One Final Night Read Online Free Page A

asked me to pour him another cup of coffee. Then he looked at me again, the open friendly expression there as always, and he said, just to prompt me, ‘Darling?’
    Just like that, as matter-of-factly as that. His friend hadn’t batted an eyelid either, as if such things could possibly be normal behaviour. But, do you know, I did it. I sank slowly down. On the way, he was already helping with his fly so that almost immediately it was naked and growing in my hand. I bashfully kissed the head once or twice but then desire dictated that there was nothing else to do but engulf it, so I did. Their conversation did not dry up but it became stilted as they watched me. At first I was very conscious of the noise I was making. It just sounded so unutterably dirty. However, as he grew in my mouth and I grew to my task, the slurps became a badge of honour, the louder the better, so his friend could see what a naughty, excellent young whore he had to service him.
    I lapped all around the tip so that my greed and love of him was obvious. I made a show of taking him deep, slicking his taut, smooth skin with saliva that helped the glide of my fingers up and down his length. The friend had grown a bulge at my eye level. For one perilous, fleeting moment I thought I might lose restraint and grab to free him too, but I just about kept my hands on my man and concentrated on bringing the finish he clearly needed. My hands became a blur, even as he bubbled and spat hot into my mouth. I sighed hard and took him all, as rude as I knew I would look.
    When it was over he thanked me and suggested we all sit down for our next coffee. We smoked and chatted and it was all the more jovial now the friend had seen my prowess, although the deed itself was not mentioned at all. The blood was raging through me but I felt no shame. I felt sublime instead, like Cleopatra on her throne, aware that my sensuality was well known, and proud of it. If you think for one minute he took advantage of me, then think again. When I had closed my eyes against the sun this is what I had been dreaming of, waiting for the time when we were alone. He knew that’s how my mind worked. He knew my soul was truly driven by lust even if I’d always tried to hide it. He suggested the act not for his benefit any more than for mine. The only difference between us was he didn’t care who saw us. And now neither did I.
    He once took me over a billiard table at a private club. Admittance was men only, so I had to be smuggled in with my hair greased back, wearing a dinner jacket and a ridiculous false moustache. The doorman got a wodge of notes stuffed into his top pocket for turning a blind eye. The inevitability of my being taken was never discussed during the evening, and as it got later and later I even began to fear that it wouldn’t happen at all, but suddenly my cheek was flat to the baize and my trousers were around my ankles. The friends were grouped around a low table at the far end, drinking and smoking, light-heartedly calling upon my man to hurry up and take his shot. I think my first climax came the moment he slid inside me.
    There are two things about our instances of public rudeness that you should know, both of which I only came to realise with time: firstly, he only chose witnesses who would behave with decorum, ones aware that it was happening and that they were meant to be aware, but never resorting to cat-calling or obscenity. It was not like I was a stripper in a bar or a whore performing for a crowd. Secondly, whenever males were present among the onlookers, he was always very careful not to expose me. Always clothes or angles prevented them seeing me bare, so some semblance of modesty could be retained. Here, for instance, from where they sat, they could see my trousers at my ankles and hear my naked flesh slapping under his thrusts, maybe they could even smell me, but none would ever see what he saw.
    Another example: I had been smuggled in again, this time to his