Chapter 67: Evening Gathering or Camilla Under the Table (r-18)

They gathered that evening like the house always gathered tea first then wine anyway, the long table in the second-floor dining hall holding all of them in the same warm light. Mara. Aunt Lilim. Agrat. Eisheth Corvin Viremont, who never ran out of stories and would not have run out of them if the night had lasted a week. Camilla. And Damon, who had decided for one evening to be a normal guy with his four mature women.

’Well. Not mine yet, but hey, we will get there.’

He did not read a single panel and he had also decided not to ask anyone about Celeste.

That girl was a problem with a last name and a photo and he was not dragging Psycho Bellamy into tea.

They of course asked him about school and he gave them the version that would not get him killed.

Blackwood was huge, the Business School was its own little kingdom. Orientation had been long, the students dean had talked too much, calculus was at eight in the morning three days a week, and they all laughed at him for that, especially Eisheth, who said eight a.m. was a crime against youth and then immediately started another story about a man she had dated who thought sunrise was a personality.

Agrat scoffed, Lilim wiped her mouth and asked if he had registered everything while Mara wanted to know if the dorms were as extra as Vespera claimed but Damon just said the elevators had been dead and he had carried bags up seven floors so he was too tired to check the dorm conditions, and that got him roasted for a full minute.

Camilla this time had sat across from him in Vespera’s that faced him, because sometime between the morning kiss she had put on his cheek and the hour he walked back through the front doors she had made up her mind.

She had looked at him with that calm, devastating patience like she already knew what she was going to do to him.

"Tonight," She had said in a whisper as they went to the dining room, "if I make a mess of your evening under that table, can you keep your face?"

He had said yes with a smile before he should have.

She had smiled, not sweetly, just enough; "Good."

That was all.

That was how she was across from him with her wine glass halfway tilted toward her lips, her knee pressed politely against the other, her hands resting near the rim of the cup, her whole upper body as civilized as any of them.

Camilla’s lower body though could not be said to be just as civilized.

He was not complaining.

He was in fucking heaven.

Her had foot found him first under the tablecloth, bare and warm, the long arch of it sliding up the inside of his thigh until the ball of her foot sat against the heat there, while Eisheth kept talking and nobody looked down.

The touch had been so deliberate that the first thing Damon thought was not even a sexual thought, only the sharp, electric recognition that she had meant it from the start:

A decision and she planned this with her shoes off and sat down across him already knowing what her agenda was.

His thigh went hot under her sole before his brain caught up, and his breath changed just enough that if he had been careful he might have noticed his chest tightening before his mouth moved at all.

Then Camilla’s other foot joined the first one.

He saw the faintest shift in her posture under the tablecloth, the way her knees drew a little closer together her ankles crossed in a deceptively innocent line, and the warmth on his pants doubled while the pressure multiplied until the inside of his leg went fully awake and every nerve there suddenly listening to the soft curve of her foot.

Her toes walked his inseam like they already owned the zipper, and one nail scraped the metal while her other foot pinned his knee so he could not close his legs without making the whole table notice his sudden movement.

She worked his zipper with her toes like she had thought about this all day and only needed the cover of cups and stories, and the sound it made was almost nothing but just a small friction under the tablecloth, a little drag of cloth against metal that nobody who was not already paying attention would have heard.

The zipper teeth gave one by one before cool air hit his huge dick before her toes found bare raw skin of the Primordial Rod.

Damon’s eyes dropped for half a second in pleasure he tried to suppress, then came back up, making sure his face did not do anything stupid.

Yet.

Luckily he had not put boxers back on after shower, just the pants, and when the zipper gave she hooked the waistband with two toes and tugged until the front opened enough for his dick to spill out into the dark under the table.

Fuck.

The first thing that hit her was the size of it against her feet:

It was soft; a fat half-sleeping weight dropping across her sole like it did not belong near tea and silver. Her foot was long and pretty. His cock still looked wrong on it, too much sheer size, length and girth. The head already hanging past her toes and the entire shaft laying a dark veined line over her arch until her sole disappeared under him and the head rested past her toes and left a wet kiss on the top of her foot...

Damon and Camilla felt it both when it came awake:

He felt it swell in her hold, the Primordial Rod filling so fast it startled even him, tight and the veins standing up under her sole while it lifted off her foot and came back down longer, fatter, the head pushing wet between her toes because there was nowhere else for it to go.

Her pretty foot looked small against it now, a woman’s sole trying to wrap a cock that kept getting bigger in hands that were not even hands, and a clear bead welled at the slit and ran down between her first two toes until she spread those toes and let it sit there.

The warmth of her sole against the length of his but she did not grind or hurry.

Camilla placed him there as if he had always belonged in the curve of her foot, and then she let the weight of the moment sit on him.

One of Camilla’s feet stayed under him like a warm shelf while the other came down on top, and even then her toes barely closed around the girth because there was still too much of him for the neat polite geometry of dinner.

The shaft sat trapped in a hot channel of skin, the head punching out the top, wet and dark, twitching every time Eisheth’s voice rose.

She started moving her feet up and down, slow at first, the warm dry slide of her sole from the base all the way over the head, then back, wetter each time because he was leaking onto her like his Endless Cum had order itself.

’Fuck, I am such a virgin! I can’t handled myself.’ Who could Balme him while having his first footjob under the table with his family!

And she was spreading his cum down him with the ball of her foot, her heel dragging the underside while her toes pinched the fat head on the way up and her arch hugged the middle on the way down.

Camilla was mapping his cock like homework she planned to ace. Each pass made a tiny wet sound under the cloth and left a shine on her sole that she used on the next stroke.

He laughed when they laughed. He told them his advisor was terrifying and that he had taken business law as a freshman, which made Agrat actually look impressed, and under the wood Camilla sped up, both feet working him in a tight filthy stroke, toes curling around the head on every pass, the wet sound small enough that the talk covered it.

Her upper body did not move.

Her hands stayed around her cup and only her eyes gave her away, that little crease each time she felt how huge he was throbbing against her sole and had to adjust and throat moved when she swallowed but under the table her toes milked the head of his cock until another bead broke and ran down the shaft.

Damon’s knee knocked against the leg of the table. He froze but nobody had heard.

Eisheth was mid-sentence, gesturing with a fork, telling the table about a gala where a man had drunk champagne from a crystal decanter intended for decorative purposes only. Agrat and Lilim were listening with a smile that meant she was three stories deep.

Damon kept his mouth closed but the rest of him was on fire.

Then she changed the job.

Her lower foot pinned his shaft flat to his thigh so he could not twitch without rubbing himself on her, and her upper foot worked only the head, the gap between her big toe and the next one sliding over the tip like a tight little ring. In. Out. In. That was not stroking. That was something meaner; the slit caught on her toe... a wet thread stretched and snapped and his hips wanted to chase it.

’She’s using her toes like a mouth. At dinner. In front of my aunts. Bro, I am so cooked.’

He had to smile at Agrat. Agrat was saying something, he nodded.