when she’s had a few gins. Told me all about this fit, posh barrister she knows. Said you’ve got a magic tongue and a really, really niche dating profile, she showed me a photo, rang a bell when I saw you sitting here alone.” She chuckled, a low, smoky sound. “She told me you’re giving out free meals.”
Paul’s pulse hammered in his throat. He glanced at Earl, who hadn’t moved a muscle, his dark eyes fixed on a point somewhere past Paul’s head. The threat was entirely passive, and therefore absolute.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Paul said, the lie weak even to his own ears.
“Course you do.” Davina’s tone was conspiratorial, as if sharing a joke. She winked. “Look, it’s simple. I’ve had a shit day. Earl here’s not much of a talker, but he’s a good listener. And I heard you’re the sort of gentleman who helps a girl unwind. No strings. Just… service.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, she hitched herself forward on the seat and spread her knees under the table. The short tartan skirt rode up her thighs, revealing she wore nothing underneath. Her pussy was neatly trimmed, her lips dusky and already glistening under the pub’s low light.
“See?” she said, her voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I’m all ready for you. Now, are you gonna eat my cunt like a good boy, or do I have to get Earl to ask you instead?”
Paul’s breath caught. The public nature of it, the risk, the immense, silent overseer—it twisted his fear into a sharp, debilitating arousal. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good.” Davina shuffled further forward until she was on the very edge of the seat. “Get under the table.”
He glanced up at Earl’s looming, denim-clad legs standing sentry. “Won’t your boyfriend mind?” he whispered, the question absurd even as it left his lips.
Davina chuckled above him, a rich, throaty sound. “Look again, counsellor. Closer.”
She spread her knees wider, hooking her feet over the edge of the seat to give him an unobstructed view. Nestled in her dark pubic hair, the swollen lips of her cunt glistened. And there, piercing the tight hood of her clitoris, was a small steel ring. From it dangled a serious-looking little key.
“See that?” Davina said, her voice a low murmur meant only for the space under the table. “That’s for his cage. He gets to watch. I get to fuck who I like. His little cock stays locked away in a tiny steel cage until I say otherwise. Now, are you going to talk, or are you going to lick?”
The explanation bypassed his brain and went straight to his groin, a hot wire of understanding. He didn’t hesitate again.
Paul’s mind fragmented into two distinct realities. Above the table was the pub’s hum, the clink of glasses, the woollen brush of someone’s coat against the booth. Below was another world, dark and dense with the scent of stale beer, old sawdust, and now, Davina. He slid off the seat and onto the grimy floor, the knees of his suit trousers pressing into sticky, damp floorboards. He buried his face in her.
Her pussy was a furnace of potent, unwashed arousal. The smell hit him first, a strong, musky tang of a day spent wet and exposed to the air. The flavour was immediate and complex—sour, deeply organic, a sludgy, potent discharge that coated his tongue.
“That’s it,” Davina sighed above him, one hand descending to clutch at his hair. Her fingers knotted in his strands, not guiding, but possessing. “Get your nose in there, you posh cunt. Taste it all.”
He obeyed, driving his tongue flat against her opening, lapping up the accumulated wetness. He flicked the steel ring with the tip of his tongue, and she twitched, a sharp gasp escaping her. He focused there, sucking her engorged clit into his mouth, the metal ring a cold, hard surprise against his lips.
“Fuck yes,” she hissed, her hips beginning a slow, grinding roll against his face. “Suck it. That’s your job, isn’t it? To be a hungry little pussy-licker for any girl who wants a turn.”
Her words were filthy, deliberate. They stripped him of his title, his suit, his entire identity above the floor. Here, he was just a mouth. He redoubled his efforts, spearing his tongue inside her, fucking her with it. The thick, slippery texture of her internal arousal was overwhelming.
Davina moaned, a low, guttural sound lost in the pub’s noise. She smushed his face deeper into her dark labial flesh, grinding her pubic bone against his nose. “Deeper, you fucking slut. Drink it. Clean me up.”
He couldn’t breathe, and the lack of air fused with the intensity of the act into a single, blinding need. He gagged slightly, then swallowed, taking her essence down his throat. His own cock was a rigid, throbbing ache trapped in his trousers, entirely ignored, entirely irrelevant.
Her breaths became ragged pants. Her thighs began to tremble against his ears. “You’re gonna make me come, you posh prick. Right here, everyone knows what I’m doing to you.”
She was close. He could feel it in the clenching of her muscles, in the sharp, rhythmic pulses of her flesh around his tongue. He slurped and sucked, a obscene, wet noise that was loud in the intimate darkness under the table. The key dangling from her clit brushed against his nose with every motion.
