Journey into the Mind - Part 7

Journey into the Mind - Part 7

Upholding the Adventure

Sitting in the rear of a taxi, the rain-drenched streets spread before her as she observed the clouds amassing for more impending downpour or perhaps a storm. Intrigued by the constant 'whirr whirr' of the windshield wipers, she allowed herself to sink back into her seat and close her eyes.

Astonishment washed over her when she awoke and found a drastic change in her surroundings. The taxi now appeared grander, more comfortable. Instead of carrying her leather handbag, she now held a golden-chained evening bag. Her familiar dark blue skirt and blouse had been replaced by a glamorous evening gown. Startled, she pondered if she was dreaming or going mad. However, this oddity was trumped by the realization that it wasn't Harris behind the wheel. The car swiftly navigated through high pillars, arriving at a massive mansion, halting right in front of a majestic portico. No Harris opened the door to say, "Miss, have a pleasant evening."

Contemplating her predicament, she contemplated getting out of the car and requesting that it be driven back to her house. She considered whether the chauffeur would even be aware of the location.

The enthralling grandeur of the black and white marble-floored hallway was overwhelming, brimming with guests in dinner suits and sophisticated evening attire. These were not guests she had ever met within any party she had attended. The women's fashion choices blew her mind - they weren't merely from decades ago, but rather of a different era entirely. The Edwardian-looking received attention, even those with loose, short dresses and close-fitting cloche hats covering bobbed hair. Was this the 'Roaring Twenties?'

The commanding tones of a matronly woman dressed in an Empire-style ensemble greeted her. The purple and blue number, featuring a fitted bodice below her bust, a high waistline, and a long, loosely fitted skirt, concluded with a sash. Atop her head, a grand turban indicated she was the evening's host.

"My dear, welcome!" expressed the matron with a grand sweep of her arms, "Now who can I introduce you to?"

Her sights secured upon a tall, esteemed man who donned a flawlessly pressed, cowl-collared dinner suit. It could only be Harris. However, he was not driving, but instead wearing the uniform of a chauffeur.

"How did I emerge here?" she wondered aloud to herself.

As always, she did not expect an honest response and was met with none.

"Harris, how are you?" inquired her hostess, who earlier projected an aura of perfection.

"Splendid, thank you. This is one hell of a party, miss," responded Harris charmingly.

Apologetically handing her two champagne coupes, "Your health, my dear."

Clinking glasses, their attendee surveyed the room. A young man in a dinner suit approached, greeting Harris, "Oh yes, I see, billiards? The chaps are looking for a game?"

Gesturing for her to follow, he said, "You're here," as he led the way down convoluted halls.

The threshold of a high-panelled door approached promisingly. Chaperoning her through, Harris was detained by a young man.

"Know the rules of Italian Billiards?" the young man inquired, casually.

Unaware of this version, she cowered in silence, for fear of offending or confusing him with her lack of knowledge.

"Ah, yes, I say, just billiards," he clarified, smiling. "Much like Carom billiards with one crucial exception - we possess one pocket on the table instead of relying on the six pockets of English Billiards. Each player maintains their own cue, but no need to chalk them."

Although ignorant of the sport, she managed to keep it concealed.

Escorted down labyrinthine corridors towards the billiard room, other players were engaged in matches.

Upon reaching the door, a young man stood guard. "You know Italian Billiards, I presume?"

Caught off guard, she admitted, "No sir."

"I'll show you," he kindly offered, leading her away from Harris to the table.

As the men played, the young man explained, "It's a combination of Carom and English Billiards, featuring one pocket on the table. Each player wields a cue stick, but they don't need to be covered in chalk."

Delighted to learn about the game, she pour over the strategies, eager to partake.

The confident young man's fingers stroked his clean-shaven chin. "Sure, but only three in Carom or English Billiards. For our game, we have two balls per player," he replied, oblivious to the confusion on her face.

This information should've given her a hint. Two balls per player.

The huge wooden fireplace in the room crackled with a blazing fire, warming the paneled walls and flocked wallpaper. In the room's center, there was no standard green baize-covered table with cushions and pockets. Instead, a large, polished mahogany dining room table stood, as big, if not bigger than a traditional full-sized billiards table. No pockets, as the young man mentioned, and nothing to stop the balls from falling from the table's edges. Maybe there were other ways to contain them.

