Cleopatra put her hand under the table and began massaging my c**k.
As she stroked, she put her full, bee-stung lips up to my ear.
Against my earlobe I could feel the stickiness of the lipstick she’d caked on when she’d excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, after the dinner but before the speeches.
“Do you want me to stop?” she whispered. Her breath was warm; it goose-bumped the flesh on the back of my neck. It made my c**k swell still harder against her hand, pushing into her grasp through my tuxedo slacks.
I did and I didn’t. It was one of those things. Having been relegated to a tertiary table with people I didn’t even know from the Kansas City office—they were nice enough, but a little bland—we were tucked more or less in the back corner of the banquet hall.
We were quite a w
