Chapter 68: Footjob Under the Cloth or Tell the Next One (r-18)

The sensation was so focused the rest of the table became warm light and silver and the clink of a cup. Eisheth launched into a gala story about a man who could not hold his liquor. Lilim smiled into her tea. Mara rolled her eyes. Agrat muttered something about masculinity. Damon nodded at all of it with a face that belonged to a boy drinking tea while Camilla blew him off with her feet.

He did not come or even try to flinch.

How she kept the table still, how the cups never shivered, how nobody heard the soft wet drag of her feet on that huge wet cock, was a mystery; all of it were a filthy mystery. He sat in it and smiled at Aunt Eisheth and asked her to tell the next one.

He was surviving it.

He was in fucking heaven.

But surviving was not the same as holding still.

The chair creaked when he shifted his weight. Camilla answered immediately, not with the same pump, with something else:

she gathered what he had already leaked and painted it down her own arch until the sole shone, then put that wetness back on him from root to tip.

Lube made out of him.

The next strokes were quieter for it and worse for it, he felt his own wetness go cold on her skin then hot again when she put it back on the head.

His thighs tightened around the chair and his palms flattened on the table edge every time his breath wanted to sharpen, he counted the silver, the small dent near the salt cellar, the faint ring a wine glass had left on the cloth.

Camilla’s foot made a small wet sound when she rolled her heel over the head, hidden by Mara setting down a cup, and the head flattened under her heel then sprang back shiny. Eisheth was explaining that the man in question had mistaken the mirror for a somewhat available man of means. Lilim laughed that bright laugh.

Damon’s eyes lifted to her.

’Good. Her face is perfect.’ Yeah right, like that what he was thinking.🙄

Camilla switched texture and not the soft sole now; the instep.

The harder top of her foot rubbed the underside of his dick in a short grind while her other heel pressed the base. Different pressure and heat.

His fingers went white on the wood.

The head dragged, then caught.

He swallowed but his pulse was in his teeth.

Her toes fanned and dragged faint lines down the wet skin of his cock, lighter, meaner, like she was reminding him she could take it back, and her heel rolled into the crease where his pelvis met his thigh until his breath stuttered so badly he had to turn it into a laugh when Eisheth said something about the mirror.

A drop hit the carpet under the table. He heard it but nobody else did.

Agrat looked at him: "Are you feeling alright, Damon?"

"Perfectly," he said, and his voice came out a little lower than he intended.

Under the table, Camilla’s foot stilled.

But the stillness was its own trick; his cock twitched against her sole and leaked into her toes as her toes closed around the head and held like a secret.

Then she moved differently again.

Both of Camilla’s arches stacked into a vice, and she trapped the middle of his cock between them and pumped without using her toes at all, just the warm channel of two feet squeezed around a dick too big for either one.

The head punched out the top on every downstroke, wet, helpless, and she caught it on the way up.

The squeeze made a wet shluck that died under Eisheth’s laugh. His cock came out of her feet shining and went back in darker.

The table talked around it. The cups talked around it.

The silver talked around it.

His thighs pressed together.

The story reached the part where the man in the mirror insisted he was being misunderstood by his own excellent features. Agrat made a sound of pure disgust. Mara hid a laugh behind her hand.

Lilim shook her head, fond and merciless.

Damon’s mouth was dry.

He looked at Camilla.

Her eyes were dark. Not soft but patient hunger like she was enjoying the exact moment he thought he could hold on and she couldn’t help getting out of here with him.

She broke the vice and used the ball of her foot on the head only, flattening the tip, dragging it down the shaft, then rolling it back through her toes, spreading him, pinning the most sensitive part of his cock and rubbing it like she had all night.

The slit opened under that pressure and another clear string ran down her arch.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to die. He wanted to put his forehead on the table.

He said, "The next one," to Eisheth.

She blinked. "What?"

He smiled. "Please."

Eisheth raised an eyebrow and went on, under the table, Camilla heard it as an encouragement to go wilder.

She punished him by taking the vice and the grind away and giving him almost nothing, barely-there passes, the head of his cock sliding through her toes and stopping, cool air, then one long stroke that made his vision blur. His cock jumped after her foot like it was begging on its own.

His fingers dug into the table edge.

Then Camilla gave him a milking twist, her upper foot rolling the head one way while her lower arch dragged the shaft the other, wringing his cock in two directions at once.

That was the one that made his hips jerk and the chair groaned.

He stopped breathing.

Aunt Lilim was telling Mara that she had once hosted while Mara was laughing. Agrat was leaning back like she would be commenting for years.

Damon’s eyes stayed on Camilla’s.

She pulled off completely.

The withdrawal was so sudden his breath left him, cool air on a wet cock, his thighs clamped, his hips lifted, and the head shone in the dark under the cloth, dripping onto his own thigh.

Then she was back with a new hold. Her lower heel circled the root of his cock, not stroking, grinding in a slow dirty orbit, while her upper sole tapped the head, not pumping, just wet little slaps on the tip in time with nothing.

It was so specific it was stupid. It was so good he wanted to beg.

Each tap made a tiny wet kiss. Each orbit made his balls draw up.

His throat worked. He could not speak.

Eisheth was talking about a man who had apologized to whatever Damon hadn’t heard.

Agrat said, "God is patient with women, but not with men."

Lilim smiled.

Damon’s hand was shaking so he pressed it flat and forced it to stop.

He was close; his hips jerked, the chair groaned while a small sound escaped him but he immediately swallowed it.

Camilla did not go back to the first pump:

She used the whole long sole laid along his cock from root to head and slid it like a single hot board, every inch of him touched at once, then she curled only her toes at the end of the stroke and pinched the head as she left. Full contact, then a bite, then full contact again. The pinch made his slit spit.

The next slide spread that wetness all the way to the base.

He was close; too close.

His hips jerked again but the sound he made next was a low broken breath that died in his throat again.

Camilla’s eyes lifted.

She stopped the long slide and held him instead, both feet stacked still, his cock trapped and throbbing in the heat he had made on her skin.

His stomach dropped.

No.

Then she gave him one inch of movement; the smallest drag but enough to make his thighs shake. Not enough to finish him.

His face was on fire and his eyes were too bright. His mouth was dry.

He looked at Camilla.

Her eyes were half-lidded.

Eisheth had just said something the table laughed but Damon did not.

Camilla finished the last stretch with the first technique and the last one stacked: the toe-ring on the head and the long sole on the shaft at the same time, two different jobs, one cock.

That was new. That was the one that almost ended the evening. The head punched through her toes dripping. The shaft slid under her other sole in one long wet drag. His vision went white at the edges.

For one ruined perfect second his face did exactly what she had wanted it to do.

Then he caught it and he swallowed it down before he smiled at Eisheth.

Then her upper foot came back, not a pump, not a pinch, just the whole long sole laid along him from root to head and held there, a warm filthy weight, like she was keeping his cock for later. His cock jumped once more against that sole and left a last wet print on her arch. She did not wipe it. She kept it.

He was in fucking heaven.

And he was not going to survive the rest of the night without learning exactly how many ways Camilla could make him disappear.

Or how exactly his cock felt inside her pussy he knew was tight.

Tonight the virgin Lust Spawn was losing his virginity to Camilla.