"Would you like some help with your attire? There are a sofa and hangers in the corner."

"Do I need to... undress?"

The young man seemed surprised. "Of course! How else?"

Not surprised at all, considering her relationship with Harris, she sighed, "Then how is the game played?"

It wasn't the billiards she knew. Far from it. As the boy had mentioned, there was only one pocket, and in this game, it would be hers! Her body would be the pocket, and once that was appreciated, the nature of the 'cue sticks' would be clear, even if the details of the game's progress and regulations were not.

There was no need to resist or protest that she didn't want to play. She had agreed by entering the room. They were not her clothes, either. Nor were they her underclothes, which she found behind the screen. A whitish silk brassiere with lace and ribbon bows, cotton crepe de Chine knickers with an elastic waist, and chiffon panties, all in peach - comfortable and generous in texture.

Coming out, she found the young men, excluding Harris, had removed their jackets, trousers, and pants but not their shirts or black bow ties. Their black silk socks were held up by garter belts, not as erotic as stocking garters, she thought. Tight around the upper calves just below the knee, buckled to the socks to keep them vertical and taunt. Possibly the legendary Threadgold's Thoroughgrip Garterettes?

Around their white shirt sleeves were silver armbands, ensuring the cuffs were in place. Pleated bib fronts adorned the formal shirts in marcella, the collars detachable and winged, black silk barathea bow ties, mother of pearl silver studs on the fronts of the shirts with matching cuff links at the young men's wrists. A peculiar exhibit of male apparel accessories, several not typically visible or expected. Adding to this exhibition, silver chains held the upper and lower front shirt facings askew. Unexpected since they're usually concealed by trousers. But for this informal occasion, this game of Italian Billiards, their genitals needed to be exposed and showcased. The shirts were pulled aside to reveal their pubic areas, their penises and testicles. The uniform black and white of their formal attire was not maintained for these young men with non-black pubic hair - blond, chestnut, and brown! The penises all rose as she emerged from behind the screen, facing them stark naked, arousing her mind.

What was next? What were the rules?

Two ribbons drawn from Harris' pocket caught her attention. One was green, and the other was red. He bound them tightly to her thighs - green to the right, red to the left. Guiding lights or colors, like on a ship?

He then put white linen oversleeves over his evening coat before opening a tin. His thin smile grew as he indicated for her to bend over the highly polished table. An unexpected surprise as he began to smear wax on her bottom. Certainly not another instance of the goose grease; these young men weren't about to take turns with her backside?

Sweetie, the game's rules were nothing like that. Although she was the goal, her being 'taken' was still the objective. It was all explained to her by the young man who had brought her there, positioning his erect penis close to her ears. A fine, solid young manhood, its vermillion head completely exposed above the folds of his foreskin, his pee hole protruding and curving slightly. As he spoke, she bent over the table, enthusiastically listening, with the young man's erect manhood beside her ear.

The game unfolded on the slick tabletops. The centerpiece - the pawn, modeled after a woman - sat on the table with clasped ankles and spread legs, her pussy fully exposed, was spun across to face her enemy. The goal was to spin her so her feet went over the edge but not so far that a ribbon ventured off - definitely not far enough for her to fall from the table. The scoring system was complex. Ten points for spinning the woman's feet over the edge, fifteen if a knee followed, but zero points if a ribbon crossed the edge, and even worse, a fifty-point loss for the woman if she fell off the table. If she didn't spin enough so no part of her crossed the table's border, ten points were subtracted.

It seemed straightforward, but there was more. A pair of large wooden dice with edges fashioned to resemble balls were positioned onto the table. If a stocking crossed the border, then the opponent closest to the dice would roll them. Then, he'd use his 'cue' (a male organ) to thrust at the pawn, not to make her roll across the board, but just to "fuck." Not more than a dozen thrusts, however - one for each pip on the dice. If twos came up on each die, double the score. So, a potential maximum of twenty-four points! The numbers also counted towards his team's score. To suddenly "come" signaled his removal from the game, only his successful thrusts counted.

The goal was to reach three hundred points or eliminate the opposing team by their ejaculations. I didn't really need to know the rules or the scoring. My purpose: to be the playing piece, the pawn. I was placed on the table, my slippery skin easily gliding over the polished surface, and instructed how to spread ankles and legs apart.

