Sylvia felt the vibrations of the music rise through the wooden dance floor. The huge—and really very good—Big Band moved smoothly into what she realized was the last tune of the set, "Moon River." In fact, it was the last dance of the evening. She was glad she'd persuaded the band manager to show her his handwritten copy of his program and memorized the song order. The sound engulfed her.
Then she felt the long slender prick push against her. She reached down and used her two fingertips to open her pussy lips for him. She saw, as if detached from her body, her fingertips, glistening with red nail polish, guide the stiff red organ into her entrance. Tim groaned lustily. Sylvia felt him move into her vestibule, then hesitate. Then he shoved his cock deep into her without even a show of hesitation or gentleness. But it was fine. She was wet for him. It felt deep and good. He was irresistible, implacable, inevitable.
She looked into his penetrating, intoxicating green eyes. She opened up to him, pulling her legs back and open. She felt him move up on her. She considered how his eyes matched the tablecloth. Almost; not exactly. Her arms went up around his bony shoulders. She looked down and saw his cock pushing in and out of her, hiding then suddenly reappearing from her lush, wet, dark bush. She noticed how the blue veins stood out against the tight skin of his tanned rod. And how that contrasted with the white crotch of her panties. The panties he had pulled aside just a few minutes before.
Red, white and blue, she thought. The right colors for this election campaign. Candidate Stanton's predictably patriotic colors.
She liked the sight of Tim's skinny body and how it came to a tight V shape where his cock was fastened and sprang from his coiled black pubic hair. It glistened with sparkling beads of her love-dew. His long hair hung over her, making a kind of dark tent, occasionally tickling her face, her shoulders.
Tim was thrusting faster now. Her pussy responded, opening and lubricating. It was incongruous how the rhythm of his primal thrusts jarred with the romantic strains of the orchestra. After the first wave of lust, Sylvia was open, liquid and relaxing, and Tim was moving easily—too easily, seeking stimulating friction by riding higher, plunging deeper. Her excitement was increasing; but she knew orgasm was a long way off.
Instinctively, she moved her bottom up to meet his thrusts. Sylvia started groaning—he was so deep and hard. The tip of his prick touched the very end of her womb. It was immensely exciting. No one had ever gone in that far, not since she'd been doing this with John. No wonder the rumor of Tim's endowment had spread like wildfire among women in the music world. And from there, to the female circles of the Democratic Party. John was a big contributor. Now she was contributing her bit.
She moaned out loud and suddenly found Tim's hard hand, calloused from years of guitar practice, first with the Hi Jinx and now and more, successfully under John's direction, with the RatTaillz, pressing down over her mouth. She quieted. She contented herself with moving with his impatient thrusts and nibbling on his fingers.
A glitter of light from the ballroom chandelier made her look to one side. There was a narrow strip of brightness between the seam of the green tablecloth and the golden dance floor. Spots of light glittered briefly past her. Polished male dress shoes and dark suit trouser cuffs were gliding by. Suddenly, between thrusts, Sylvia caught site of her husband's Guccis sliding by. Mere inches away. As they came spinning by, she saw a pair of astonishingly red, astonishingly tall high heels entwined with his.
Now she grasped why it was an additional pleasure that she was fucking Tim! If John could make Tim the record label's biggest star, she could show John that she could get fucked by him. She looked down at her body. Yes, she once had once been John's trophy wife. Now, she thought, she had another role. But she didn't look so bad for 45 years old, two kids. No, not bad at all.
Tim mounted her higher, pushing his cock against the floor of her vagina. His breath came short and sharp now. She caught him staring at her bouncing, full, flowing breasts beneath her black lace bra. Then he looked back premeditatedly into her eyes. Thrusting. He was clearly getting excited. His eyes never left hers. It was a trick, she knew, many women fell for. Occasionally his curved prick rubbed against her clitoris. But it was so infrequent and so slippery wet that Sylvia's only stimulation was mental. And that was certainly enough. She gloried in the power she held over this man.
She heard his breathing speed up. She felt drops of his sweat fall on to her chest like jewels of fire. But she also heard the final measures of the song. She was running out of time! Her husband might not look for her right away. But he might. And she couldn't get caught here when the bellboys stripped the table. There was only one thing she could do.
A great number of things happened, in staccato. The final, drawn out strains of the sentimental song flew through the air. The romantically inclined squeezed their dance partners one more time. The last note faded. The well-heeled audience of corporate executives, lobbyists and governmental officials broke into noblesse oblige applause.
Sylvia wet her hand with her lips, then reached under Tim's crotch, and found his balls with her fingertips. She pressed his million-dollar spot as hard with her moistened fingers. Then she raised her other hand as high as the table bottom allowed. Down, down! She slapped Tim's gyrating ass as hard as she could. Simultaneously, she clamped down hard on his cock with her vaginal muscles—those strong, thick muscles she'd been training for so many long months. Tim's face contorted; his eyes inflated in surprise. The skinny male screamed with the sudden pleasure and the abrupt pain. He ejaculated ferociously, hard and deep in her. His head threw itself up in a reflex of ecstasy, astonishment and pain—and smashed it hard into the underside of the table. He collapsed on her.
Tim's weight was suffocating her. She felt warm wetness--blood was pouring from his scalp. She looked up to see redness dripping from a sharp metal bracket where the table's folding legs were stored. It reminded her of every ironing board she'd pinched her fingers on closing, especially in those early New York walk-up apartment days with John. For a fleeting moment she thought about filing a lawsuit against Acme Folding Tables for selling an unsafe product. New label warning: "Not to be used for fucking. Do not screw on or under this product." But then, she realized, she really had no cause of action. She wasn't hurt; Tim was. And he was in no condition to sue anybody right now.
Instantly Sylvia felt used, dirty and degraded. Tim's come was pooling in her vagina. This was how she imagined a real slut would feel. A tide of disgust overtook her. But Tim didn't care. He was motionless. Sylvia thought: nothing like three shots of whiskey, a line of white powder (only his was real), a sudden orgasm and a sharp bang on the head to put a rock freak out of business. Maybe rutting like a pig under a table made her a slut. She didn't know.
Still, she realized she was enjoying having a victory John couldn't match. And she had enjoyed the attention, not to mention the prick, of a younger man. A man who could fuck any eighteen year-old in the country—and did. "The 18-25 year old market segment," she thought wryly. "The one they love so much."
Sylvia pried Tim's legs from between her own and pushed the half-naked body off her. It moaned faintly. But Tim's eyelids remained classically closed. She pried open his mouth and slipped the pill under his tongue, then touched his lips with a finger as a mother might shush a naughty child.
Except for the terrible wrinkles in her skirt and blouse, there really wasn't much tidying up to do. She didn't even have to fumble with her bra. Tim hadn't bothered to unfasten it. In fact, he hadn't given her breasts much attention at all. Maybe he wasn't a breast man. Or perhaps he was so confident that she would give him her pussy without attention to them. Maybe that's way it was with all the girls. Nor had he needed to unzip her skirt. He'd simply pushed it up to her thighs, just far enough to reveal her panties and ascertain that he didn't have to deal with pantyhose. And his fingers, she remembered, had slipped aside her panty-crotch with a finger movement that had been all too deft, all too practiced.
