Chapter 10

We go on nursing our drinks in a casual sort of way. Unwinding a little, now that throbbing electronic beats and stacatto rap lyrics have given way to easy melodies and soothing vocals. There’s some desultory conversation. Strange men stop by the table to chat with Jamal and his friends from time to time. They’re eyeing me too, but at least they’re less obvious about it than the general riffraff had been. That’s nice. I smile absently at them, and sway placidly in my seat.

After a while, Jamal gestures for his buddies to rise, then starts lugging me from the booth. “Come on, let’s give the folks some entertainment.”

I’m confused. Is he going to exhibit me again? Like—more of a private performance this time? That’d be all right, I guess. Only, I’m tired, and not sure I can stay upright. “Mmmh lesss just sit.”

But he keeps hauling, and I don’t want to seem unappreciative, so I go along with it.

Soon we’re slow dancing. Tracked by the eyes of the other guests, to be sure—but just us out in the middle of the dance floor, no one else. I’ve draped my arms over Jamal’s brawny shoulders, and he’s got his hands circled around my waist, and together it provides enough support to keep me from slumping down and puddling on the ground.

Now we’re making out. I can taste the alcohol on his lips and tongue, in spite of the freshness of the mint he just popped in his mouth. I have to tip my head way back to reach him on account of his height. My kissing is messy, because every part of me is loose and limp, but I don’t care. It’s warm and wet and makes me feel so close to him.

Using deliberate movements—flaunting the extent to which I’ve relinquished every square inch of my body—he slides his broad hands to my ass cheeks, right there in front of everyone. Squeezing my flesh, digging his fingers in greedily, he sends vivid jolts of eros slashing through the fog in my brain.

And then he goes further, fingertips curving in and pulling my buttocks apart, so that he can delve into my gash from behind.

Mmmhh yeahhhh.

My passage is just as slack and warm and sloppy as our kiss—and I push my rump back against him, begging for more. He obliges, working one finger ... two fingers ... three(!) inside, jammed up there just as far as they can reach. God, it feels good to be filled and stretched this way. But still it’s not enough.

Jamal leans down to murmur in my ear, even as he continues working my vagina steadily, in and out, in and out. “Damn Jess. You are one sexy little minx. I don’t know when I had a woman as wet as you are. Your boy’s a moron for letting you out of his sight.”

I never noticed when he took his suit jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. But he must have done, at some point or other. This leaves me free to rub my hands lazily over his shirt-clad back, enjoying the hot, vigorous, luxurious substance of him beneath that thin layer of cool cloth.

Finally, I’m getting to the point where I think I might actually be able to orgasm from his manipulation. There’s a static charge in the air around me, and I work to channel it: rocking my hips, widening my stance, infatuated by the prospect of release...

And precisely at that moment—fuck, it’s frustrating!—he eases his fingers out of me and withdraws his hands, leaving me empty and disheartened. He fumbles around in front, and I can tell he’s undoing his belt, unzipping his slacks. But his voice continues to purr, low and soothing. “I’m going to bend you over now Jess, and fuck your brains out. You got me fixing to explode.”

I duck my head a little under the weight of what he’s just said, scrabbling to sift my thoughts into some sort of coherence. I’m excited by the idea of having Jamal inside me. He’s so big and strong and nice. But I can’t let him do it. Certainly not here and now.

‘Everyday Jess,’ in particular, has strong feelings about this. She’s spent the last little while muzzled, pushed to the side, slightly stupefied. For a time, she was content merely to eye me disapprovingly, perched primly in some snobbish corner of my skull. But now she’s hissing at me again, very loudly, that this thing Jamal wants me to do—have sex with a man I just met in front of a pack of strangers—it’s bad.

To be fair, I’m having a hard time pinning down exactly what the badness is. But, I don’t know ... like risky, or embarrassing, or immoral, or something.

“Uhm, I donn’t mm...”