Her orgasm hit silently, a tense, shuddering contraction that locked her body for a long moment. Then a hot, bitter gush flooded his mouth, more than he could swallow. It dripped from the corners of his lips, down his chin.
He pulled back, gasping for air, ropes of her slick fluid connecting his mouth to her glistening cunt. The smell, that potent, sour intimacy, filled his nostrils.
Above the table, Davina exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. She didn’t let go of his hair. Her grip tightened, pulling his head back up, forcing him to nuzzle against her damp, swollen lips. She held him there, his nose buried in her coarse curls, his mouth sealed against her flesh.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she murmured, her voice thick and lazy. “Just stay right there, kiss it. Keep it warm.”
He did, mindlessly planting soft, sucking kisses on her labia, tasting the sharp remnants of her climax. The metallic key tapped his cheekbone.
“Mmm. Good boy.” She shifted slightly, her thighs squeezing his head in a casual, possessive hold. “You know, Earl here gets out of his cage once every six weeks, if he’s been real good. Clarissa does it. She whips his backside raw first, gets him all worked up and hurting. Then she straps on a fat rubber glove, lubes it up, and milks his prostate ’til he spurts.”
Paul blinked in the dark space, his mind trying to process the image alongside the taste in his mouth.
“He cums,” Davina continued, her fingers idly playing with his ear. “But he doesn’t get to come, you know? No orgasm. Just a pathetic little dribble, all tense and sad. Then she puts him back in a cage. A slightly smaller one each time. Tightens the world around his pathetic little dick. He’d give anything to be where you are right now, to have a big solid erection like you’ve got.”
She chuckled, a sound that vibrated through her body and into his face. “Now stay put. You’re going to make me cum again in a minute. My clit’s still throbbing from your posh tongue.” She sighed, a mock-regretful sound. “It’s only a shame that you’re not allowed to fuck me. I mean, you clearly want to. I can feel your hard-on from here. I’d like that. I’d like for Earl to have to stand there and watch you split me open with a proper, uncaged cock. Watch his girlfriend get properly stuffed by a gentleman.”
The fantasy she painted, layered over the reality of his subjugation, sent a violent, confused thrill through him. He moaned against her, the sound muffled by her flesh.
“But rules are rules,” she said, and her tone shifted from dreamy to commanding. “Now, get back to work. Lick. I want another one, and I want it messy.”
She dragged his face down by his hair, grinding her pussy against him with a renewed, deliberate aggression. He opened his mouth, and she pushed his tongue inside her with a hand on the back of his head. The flavour was sharper now, more concentrated.
He licked and sucked, his jaw aching, his world reduced to the dark, musky universe between her legs. The sounds were obscenely wet, slurping and squelching. He could hear the distant, indifferent murmur of the pub, a pint glass being set down somewhere, laughter.
He focused on the steel ring, flicking it with a frantic rhythm, and then sucking her engorged clitoral hood hard into his mouth.
“Yes! Right there, you… fuck… right there!” Her whisper was a harsh, urgent rasp.
Her hips began to buck against his face in short, sharp jerks. Her thighs clamped like a vice, cutting off all sound except the pounding of his own blood in his ears. She stifled her cry, a strangled, guttural choke that became a series of sharp, panting gasps. Her cunt convulsed around his probing tongue, and another, hotter surge of liquid flooded his mouth.
This one was thinner, more acidic. He swallowed reflexively, his throat working.
She held him there, trembling, for a long moment, then her grip on his hair finally slackened. She pushed his head away, not gently.
Paul collapsed back onto his heels, breathing in ragged gulps of the stale under-table air. His face was drenched, his chin slick, his tie damp and stained.
Above him, Davina adjusted her skirt with a few brisk tugs. He heard the rustle of her clothing, a moment later, her face appeared at the edge of the table, looking down at him. She was flushed, her lipstick smudged, her kohl-rimmed eyes bright with cruel amusement.
“Cheers for that, counsel,” she said, her voice perfectly normal again. “You’re as good as advertised. Twice in a row, Earl hasn’t made me cum for years, useless poof.”
She slid out of the booth. He saw the back of Earl’s leather jacket as he turned, following her without a word or a backward glance. They disappeared into the pub crowd, two figures merging back into the city’s anonymous night.