Harris stood at the head of the table, impeccably dressed and groomed. His role: referee and dealer. The six young men with their 'cues' readied themselves at the corners and the middle of the longitudinal side.

"But what if I fall off?"

After all, there were spongy cushions beneath the table, just like in a billiards hall, only these were pulled out from below instead of along the edge. Soft cushions, for the players to stand on and to catch the pawn.

Harris spun the pawn. She raced across the table, precisely spun by Harris's hand, towards the bottom right corner. The perfect spin - clear that Harris was an expert. Both her knees went over the table's edge, but no ribbon crossed - fifteen points for his team, had he been playing. But he wasn't; nor had she gone far enough for the dice to be rolled - the game was on.

The following player wasn't as skilled, perhaps her spin too fast or his aim mistaken as she reached the middle right with most of her leg over the edge.

"Dexter!" shouted the young man on the right middle side, and, indeed, her right 'starboard' leg's garter crossed the table's rim. Dexter reached for the dice, shook them out of his hand, causing them to scatter over the table. Two threes - six points scored for his team but, more importantly, six thrusts into the pawn. His slender and pointy knob twitching, he impatiently slid in.

"One, two, three, four..." Harris counted methodically. His task to ensure everyone played by the rules.

"So good!" Dexter exclaimed. The other young men around the table watched, a mix of envy and worry. It was a strategy to spin the pawn towards a single player, risky as he might ejaculate before making a play, surrendering the points his team built up.

Dexter removed himself, his turn all but over, but he still had to throw the pawn. He spun, flinging her backwards towards the top left. Appropriate to spin her going the opposite direction from before, counter-clockwise. Back up the table she traveled, towards the top left.

"Uh-oh!" The green ribbon was precariously close to unraveling along with the red. The dice were shaken, but a groan echoed from the young man's side. It was the lowest score they've had - a two and a one, three moves for their team, yet none for the opposing team. Another member from their team slid into the pawn. "One, two, three." Then, they too whirled the pawn back towards the start. The spin was poor, the pawn's feet falling short of clearing the edge. A whopping ten point deduction. The last three points were gobbled up.

Traversing upward to the top left corner, the sinister team. Was it a calculated move, or simply a weak spin? Both gartered. No points earned from the spinning team but the young man was given a chance with the dice in his hand, his still damp penis, noticeably thicker and lower hanging with hairy balls. However, groans resonated from both him and his allies. A double six showed on the dice - twelve spots, but doubled to twenty-four. A significant boost to the sinister team's score, but also a huge risk. Twenty-four uninterrupted thrusts could lead to ejaculation - and it's not a given that they'd even achieve that many points. The rules explicitly forbid halting or slowing down during the act.

Smirks from the dexter team. Did they realize? Knowing the opponent's capabilities is essential in many games, and so is Italian Billiards. Was it known that the particular young man had difficulty controlling his semen? A man prone to "coming too quickly"?

The woman found herself increasingly captivated by the game, relishing in the competition, not to mention the sexual excitement and thrills she was experiencing. For the second time that night, the young man penetrated her, the gratifying sensation of being filled, along with the pleasing pull on her clitoris as he commenced his twenty-four. The room was utterly silent as the action commenced, muted by the sucking wetness of their entwined genitalia moving and Harris' unwavering count. The numbers edged higher and higher, then a cry was emitted by the young man:

"No!"

Frowns surfaced on his teammates' faces as the act persisted. "Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three."

"Aaagh, ohhh!"

"Twenty-four!" As the words left Harris' lips, the young man released his semen, his penis spurting into the pawn. The only option remaining was for him to extract himself from the game and the pawn. He tugged himself out, his erect penis glistening with moisture dripping from it. It wouldn't stay rigid. He'd just remain in the room and observe the game. His companions eyed him critically for squandering a substantial advantage. He'd added twenty-three to their score, though.

The dealer prepared the pawn for its return to the game, spiralling down the table. Another whirling of the waxed buttocks, the players and surroundings now indistinct in her mind. Down to the bottom left, but, once more, an expert spin. Her legs and knees were out, neither ribbon affected. Harris was a skilled dealer, which could potentially give him an unfair edge over the new players.

