Feast on Me

Feast
ON ME

An Erotic Short
Story

by

Terri
George

“
The
submission of a meek and timid woman

isn’t that much
of a prize.

But the
submission of a strong woman?

Now that’s a
gift.

Something to be
treasured.”

Feast on Me

by Terri George

This work is copyright. Apart from any
use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part maybe
reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
written permission of the publisher.

The author asserts that all characters
depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or
older, and that all characters and situations are entirely
imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual
happening.

Copyright © Terri George 2015. The
right of Terri George to be identified as the author of this book
has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the
Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright Amendment
(Moral Rights) Act 2000.

Prologue

The blue silk robe slid down my
arms and he took it from me. I eased my body into a comfortable
position, arms by my side, legs parted, and relaxed against the
smoothness of the wooden table beneath me. My head rested on a
small soft pillow.

I’d spent the day being
pampered at the most exclusive salon, my entire body cleansed and
buffed in preparation. Muscles were eased under the expert hands of
the masseuse. As I’d been instructed, my nails, fingers and toes,
manicured and painted scarlet. A bit of a cliché and a departure
from the French manicure I usually favor.

I’d been waxed the day before,
allowing for the required twenty-four hours before indulging in any
kind of... activity. So now I laid pristine. Naked. My lightly
tanned skin glistened in the warm glow of the overhead lights;
dimmed sufficiently to shroud the corners of the room in
semi-darkness.

I closed my eyes as he secured
the blindfold in place, lowered my head back onto the pillow, and
sighed.

Two settings of china, glasses
and flatware made little chinking sounds as he laid them on the
table. My senses were already heightened. That and the slight
disturbance in the air told me they were being placed either side
of my hips. So the diners would be seated close to my pussy.

A tiny shiver rippled through
me, but not because I was cold. The room was warm enough.
Anticipation caused the slight tremor in my breathing.

Anticipation
... The most erotic word
in the English language.

Expectation bloomed with the
impatience of a child on Christmas Eve, of what lay ahead and the
bodily pleasures I would experience tonight.

He’d prepared a plate of fresh
fruit earlier, along with their appetizer and entree, which sat
ready on the credenza with the San Pellegrino.

Slivers of fleshy papaya and
succulent cantaloupe melon slid wetly on my skin. Rivulets of
juiciness ran down my thighs and abdomen into little syrupy
pools.

Pineapple rings were positioned
with care on my breasts. The hole in the center fit perfectly
around each nipple, already peaked. Two tell-tale signs of my
desirous state.

My pulse quickened as something
brushed against my inner thigh. Fingers and thumb parted my outer
lips and opened me to receive the soft plumpness he gently
inserted. That must be the strawberry.

Air trapped inside the plastic
bottle made a small ‘pffft’ sound as the chocolate sauce was
generously squirted over my body in an abandoned, gooey zigzag.

All that chocolate. Too sweet,
too sticky?

No. It wasn’t just women who
had a partiality for cocoa. They too had a sweet tooth, and two
tongues with which to lick me clean.

I am not the appetizer, or even
the entree.

I am the course they most
anticipate.

I am, Dessert.

Chapter
One

When I entered the gallery late
Saturday afternoon I had no expectations, other than spending a
couple of hours looking at art. An exhibition of erotica: black and
white photographs that ranged from the tastefully sensual to
explicit.

The serene expression I
maintained as I moved around gave nothing away; the wetness between
my legs a secret, hidden testimony to my arousal; my nipples that
poked unhindered against the fabric of my dress, a more public
proof.

I stood contemplating one
particular photo. The camera couldn’t have been more than two feet
away. The female subject was waxed, and there was a small tattoo at
the apex of her inner thigh, right in that little hollow. It looked
like an inverted number four − the way you would write it (a
downwards slash cutting through the base of a capital L) not how a
computer types it. It was a striking image.

“
Chikara.”
His softly spoken word startled me, and I turned. “It means power.
And that is where the power lies.” His smile was one of veneration.
“Between a woman’s thighs.”

He turned his gaze to me. The
dangerous glint in his green eyes burned through my retinas,
triggering impulses to pass through the optic nerves and imprint a
visual on my mind’s eye; an image of bodies slick with sweat.

“
My favorite
place to be... I’m David. Shall we go?”

He was disarmingly handsome:
unruly dark hair slightly at odds with the immaculate chalk stripe
navy suit, crisp white shirt and gray silk tie, but still. The
audacity of his assumption that I would go anywhere with him, a
complete stranger, stunned me into silence; synapses misfiring,
rendering me incapable of speech.

He put his palms together as if
in prayer, his brows creasing a little as he rested his chin on his
fingertips.

My senses recovered
sufficiently and my brain registered his strong hands. Take charge
hands. I liked that in a man.

“
Oh, I’ve
shocked you. I just meant grab a drink. There’s a little bar I
know. You do drink..?” He waited for me to offer my
name.

“
Jessica.”

“
Jess-i-ca.”
He looked into the middle distance as he repeated my name slowly;
almost as if to consider how the forming of it felt on his tongue.
“Lovely.” His gaze reconnected with mine. “And do you, Jessica?
Drink?”