Paul stayed under the table, knees pressed into the grimy floor, for another full minute. His body thrummed with a spent, hollow energy. The need was met, but this encounter felt different. It wasn’t a transaction like Camilla’s, or a controlled scene like Clarissa’s. This was something feral, a glimpse into a hierarchy where he was merely a convenient tool in someone else’s intricate, punishing dynamic.
He finally crawled out, his suit a wreck. He avoided looking at anyone, shouldering his way to the gents. In the flickering fluorescent light, he confronted the mirror. A stranger stared back—hair matted and wild, face shiny with saliva and other fluids, a dark wet patch on his expensive tie.
He turned on the tap, cupped cold water in his hands, and scrubbed roughly at his mouth and chin. He worked mechanically, rinsing and spitting, trying to purge the potent, lingering taste of her. It clung to the back of his throat, a sour ghost. He straightened his tie, a futile gesture; the silk was stained, damp, a ruined flag of his disgrace.
The pub’s main room felt louder, brighter, a jarring assault after the muffled darkness under the table. He kept his head down, aiming for the door and the cold clarity of the street. He needed air, and silence, and the walk home to reassemble the pieces of Paul Ashworth, Barrister. He was almost there, hand reaching for the brass handle, when a soft, insistent pressure stopped him. A palm, warm and firm, settled against his sternum.
“Steady on, love. Not so fast.”
He looked up. The woman was perhaps fifty, maybe older. Her face was pretty in a cheerful, weathered way, framed by a cloud of bottle-blonde curls. She was quite chubby, comfortably packed into a low-cut floral top that displayed her large, wobbly breasts like a deliberate balcony. Her smile was wide and knowing, utterly without malice. Something about her soft, pillowy physique reminded him, absurdly, of a warm bread roll.
She pushed him, not roughly but with a firm, undeniable insistence, back through the door he’d just come from. Back into the gents. He was too stunned, too culturally programmed not to manhandle an older woman, to resist. “What…?” was all he managed.
“Shush,” she said, her voice a friendly, smoky London croon. She guided him past the urinals to the single stall at the end, clicking the lock shut behind them. The space was cramped, reeking of industrial bleach and piss. “Davina’s told me the rules, and I’m asking.”
Paul blinked. The network was real, it was signalling, it was summoning reinforcements. He felt caught in a silent, spreading web.
With a practical grunt, she hitched up her denim skirt, pulled down her patterned cotton knickers, and sat on the closed toilet seat. She leaned back against the cistern, lifting and parting her plump thighs with an ease that spoke of uncomplicated comfort in her own body. Her pussy was a neat, pink surprise nestled within the generous, soft underparts of her stomach and thighs, a little hot flower surrounded by pads of smooth, yielding fat.
“Go on then!” she urged with that same cheeky smile, as if offering him a biscuit. “You know what we’re here for. Don’t make a lady ask twice.”
He removed his ruined tie, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. Then he knelt on the cold, damp tiles. The position was a grimly familiar prayer. He buried his face into the warm, expansive softness of her.
Her scent was different, deeper, a musky, maternal aroma of talcum powder and clean, heated skin. Her outer lips were fuller, softer. He opened her with his thumbs, revealing the glistening inner flesh, already slick with an anticipation that wasn’t for him, but for the act itself. He pressed his mouth to her.
Her taste was milder, sweeter than Davina’s, but just as real. He swirled his tongue, finding her clit, a small, hard bud nestled within its hood. She let out a contented sigh, her hands coming to rest on his head not to guide, but to pat him gently, as one might pat a diligent dog.
“That’s it, love,” she murmured, her body relaxing further into the plastic seat. “Just like that. Lovely.”
He worked efficiently, adeptly, the rhythm ingrained in his muscles. He licked broad, firm strokes, then focused on delicate, persistent flicks. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, and felt her inner walls clutch with a steady, building pressure. She was not loud. Her breath hitched, her plump thighs tensed around his ears, and she came with a series of soft, shuddering quakes, a warm pulse against his probing tongue.
He drew back, his face damp with her. The woman sighed, a long, satisfied sound. She pulled her knickers up, stood, and smoothed her skirt. She looked down at him, still kneeling, and patted his cheek. “You’re a good lad. Tidy.” She unlocked the stall door and left, humming softly to herself.
Paul got to his feet, his knees aching. He had done what was required. The pact was upheld, twice over in one night. He pushed open the door back to the pub.
A woman was leaning against the wall opposite the gents, arms crossed. She was younger, stern-faced, with sharp black glasses and hair pulled into a severe bun. She looked like a librarian or an accountant. She uncrossed her arms and pointed a single, commanding finger back towards the toilet door.
“My turn,” she said with an acerbic smile.