Swinging the pawn back up, a sensation of moisture seeping out of her became apparent. It struck her that the spinning action freed the recently deposited semen from her, tiny blobs of it shooting forth - somewhat like she herself was ejaculating semen! If several players climaxed, the tabletop might get a bit messier and potentially slicker. A new twist to the game mechanics, perhaps? A consideration of the table's wetness and slipperiness.

A lively game. The dexter team was making notable progress until one player overshot the mark. Maybe misjudging the slope but the pawn went way off the table, landing on a cushion. A considerable fifty point forfeit - significant indeed! And a coin toss landed in sinister's favor. A double five, ten possible points, completed without ejaculation.

The sinister team, despite being one player down, inched ahead, only for a second ejaculation to decimate their team to just one young man. The dexter team seized control, not simply aiming for ten or fifteen points, but to compel him to roll the dice and keep fucking the pawn. Rapt grins from the dexter team emerged as he continued scoring highly.

Once more, she turned to the solitary gentleman, seeking the sensation of his penis within her. Although repetitive, it was by no means unpleasant; on the contrary. Had the rules awarded points for making a pawn come? If so, this gentleman had a fine one - it was true of all of them! A fleshy and firm member she appreciated, but there was something special about the upward curve and the well-shaped 'coal-scuttle' he possessed. She could feel the brim, the scoup, and the finely edged corona. Eleven more times she invited him in. Was this to be the third climax of the night for her?

But it fell short, although the other player jokingly remarked, "Nearly, old boy." Before the young man with the graceful arch and 'coal-scuttle' had a chance to respond, the dice indicated a double six. A 24-point shot for the sinister team! The young man who had joked too soon couldn't help but grin, but the tables had now turned, and his virile organ was now at a disadvantage.

"More than nearly, eh, old boy!" The remaining single player taunted in response, in a playful manner, as the young man with the dripping cock stepped away from the table with a sobered expression.

Two players to one now. Three balls still to be pocketed. Erections stood firm and ready to claim their prize. The lone sinister player, with his curved penis and 'coal-scuttle' knob bouncing, continued to impress with his performance. Fifteen points scored with repeated shots across the table, using either knee or both knees, but not the garters. Excellent play from him, but not from the team of opposing dextrous players. A red garter was sent flying off the side of the table, and the 'coal-scuttle' could celebrate the possibility of spurting inside the female part if a high dice score was achieved, but as the dice clicked and clattered loudly, it showed a modest four and five. A nine-point run. No cause for concern. A smug grin emerged on his face as he once more settled his swollen member between the woman's thighs, Harris noting every thrust - now at nine.

A good roll of the dice followed, and then the dexter player repeated their previous mistake when sending the pawn beyond the line. Confident of their chances, the dexter players peered carefully at the cage, hoping for a double or even a double six, which would hand them a 20 or 24-point victory.

Alas, it was not to be: a mere double three rolled. Only six more points scored.

An unusual position for her, sitting on the table and experiencing an involuntary ride at some instances, albeit more like a bystander. She was not involved in the game directly, but her body played a role. While other times a man would thrust into her, sometimes she would also receive his seed. The table displayed splatters, fans and rivulets of come, a product of her orgasms. When the day was over, someone would clean the table, restoring its luster to the 'Italian Billiards' surface. The task would be performed by an aged servant in black, accustomed to this undertaking, or perhaps a new maid, her eyes wide in amazement at what she was cleaning.

A setback for the dexter team: the woman's movement had been slightly overdone. Perhaps it was an inadvertent slip, or a purposeful mishap. While they had planned on dealing with come-slickened surfaces, the sheer ease with which the woman slid off the table was unexpected.

She was lifted back onto the surface by the gentleman with his elegant arch and 'coal-scuttle' dangling conspicuously in front of her, a husky proposition in his voice, asking, "Are you not sore, Miss?" He stood near her, reaching out a hand to assist her back to her task. She could have enjoyed this offer more if she had been a mouth, feasting on his rod. However, she was assisted back into position, which proved inconvenient for him, and a gleam of merry excitement filled his eyes before the counting board marked 50 more points for him.

