“Don't I get any wine, sir,” I ask.
Mia, kneeling beside the Chairman, gasps audibly, apparently shocked at my
temerity. The Chairman seems to growl.
“No, my girl, no alcohol for you from now on!” Sir tells me sternly. Then, turning
to the other two men, he says: “She's hardly received any training yet.”
“Neither has Five-fifty-four, but she knows better than that,” the Chairman says
gruffly, glancing at Mia. “She’d be taking her shorthand standing up for a week. A
five-blade will correct it.”
The men laugh heartily together again. I am nonplussed and angry. They share a
whole range of in-jokes that are incomprehensible to me. Mia has paled though, and her
bottom wriggles uncomfortably on her heels.
“May Lana dance for you, Masters?” I look up and see an astonishingly beautiful
young woman. This girl too wears just a single scrap of silk, draped high on her thigh to
reveal the red kef tattoo.
“Aye, lassy. Remove your camisk.”
“Yes, Master.” The girl pulls off her silk and drops it to the floor as she steps
onto the dais. She has a simply incredible body and begins to dance slowly, sensuously,
swaying her hips, suggestively stroking her fingers up and down her writhing torso.
Cripes, I call that bang sexy! She licks her lips sensuously as the fingers of her right
hand caress her thrusting pink nipples, teasing them to even stronger prominence, while
her left hand traces over the brand on her thigh and even flutters over her pussy which is
completely shorn except for a patch of trimmed hair the size of a postage stamp at the
apex of her slit. I am utterly enthralled by the unashamed sensuality of it all. Could I
ever dance like that?
When the food arrives, it is brought by three more scantily-clad young women who
approach in a line, as if in a coffle, walking in step, sure and even, each with a platter
of food held high. The girls' every movement seems to announce their pure joy at being
allowed to serve the men. Their breasts bounce in synchrony as they stride purposefully
towards the alcove. When they arrive at the table, they float to their knees, each
before one of the men, thighs falling widely apart, backs ramrod straight, breasts lifted
to the men, proffering their platters on outstretched arms, much as the previous girl had
served the wine. As each girl finishes her serve, she presses a kiss to the floor, rises,
crosses her hands above her heart, and whispers something like, “Thank you Master for
allowing this girl the pleasure of serving you. She hopes you find the meal pleasing.”
It’s degrading, I call it! These slutty serving girls ignore me and Mia, of course. It is
as though we are not present. The men eat their meals with gusto, and the girl on the
dais continues to writhe in her fantastically seductive dance. The naked waitress returns
to the alcove, and the Chairman points meaningfully to his lap. To my utter amazement,
she immediately sinks to her knees and crawls on all fours under the table, giving me a
very full view of her bottom and the plump purse of her sex. From my kneeling position, I
can see that the girl is freeing the Chairman's cock from his trousers. Wow! Jack took
me to some pretty wild places in my time, but this place is really cool.
“Carl!” the Chairman snaps. “Get under, and get to work.”
Carl smiles and gives me one last wink as he also crawls under the table. From my
position on the floor, I can see the waitress licking the Chairman's cock until it becomes
erect, and then she takes it into her mouth. My own mouth is hanging open so widely, it
must look as though I'm ready to take a cock too. Then, though, Carl grasps the girl's
hair and pulls her head back, and she grins to him, holding the penis and feeding it into
his mouth. Carl begins to suck the cock with gusto, enthusiastically assisted by the
naked waitress, who licks at the Chairman's balls. I am no mean cock-sucker myself, but
have only performed in public a few times, and then when decidedly drunk or stoned. I
glance in astonishment to Mia, knowing that she also has an obstructed view, but she looks
away angrily. I realise with some surprise that little Miss Five-fifty-four is jealous.
The Chairman continues to nonchalantly eat his meal as the chauffeur sucks his
cock. This goes on for some time, and neither Sir nor Bob Boring comment about it, and
they carry on talking as if nothing is happening. From my vantage point, I see Carl
introduce his hand between the thighs of the naked woman, who wriggles her bottom to
accept it, and Carl secretly frigs her off as they both continue to work at the Chairman's
cock and balls.
I am busy watching all this when Sir presses a piece of meat to my lips. Despite
myself, almost without thinking actually, I lean forward and take the morsel between my
teeth. The meat is delicious, and I realise how hungry I am. Sir continues to feed me by
hand from his plate, and I find myself avidly waiting for the next titbit, craning my neck
forward and opening my mouth in anticipation, like an eager spaniel. At the end of his
meal, Sir presents his greasy hand to my lips and I willingly take the fingers deeply into
my mouth. As I suck the fingers clean, I note with some perverse satisfaction that the
Chairman has hardly fed Mia anything at all.
Presently, the naked dancer is dismissed, and the cock-sucking chauffeur and
waitress emerge from beneath the Chairman's table. Carl wipes his mouth on the table
cloth and winks cheekily at me. Lunch is concluded. In the cloak room, Sir Andrew
retrieves his coat from the girl they call Five-Forty-two, whilst Gaffa, the huge black
man, unties my wrists. My lovely Jimmy Choos are retrieved from the pile of shoes behind
the counter and, exciting though it might have been, I am glad to turn my back on the
Gorean Club forever. Sir escorts me back to the office, chatting amiably, for the whole
world as if we have dined in an ordinary restaurant. Can you believe that? Well, it's
true.
“Where have you been?” Sura, the head of Sir's private team demands when I
eventually return to my desk. Although I haven't worked here for very long, I already
hate this bitch with a vengeance.
“I've been to lunch with Sir, of course. Is that all right with you?”
“There is a particularly urgent and important report that must be finished before
close of business,” Sura says with a glare, placing a bulging file on my desk. “Make sure
it gets done.”
Sura is some years older than the rest of Sir's special team, perhaps in her
early-forties, but she is undeniably beautiful and always like, well, so immaculately
groomed. You know? She takes really special care of every teensy detail of her
appearance. She is always haughty and aloof, as if a cut above the rest of us, and enjoys
particularly privileged access to Sir Andrew. The other girls seem to be very wary of
Sura, and I even heard Katrina address her as 'mistress'. You'll catch me doing that, I
don't think! I see no particular reason why I should defer to the bitch, thank you very
much.
“I think you'll find that Sir is well happy with my services,” I say sweetly,
reaching for the folder.
“He's 'well happy',” Sura repeats, half in wonder and half in distaste that such a
phrase could emerge from the mouth of a young graduate like me. I smile innocently and
wink. I like to subtly emphasise the age gap between us, see.
It is a busy afternoon. I have to analyse some pretty complex data which, as it
pans out, doesn't look too good for the company. It's interesting work that stretches my
mind, yet I can't rid my head of the strange and erotic events at the Gorean Club that
lunch time. Only later do I realise that the fussy little Club receptionist still holds my
damned passport. I sigh. There's nothing else for it, I'll have to return to collect it
as soon as possible.
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