The wet sounds were small, but he was sure they were deafening.
Heat climbed the inside of his thighs and settled in the base of his spine, and it was too late to stop it, and his face had to stay calm.
He gripped the cloth in both fists beneath the table’s edge.
He thought about arithmetic.
He thought about how the grumpy teacher of class C Toren landed such a hot wife.
He thought about anything except the soft, hot pressure of Nellie’s mouth.
Her lips were tight. Her tongue was soft and wet.
She took him deeper, and the tip of his cock bumped the back of her throat.
She made a small, wet sound and kept going. Spit ran down his length and over her knuckles. Her other hand rested on his thigh, fingers digging in when she swallowed.
The waiter, showing no sign of leaving, took a napkin from his cart and began folding it into a fan with great care.
Lor came.
It hit hard and without warning.
His whole body locked and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.
He felt himself pulse into her mouth, once, twice, again, thick and hot, and Nellie did not pull away.
She held still and took all of it.
He felt her throat move as she swallowed, and then again as she took what came after.
The heat of it filled her mouth.
A thin string of spit and cum stretched between her lip and the head of his cock before it broke.
When it was over, she gave him one last, slow, careful lick to be sure, cleaning the head with the flat of her tongue, and he nearly crumpled across the table.
His cock twitched hard against her mouth.
She held it there for a moment longer, lips soft around him, before she finally pulled back.
"Sir?" the waiter said. "Are you quite well?"
"Fine," Lor said, and his voice cracked in the middle. He cleared his throat. "Just hungry."
"Then I shall not keep you waiting."
Under the cloth, the buttons of his trousers were done up, one at a time, with small, quick movements.
The cloth rippled. A head rose beside the table, and Nellie slid back onto her seat with her purse in one hand and her glasses perfectly straight.
Her braid was neat.
Her face was pink, but only pink, and her eyes behind her glasses were bright and clear. She smoothed her skirt, set the purse beside her, and sat with her hands folded.
There was no sign at all of what she had just done.
Her lips were slightly swollen. A faint shine of spit lingered at the corner of her mouth.
Except that she looked at Lor, and licked her lips once, slowly, and gave a tiny smack.
It was a very small sound.
It said. I swallowed it all. Did you like it?
Or so he assumed.
Lor stared at her.
When had this happened?
This was the shy girl who had apologized to a table for bumping it.
Who sat in the back corner of the classroom, whom nobody noticed, who answered questions in a whisper and flinched whenever a teacher looked her way.
He thought it, and he could not stop thinking it.
It is always the quiet nerdy girl who turns out to be a nympho.
He was sure he was going to think about this for days.
The waiter set down the final dish with a flourish.
"Everything is served," he announced. "Please enjoy."
The waiter bowed to the table, wheeled his cart back through the door, and slid the screen shut behind him.
The cabin was quiet.
Neither of them spoke.
Lor picked up his spoon and looked at his bisque. It was a pale, shining gold, with a thin line of green oil swirled across the top, and it smelled of cream and flowers.
He tasted it. It was incredible.
He ate another spoonful, and then he could not think of anything to say. His cock was still half-hard in his trousers. The taste of her mouth was still on his tongue.
"The soup is good," he said eventually.
"It’s very good," Nellie agreed, with a small nod. "The chef here is famous."
"I can tell."
They ate.
Spoons clinked on porcelain.
Lor tried the pheasant next, and the skin cracked between his teeth, and he made a sound before he could stop himself.
Nellie glanced up and her mouth curved, but she said nothing.
Under the table, her thighs were still pressed together. The cum from earlier had dried sticky on the inside of her stocking.
"The lamb," he tried, after a while. "Have you had the lamb?"
"Once. With my father." She paused. "It was just as good."
"Right."
The silence settled back in.
Lor chewed slowly and thought about what to say.
The heat that had filled the cabin was gone, and what remained was an unfamiliar quiet, and he had no idea what to do with it.
He had questions. He had a great many questions.
Where did you learn that? Who taught you? When did you start thinking about it? Do you like it? or are you forcing it for the light? Do you like sex, Nellie?
Each one sounded worse than the last.
He could not ask her any of them, not across a table, not over lamb.
He took more bread.
On the other side of the table, Nellie held her spoon very carefully and thought about the same things from the other direction.
Had he liked it? She had not been sure how fast to go.
Had her teeth touched him? Did he think she was strange? She had read about it, and had practised the idea in her head a hundred times, but practising in your head was nothing like doing it.
What if he had been disappointed? What if he was thinking of someone better?
What if he was thinking, right now, of the girls in their class?
She tilted her chin, took a spoonful of bisque, and chewed it with perfect manners.
Not a single one of those thoughts reached her face. Her lips still tasted faintly of him.
"The bread is warm," she said.
"It is."
"I like the crust."
"Me too."