Despite the uncertainty of the situation, the young man may have overestimated his abilities. Could he have let his determination overcome his senses? He spun the pawn off-kilter, and its garter fell free. His opponent, throwing the dice, indicated a double six. Twin frowns were in evidence on the two dexter players' faces. But the look on the face of the dexter player about to play was different. Perhaps it was a fascination with vaginal wetness filled with semen, a young man enamored with 'sloppy seconds' or 'cream pies', or was she merely the object of his amorous desire? And so, he began to satisfy that lust, thrusting without interruption, hesitation or variance, in perfect rhythm - in fact, he'd do this mainly for the wildlife.

Harris recorded the anticipation, but his count identified nothing near the required 24 points before a rosy blush emerged on the gentleman's face, and understandable satisfaction softened the stern expression of the other two men. Unfortunately, merely 19 thrusts had been performed. Eyes shut and with a beatific expression, he had experienced the catharsis that ecstasy brings while the team appeared both bewildered and relieved, perhaps even a touch frustrated, emotionally torn between feelings of disappointment and elation.

If only he could have reached 24!

So, now we're down to just the two players left by the table. Their penises were proudly displayed, with silver chains holding back their shirts like curtains on either side of a stage, emphasizing the main attraction. There's no doubt that these two manhoods were stealing the show. How many times would each of them perform before they become too over-the-top?

Harris sends her down the table, putting the pawn into play once more. After an impeccable move, his knee goes over the edge, but not thigh or anything more. A spin from the remaining left-handed player follows as the game continues. A good game with tens and fifteens racking up, but a return ten from the right-handed team, just a nicely shaped ankle over. A consistent play, but the right-handed team is still in the lead. A fair distance left to go for that 300. Two more graphic engagements result in an extra dozen or so points each team. The cues were being used a lot in the pawn's pocket.

She looks across to the four players no longer in the game, still dressed (or undressed) for the game. Their soft penises were hanging. They had all been inside her. They had all ejaculated within her. She likes to think she's loyal to Benjamin. Maybe even tell herself she's only had sex with him... and Harris. But that's becoming less and less true. Six more right on the very table she's sitting on. How many more will she take? How many places will Harris take her to? How many more men will fuck her?

Another spin and her green garters just over the edge, followed by a double three from the left-handed player, a twelve-stroke throw. Completed, and the score is updated accordingly. He steps back, taking his cue out of the pawn's pocket, a smirk on his face. But is that a look of confidence or something else as he spins her again? She thinks his penis almost goes over the edge and enters her. A skillful move, Knee over, and a fifteen. The left-handed player considers the possibility of making the full 20 thrusts, but then decides against it.

The game is effectively over, and the sinister team has won. It's more or less a formality at this point. The right-handed player could have given up, but there's always a chance he might make the mandatory 20 thrusts. A good addition to the score, but no - he made eleven before a sigh and a gasp.

The sound of a gong rings out, announcing dinner. Time to get redressed and put away cues and pockets, and all head off to dine. All the players, except the last sinister player, are getting dressed quickly, concealing their genitalia. But she was alone behind a screen, getting dressed. She was a bit disappointed that the last sinister player didn't get his release. She would've been quite happy to allow him or even take him in her mouth and make him cum that way. But dinner was calling, and he was shoving his erection into his trousers as quickly as the rest.

Harris waited and escorted her.

"You didn't want to, is that it? Normally..."

Harris' thin smile and his eyes liquid and bright, looking at her. "There's plenty of time left, that evening is far from over."

It wasn't over. A multi-course dinner by candlelight, delightful and with conversation sparkling and witty. When it came time for the ladies to leave, she was asked to stay. Was she being treated as an honorary man? Yes, that was the case as the tablecloth was drawn, and she was seated with a port glass in front of her. But it wasn't as a man she was needed.

The port decanter made its way around the table, traveling in the sinister direction. She pours a glass for herself and passes it on. She takes a sip. Sweet and rich, a vintage she wouldn't sample again - if she did manage to return so far in time.

Fattening cigars were lit, and the fragrant blue smoke curled towards the ceiling. She doesn't smoke, and even if she did, she considered a large cigar was far from ladylike. Perhaps a thin cheroot or cigarette, but she took neither. Not her thing and never had been.

Her host, by her side, lifts his cigar from his mouth and smiles at her beneath his magnificent handlebar mustache. "You don't smoke?"

"No, thank you."

