Under the Table

Light laughter
tinkling
urbane chatter
glasses clink
and music
wafts on the air
as we dine
so prettily,
so wittily,
with your
colleagues from work.

Such false smiles
such trivial
conversation
in the too-dim shadows
of this elegant place.

My fingers,
bejewelled for tonight,
long nails painted
a wet, luscious shade,
slip silently
under the table
and across your lap
over cold, dull metal teeth
as I sip innocently
from my wine glass
above.

You laugh at their jokes
as your hips tense
and I feel your warm, soft bulge
beneath cool gabardine.

My fingers
squeeze and knead
so lightly,
so rightly,
they find the pull
of your zipper and
tug.

Flesh meets my fingers
warm, soft skin
plumping beneath
my touch,
growing harder
as I slip inside and
grasp you,
surround you,
claim you,
my fist encircling
your hardening girth.

One sharp little breath
and then a groan
so strained,
so pained,
covered by a
a too-loud
nervous little laugh
that makes me smile
with devilish delight.

Drawn forth
by my fingers,
meant only for
my ears,
your soft sounds
thrill me,
your mounting pleasure
as my fingers
slide up and down
stroking you
with fluid friction
is like a bright point of light
in this dreary night.

Under the table
I work you
gripping your shaft
tighter,
tighter,
sliding soft skin
over hard flesh
my thumb languidly
circling your head
now slick with
anticipation.

A quick glance
a wild, silent plea
*please*
your wide eyes
begging me in mute
desperation
*please no*
*not here*
even while a glimmer
of rebellious desire
tells me
to never,
never,
stop.

Out of pity,
perhaps,
my fingers leave
your hot, hard
weeping cock,
sliding out
between the cold
dull teeth,
my hand returning
demurely
to the table above.

You relax then,
a sigh
escaping your
trembling lips,
and so
with their bright faces
looking on
I hold a finger
up to the light
revealing the pearl
of your lust
glistening on the tip
so white,
so bright.

As a hush
befalls the table,
I take my finger
in my mouth
and suck.