Jamal’s cock is out, smacking up meaty and insistent against my abdomen. And sensing my hesitation, he draws my hand gently down to grip it. I like the feel. Even just by touch, I can tell he’s big down there. Bigger than Mike, bigger than Bryan. Bigger even than Kyle. So thick. So alive. So, so hard.

God, he’s burning. For me.

“You’re being a bad girl tonight, right sweetheart?” Jamal croons, still leaning down close to my ear. “So don’t tell me you’re gonna chicken out now, and let that cheating man of yours keep you from what you want. ‘Cause we both know you want this. And hell—if you see this thing through to the end, maybe we can do something about that little money crunch of yours too.”

I don’t know what he means about the money. But he’s right, I do want this. I feel hollow: in my body, in my psyche. I need him to fill the hole, even if only for tonight.

More than that, I really do want to crash through every last remaining guardrail. I want to lash out, run headstrong, damn all the consequences. I want to escape the fetters of my screwed-up marriage, my milquetoast morality, and just do what I want—everything I want.

And though I’d never tell anyone, deep down, furtively, the idea of having sex, cheating in fact, in front of a bunch of people ... Knowing they’re watching while some random stranger penetrates me ... Letting the man plant his flag publicly in the part of me I once promised only to Mike ... The image sends a quavering chill of excitement through my being.

But still, I have to say no. To do this would take courting danger a giant stride too far. And at my core, I know such behavior truly isn’t me.

“Mmmmhh ... okay.”

Fuck! Did that really just come out of my mouth?!

One of the bros, Caleb I think, is dragging a club table out into the middle of the dance area. Jamal spins me around bodily, and eases me down onto it—guiding me with self-assured movements, one hand pressed to the center of my back, while the other bears up my collarbone.

I go along, letting him smush my breasts against the top, and lay my face flat against its smooth surface. I can’t help but flinch at that first touch. The black-lacquered metallic coldness smarts against my sensitive nipples, and accident-bruised cheek. But soon the fire within me begins to warm the tabletop, and I allow it to bear me up, grateful for its support.

The way I’m situated, I can take in most of the audience without even moving my head. It’s funny to be looking at the people sideways like this, as if they’re sitting perched on the wall, and the notion makes me smirk. They’re still grouped in their various parties—trying to look cool, pretending they watch some straight-laced mom get dicked down in the club every night. But I don’t think it’s true. I can see how their eyes are riveted, how their backs are tensed, how they’re edging their chairs oh-so-casually closer to get a better view. They’re turned on by the recklessness of what I’m allowing to be done to me, of what I’m allowing them to watch. And I’m turned on, too, by the thought of all their salivating mouths and thumping hearts.

I hear Jamal spit, and stroke his penis a few times (at least, that’s what it sounds like he’s doing). Then he’s between my legs—fingers of one hand probing briefly to find my entrance, followed by the other guiding his penis, until the springy head nestles securely amidst my folds. Once planted there, he lays his soft palms reassuringly on my lower back. Even with just the glans inside, my opening is pulled more taut than I’d have thought possible. Jesus, he is big.

From the corner of my eye, I’m able to glance back at his form, looming up behind me. And when he realizes that I’m peering at him, he smiles wide. I think up to the very end he’d been doubting whether I’d actually let him get inside me before a couple of dozen witnesses—and now that he’s succeeded, he’s thrilled by the exploit. “How you doing, Jess? That feel good?” His voice is warm, syrupy. It does feel good, so I turn the corners of my mouth up, and nod slightly, pivoting my face against the glossy tabletop.

Unhurriedly, carefully, he pushes himself further in. The sheer bulk of him is startling and I’m glad he’s going slow. As someone who’s had kids, it’s not like I think it won’t fit. But still, his width leaves me feeling enlarged, stretched-out, in a way that’s alarmingly unfamiliar. Moreover, as he goes on driving himself deeper and deeper, I begin to fret about length as well. I don’t want him to bang up against my cervix, that’d throw a bucket of ice-water on my mood for sure.