"May I offer you a dragée or comfit, or something more substantial?"

It was quite amazing, but much of what she'd encountered with Harris was like this. It reminded her of the billiard room all over again. The host, definitely not a young man, was unfastening his trousers with the intent to reveal his manhood. And, indeed, out it came. Swollen and erect, the foreskin draped over the top, giving it a cigar-like shape.

"The preparation and enjoyment of a fine cigar is very similar to the preparation and oral pleasure of a fine penis," he said.

She was startled.

"Let me illustrate." He picked up another cigar. There was definitely a resemblance in shape, and his organ was considerably darker, almost brown compared to his pale, yet freckled hands, once more like the cigar, without a paper band around it. She squinted, but there was! A brightly colored paper band encircling the shaft. What did it say? To her it was upside down, but she deciphered it - 'GREAT PENIS'.

"The first step is to snip the tip with a cigar cutter to enable you to inhale through the cigar and blow through it. Just like this." A swift action with a compact tool and the cigar was ready. "With a penis, you should retract the skin a bit." He set down the cutter and took her hand and placed it around his rigid organ. "Just glide your fingers down a bit, not too much. Yes, that's it. You're exposing the opening from where you will later draw the..." a laugh, "well, it's not smoke, you'll draw it out - just like on my cigar." To demonstrate, he drew on the large cigar in his mouth, a gentle inhalation. It wasn't a cigarette.

"The cigar should initially be charred at the tip, ensuring it burns evenly when lit. With a penis, a small amount of gentle stimulation will prepare it for ignition - for it to become warm and aroused." It was already firm in her hand and surely warm. Her fingers slid over the smooth skin. She was no newbie, far from being a virgin, acquainted with penises. Hadn't she been caressing Benjamin's the night prior - and even sucking? And hadn't she already been in the billiard room?

The man chuckled, "but mine is already well charred and ready for ignition. With a Havana you light it with a match - not a candle. The wax will affect the taste. Once glowing, you carefully blow onto it to ensure it's burning evenly. Best to rotate it in your fingers while assembling the flame on the cigar. It's much the same with the penis. Do, please, do blow!"

She lowered her head and blew towards the smoothness of the partially exposed head, tracing over the little opening, rotating the cock in her hand so her breath also touched the delicate membrane of his partially revealed frenulum. A sigh from the man as he relished the cigar's smoke and the delicate sensations on his penis.

"Yes, a gentle rotation between your thumb and forefinger until it's evenly ablaze. It can take a minute or two to complete." She continued to exhale, a steady stream of breath over his glans, daringly, without instruction, pulling the foreskin further down, exposing more.

"And then, you take the smoke into your mouth, allowing it to caress your palate. So calming and something to savor. The cigar should be smoked slowly; take small sips rather than swallowing it whole. Otherwise, it might overheat. The same applies to a penis. Draw it into your mouth, savoring its sensation. Don't suck forcefully, instead, savor the feeling of it in your mouth. Gently and slowly, one wouldn't want it to overheat and flood your mouth with..." a chuckle, "... all that smoke! You desire a little at a time, a modest intake to savor the flavor - just like a cigar."

It was apparent what was transpiring between them. The conversation had slowed around them, and the other gentlemen were listening, if not standing up to witness the fellation. Then the cigar was inserted between her lips fully. Behind her, she felt her garment being lifted up and over her hips.

"You should allow the ash to accumulate rather than knocking it off regularly. It slows down the burn rate and provides a better, cooler smoke. Should it go out, you'll need to rekindle. When finished, simply place the cigar in the ashtray and allow it to extinguish gradually. Never stub it, that's taboo."

She tapped the object on the table, and a smile appeared below the handlebar mustache. "That's the key!" From its tip, a small amount of creamy fluid came out. Both of them noticed it, as well as those around.

"Looking good!" she said.

Laughter filled the room. The "cigar" wouldn't last long. She wouldn't extinguish it but lay it gently down, perhaps with a slight trail of "smoke" still curling from it. She glanced behind her. Her dress was up, exposing her bare bottom. Table's remaining occupants were crowded around. Many of them had their penises out - cigars in their mouths and tobacco sticks protruding from their trousers. Behind her stood a distinguished-looking older man in a military uniform, complete with scarlet coat, plenty of braid, and multiple medals. This man, a senior officer, had his saber unsheathed and ready for action.

