It was a good party. The guests were happy. Alcohol was flowing; people were laughing louder, leaning closer, letting slip the kinds of words they’d normally think twice about. The Girl was rosy-cheeked, gesturing with a wine glass as she chuckled her way through a story; Lawson, nursing his own wine glass, formed her perfectly attentive audience of one. His wife had sat beside him for a while, turning that intimately rapt attention on the Girl as well – but for now, she was in the kitchen. Fussing with the entrees. Fussing with her *makeup*. Shedding (just so the cuffs didn’t trail through anything, of course) her long-sleeved camisole.
The Girl had dressed casually, suiting the dress code they’d told her to expect: slacks and a black spaghetti-strap tank top, tight on her luscious body, neckline showing a generous peek of cleavage that Lawson’s eyes had flicked over quite a few times as the wine and chatter flowed. Her glass ran low again and she leaned forward, asking for a top-up; he obliged her graciously, of course, the good host that he was. And he let his gaze linger on those pert, full breasts, and smiled.
She leaned back, blushing, *grinning*, playing with her hair and mumbling something about how, oh, look at me talking so much when you have stories too – trying to hurry past the moment. Silly girl.
“Ah, you’re too kind, darling, too kind.” She startled at the endearment, of course, but Lawson took a long sip of his wine and she followed suit. He didn’t speak fast; it was slow, a slow warm purr, but that purr *started* before his quarry could swallow and fire back. “Eloise and I adore your stories, of course, but if you want it I’ll give you one of mine.” His eyes trailed down, and up, again, and the Girl shifted in place in self-consciousness – unaware, apparently, of how she made herself a perfect little tease. Lawson watched the show steadily until she noticed, and then, as she gulped and fussed and tried to work out what to do – Eloise swooped back in.
She sprawled onto the sofa opposite her husband, this time, letting one arm fall about the Girl’s shoulders: skin on skin, cool on deeply flushed. Her fingers teased the thin black strap and she mused: “My, you’re *so* pretty tonight. Somebody’s in for a good time when you get home.”
“Oh, there’s, um, there’s, there’s no one – that is – oh.” Eloise had liberated the wine glass from a trembling little hand, and taken a long sip herself; the intimacy of the gesture had the Girl’s blush spreading down her neck.
“Oh, darling.” Eloise hooked three fingers under that nuisance of a strap and lifted it. “Don’t you know, a morsel like you should be getting ravished every night?” The Girl made a sound just barely louder than a gasp, at that, but didn’t pull away; rather, she lifted her chin a little bit as if to show her throat. Eloise kissed it. Sliding the strap down their quarry’s arm, she whispered: “Let us ravish you tonight.”
“R-right *now*?” The Girl’s eyes were wide, and blank with lust; she barely managed to breathe out the protest “There are all these people watch- *oh, mmm* –”
“You’d like us to stop, then?” Lawson left his armchair, settling beside the morsel (bracketing her between himself and his wife). Slipping his hand down the front of her sagging tank top, he cupped one gorgeous full breast and brushed his thumb over the nipple; the Girl jerked as though electrified. He continued without mercy until he could *smell* her wetness, with Eloise joining in his efforts on the other side. She shuddered in their hands; she clenched her fists, her jaw, and sweat bloomed on her cheeks from the effort of holding herself back from moaning. “You’d like this to stop?” Stroke, tweak. Helpless, she shook her head.
“Good girl,” Eloise whispered, and “close your eyes for me.” She did, and she let them turn her to lie lengthwise on the couch (the hostess standing up to give her space). She let Lawson pose her legs as if she was a doll, and bracket them with his own knees; she let him lean down over her, close, close, and plant his hands in the cushion beside her head.
It was only when she felt him brush her pussy that her eyes flew back open. Grinding uncontrollably against him, convulsing with pleasure, she whimpered “I, oh, oh, I can’t, I really can’t –”
“Of course not.” Lawson smiled down at her and nodded, meeting her eyes. “You can’t, and you shouldn’t, and you’ve got to stop this. Right? You’ve got to stop,” he affirmed as he slid his erection between her legs; she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged him down instead, and he obliged her. Lying with his lips against her ear, he whispered once more: “you can’t do this, naughty girl. You can’t. You really can’t.” But what she couldn’t do was *stop*, and she was writhing wildly underneath him, crying out in desperate need and pleasure, babbling not *oh, I can’t* but *oh fuck Lawson please.*
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/12z6mcc/the_party_takes_a_turn_mff
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