Then I would seat him, gently and ritually, in the throne (unless he decided he wanted to be rough with me, in the way that a guy can only do when he's standing up and fucking your face). As I say in EXPLORATIONS, I've never really enjoyed giving head, but on those Friday afternoons in fall and winter 2001, fighting my gag reflex to drive Charles wild just felt good and right. There's an art to turning your mouth into a cunt, and while I can't say I've mastered it, at least I've swallowed enough of my beloved's sperm to think I can hold my head up in the assembly of the cocksuckers.
(Hmmm. Assembly of the Cocksuckers. Do they have meetings? Do they have to show their prowess, and do those who fail get punished?)
Anyway. By 5pm on Friday, Charles would usually have had his first orgasm of the weekend, and he would contentedly see to dinner, whether he were making it himself (he's a nearly-professional-grade cook, lucky me) or ordering in. He usually cooked on Friday, because we usually went out on Saturday, sometimes I thought (gratified) only so that Charles could put his hand up my skirt during dinner to "verify" that I was in fact both shaved and panty-less, always making me think for an instant that he was going to call the maître-d' over to show off my cunt and bottom while detailing what they were good for, and what I was best at, and what I still needed to practice, if I were going to be a really valuable piece of ass.
These were full Réagean outings: I wore skirts with nothing under them and carried my butt-plug in my purse. I was required to sit always in such a way that my naked bottom was against the surface of the car-seat, or the chair. Many was the time that I left such surfaces shamefully moist on rising. That most delicious of restaurant fantasies, being ordered to the bathroom mid-meal for a fucking over the toilet, doesn't actually work mid-meal, because they think you've left without paying the check, but our favorite restaurant had unisex bathrooms that could be slipped into relatively discreetly after dinner. It's not a great angle, and I think the only time either of us came in there was when I sat on the toilet and went down on him, but just having done it made us feel like sex gods, and we would head home in the mood for more.
If we were by ourselves, and weren't seated side-by-side in that goofy French way (It being French doesn't help that much; what did help is that if we were seated like that he would have his hand between my legs under the table for most of dinner.), right after the appetizers Charles would look at me so steadily that I, knowing what was about to happen, would instantly blush. Then he would say, so distinctly that I was always sure the whole restaurant could hear, "panty check." Then he would pretend to drop his napkin, and get down below table level, and I would have to put my hands down to my knees and lift my skirt for inspection, all the way to the tops of my thighs, parting my knees as I did so, my face beet red and my cunt growing ever warmer and wetter.
"This is to signify that you are naked," he would whisper, quoting, with his hand brazenly up my skirt to remind me."And that my nakedness is for you," I would paraphrase back, thanking God for the shame and the risk, and the thrill and the love.