“
Yes.”

“
Then shall
we?” He held out his hand to me, and I took it.

It was still early, the dimly
lit bar all but empty. We sat in a booth in the corner. There’d
been flirting and touching. The ice tinkled against the glass as I
swirled a finger in my vodka. I held his gaze as I slipped my
finger in my mouth and sucked.

He whispered his palm up my
inner thigh. A small groan of appreciation passed his lips as I
opened my legs a little wider. He leaned in, his mouth close to my
ear. “Go to the ladies’ room.”

I slid along the banquette,
smoothing down my dress as I got to my feet. I walked to the
ladies’ restroom without a backward glance. I knew he’d follow.

He pushed into the stall, slid
the bolt in the lock and maneuvered our bodies so he had me pressed
up against the door. My pussy spasmed in anticipation as he trailed
his fingers down my cleavage and teased at the V neckline of my
wraparound dress, pulling it apart. His hot breath rushed over my
bare breasts as he flicked each hard nipple with his tongue. One
firm tug had my belt undone and my dress fell open, leaving me, for
all intents and purposes, naked.

I trembled as he ran his middle
finger up my slit.

“
No panties,”
he tsked. “I knew you were a slut when I saw how turned on you were
at the exhibition. I could smell your arousal. And you know what
happens to sluts like you.”

Raw sexual heat poured off him.
My nerves fizzed and sparked as my clit throbbed out a rhythm in
time with my rapid pulse.

“
What?”

He unzipped
his fly and took out his dick. It was hard and thick. Pre-cum oozed
from the tip. “They get fucked.
Hard
.”

He scooped me up, held me
against the door and slammed in. I wrapped my legs tighter around
his hips. The heels of my knee-high boots scraped against his ass
with every deep thrust.

“
This is for
me. You won’t come. Sluts like you don’t deserve to
come.”

The bolt on the door rattled
against the latch as he powered into me. He grunted with every
forceful thrust, digging his fingers into my ass. He came
ferociously with a snarl.

The moment he was done he
pulled out, tucked himself away and zipped up his fly. He squeezed
me out of the way, unbolted the door and was gone.

I heard my husband moving
around the kitchen as I closed the front door to our apartment.
Having made my way down the hall, I stood at the doorway admiring
his ass as he bent down to take a bottle of wine from the lowest
rack.

Worn jeans hung low on his hips
while his white T-shirt clung to his muscular torso. He was fresh
from the shower, his dark hair a roughly dried mess.

We’d been together five years
and yet I still marveled at how much younger he looked in casual
clothes and freshly shaved; almost boyish even though he was well
into his thirties.

He sensed me watching and
turned. “Hey, babe.” His warm smile reached up to green eyes that
shone with love. “I ordered in. Chinese okay?”

“
Sure.” I
smiled back. “I’m just going to take a quick shower.”

“
Where shall
we eat? Kitchen table or laps in front of the TV?”

“
Laps,” I
replied over my shoulder as I headed down the hall to our bedroom;
the unrelieved ache persisting between my thighs.

He’d ordered too much food, as
usual. Once the leftovers were stashed in the fridge and the empty
wine bottle deposited in the recycling bin, David returned to the
couch and pressed the button to play the DVD. The remote tossed on
the floor, he stretched out his legs on the coffee table and
crossed his bare feet.

He wrapped an arm around my
shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to my temple. “I love you,” he
whispered, pulling me in close.

I snuggled into his side;
David’s affection soothing after his earlier harsh supremacy. “I
love you, too.”

After rough play scenes, David
always felt the need to reinforce our relationship as husband and
wife, not just Dom and sub. That night he took his time; every
caress and lick a benediction. I writhed and moaned under the sweet
torment as he brought me to the brink again and again. Tears
tumbled down my cheeks as I begged him to let me come. Finally he
let me fall; his love a soft murmur as he shuddered in climax.

***

Sex with previous boyfriends
had been fine, great even, but there was always something lacking;
for me anyway. Sure, some of them liked it a little rough, taking
me from behind, but then, who didn’t love it doggie style? But I
needed more. I wanted my hair pulled, my ass spanked. I wanted them
to call me a slut as they took me.

Then I met David. And I knew he
was different.

Yes, he was charming and
attentive. We made each other laugh. Yet there was more; a primal
undercurrent to our mutual attraction.

The first time we had sex,
David grabbed my wrists and pinned my arms to the mattress high
above my head. I remember sighing as my body surrendered under his
strong hold.

At
last
.

I recall how intense his gaze
was as he looked down at me, cock fully immersed.

He moved inside me, and smiled.
“Oh, you and I are going to have such fun.”

We still did all these years
later.

David brought me to the deep
understanding of my desire to submit. That it was a natural,
fundamental trait within me and something to be reveled in. As was
his need to dominate and control.

We didn’t broadcast this side
of our relationship, didn’t belong to any clubs. We felt no need to
partake in public scenes. Our sex life belonged to us: private and
to be cherished.

There would always be those too
closed-minded to understand. My job was all about damage control; I
spun other people’s public humiliations. I knew how reputations
could be trashed by gossip and had no wish to be the target of
malicious tittle-tattle.