Out on a Limb

Seduction

"Donald? Does that work, darling?"

"Of course it does," he said smoothly, having no idea what the hell she was referring to.

"Oh, good. I'll let the Thompsons know and then talk to Greta about a menu for Saturday."

Shit. He should have just told her he was thinking about fucking her in the bloody waters of Corsica. Now he was going to be stuck eating dinner with the Thompsons.

They were another couple he could do without, he thought ruefully. They were just so pedestrian. And there was nothing Donald hated more than boring people with boring lives. Perhaps he would cut Tessa's enormous (yet surprisingly real) tits off her chest and stuff them down her husband David's throat. Anything to stop him from breathing through his slack-jawed mouth while he droned on about his family's dental franchise.

He could do it. He should do it.

Logistically there was still time between now and Saturday— he could easily run them off the road or contrive a quick murder-suicide before Greta committed to a menu.

It was a pleasant thought, but not one he could act on, not with Ferguson still warm and wilting in his office (not to mention Evelyn's disappearance, even if it was unanimously considered a welcome one).

But if he had to sit through one more meal with those two...

"Honey, on second thought, why don't we hold off on the Thompsons? It's been a crazy few days and I haven't had any time with you or Alex all week."

Constance's cheeks pinked prettily and she smiled. "Of course I can push off Tess and David. Lord knows I don't need to see that woman's breasts tip over another bowl of Greta's gazpacho any time soon."

The pair looked at each other for a moment and then broke into genuine laughter.

"What should we do this Saturday, then?"

Don took the napkin from his lap and set it across his plate of forgotten morsels, the expression on his face darkening with a different kind of hunger. "I don't know about Saturday, but I do know what we should be doing tonight."

She raised her eyebrows in question, and without saying another word he rose from the table and stood directly in front of her. He picked up her wine glass and casually sipped on it from one hand while taking her own and moulding it directly against the erection pushing its way towards her.

She smiled playfully at him and reached forward, then began unzipping his pants.

"Thinking about Corsica again?"

"Mmm," was all he said, so she undid the clasp on his pants and withdrew his penis until it was facing her directly, daring her to make another move. Instead of touching his engorged flesh she reached past him and across the table to the small jar of honey nestled in a bed of figs and goat cheese. She removed the lid from the hand-blown container, and with the wooden dipper drizzled golden liquid and an impressive likeness of her elegant signature across the length of him.

Don watched her artistry with moderate interest, debating with each delicate twist if he could carve his signature into her flesh with equally as smooth a touch. His thoughts on the matter were interrupted when she raked her teeth across his shaft.

"Naughty girl," he hissed through his teeth, and ran his hand through her golden locks. He grasped at a fistful of hair and pulled her head back until she made eye contact with him. "I'm going to have to punish you for this."

Hazel-brown eyes not unlike Ferguson's smiled up at him, and she withdrew her mouth slowly until a small suctioning pop! sound could be heard. His reprieve lasted only a moment as her mouth moved to his smooth and dare say tanned testicles, and she expertly pulled both of them into her mouth with her lips and tongue, rolling and savouring them like the honey-soaked dates still sitting on the table begging to be bit into.

Donald's earlier intentions of fucking his wife every which way now included doing so until she wept in pleasure-induces pain and passed out from exhaustion. "I'mwarning you, Constance," he said breathlessly. "You're pushing it."

She intensified her suckling, but took a breath to respond with her own, "Mmm," and the vibration of her vocal cords against his sensitive flesh pushed him to the brink. Knowing the sounds of her husband all too well, Constance immediately returned to her original efforts just in time for him to explode in her mouth completely.

She swallowed her prize and lathed her tongue around him, cleaning him like a determined pussycat and coaxing his erection back to life almost immediately. It was a definite talent she had, and one he should have gone into more detail of when he pointed it out to Ferguson, Don thought somewhat wistfully. He should have told the wrinkled little man all the minute details of how she wrapped her lips around his dick, how she sucked on his balls like a nursing babe, and how someday he thought he might cut out the full length of her perfect tongue and wrap it around his cock completely.

His testicles began to ache.

"Upstairs, Constance. Now."

The words were said with such force that Constance paled, but only for a second, and then giggled like she was suddenly caught in a sexual game of catch-me-if-you-can that would end with her too sore to sit down for days. She kicked off her Louboutin heels, exposing their blood-red underside as they fell over, and ran up the winding staircase towards their bedroom. She stayed close enough for Don's swinging hand to make contact with her linen-skirted backside, and she yipped in just enough pain to bring his erection back to its total fullness.

They had played this game before, and whether Constance knew it or not, he won every time.