He was the first to tackle her, ploughing inside her, unerringly accurate, unlike Jonathan. A combination of his penis in her mouth while being penetrated - an experience she enjoyed. She sucked in the member in front of her, creating a cloud of "smoke." She filled her mouth with it, savoring the tastes and textures.

The other men offered their "fine cigars" for her to suck on. Wide cigars, none of them thin cheroots, and none were in need of relighting. All were already burning brightly. The men continued to puff away while penetrating her, some having cocktails in their free hands. A man wearing glasses smiled at her, a cigar between his teeth, raising his half-full glass to toast her. As he pushed his penis in and out of her, the Highlander’s spurted inside her with a nod in acknowledgement.

The men eventually left, leaving only a red-haired Scotsman in Highland garb and Harris. She stood up, hoping the Scotsman wouldn't make any advances. But he did. While raising his kilt, the Scotsman showcased his massive penis and hairy balls.

"I can't, I just can't!" she stammered, imagining a third or perhaps even fourth serving of dessert or a set of wee bairns.

Despite her resistance, he gently guided her back on to the table, with her face up. He raised her legs, creating a mess between her thighs. It was tricky getting into position with previous penises having filled her up. But the Scotsman persisted, and eventually, his large knob disappeared. He took his time, lasting longer than the other men.

The Scotsman waited until last, not wanting to rush things and enabling her to pleasurably recover. Harris remained uninterested, strolling around the room, looking at the art and occasionally checking on them.

Time ticked on.

It was impossible: not another orgasm for her. She'd already experienced so many. Yet, it happened. Perhaps the Highlander's entry had triggered something, his tenacity a jumping-off point. And as she climaxed, so did the Scotsman, spurting into her. Definitely not just the one spurt, Harris must surely have collected a couple of wee bairns.

The Scottish gentleman was courteous, helping her off the table, complimenting her, and promising a repeat performance. She was left alone with Harris. Impeccably dressed in a tuxedo and a neatly tied bow tie, Harris seemed untouched by the action. There was no sign of him making a move towards her.

"I haven't," she replied, "neither have you." It was indeed true. Despite all the sexual encounters she'd had, not a single one of them had been with Harris.

"Do you want?"

She wasn't sure what to think. Although she'd certainly had more than enough sex, she had a desire to be pregnant and Harris was someone she was familiar with, even a friend. But he hadn't...

"Would you like it?" she inquired.

"I love it," he responded.

"Which one would you prefer - mouth or vagina?" She secretly hoped it would be the latter. She was convinced that fertilization took place in the vagina.

From his pocket, Harris pulled out two billiard balls - both white, one with a red spot. The player's cue balls for Carom or English Billiards. He then concealed each one in his hands, knuckles facing upwards. "Choose the white ball for your pretty mouth, the red spot for intercourse. You decide."

She thought she saw the pure white ball in his right hand but when she chose his left hand instead, she found there was no red spot. Slowly, she got on her knees.

She was the one who pulled out, prepared herself according to the instructions, and carried out fellatio in the dining room, surrounded by the two of them alone.

"I want to go to bed and sleep now."

"Unfortunately, it's not a house party," he said. "There's no bed for you. We leave at midnight."

Just like Cinderella, would Harris or everything else change when midnight struck?

As the clock began to chime, it was set for twelve strokes. They made their way to the hall, her thanking her host - his trousers neatened and his organ hidden. He handed her into her cab, which Harris drove away.

Exhausted, her head nodding as the vehicle accelerated down the drive.

She closed her eyes again. The windscreen wipers, rhythmic and hypnotic, made their "whirr whirr" sound while outside the rain poured. The car turned into her street-lit road and came to a stop in front of her house. Had she been tired? Had she been exhausted after a mere taxi ride?

Jonathan, waiting inside, invited her in, offering the excuse that she was 'late'. He gave her a kiss that meant more than a simple greeting - but she couldn't say she was too tired for sex. She contemplated mentioning a headache, but if she did, she'd be face to face with a dilemma: she might get pregnant.

Upon reaching the bedroom, she sat down at her dressing table. She put her handbag down, pulling out just one billiard ball, perfectly round, smooth, and completely white. [End of paraphrase]

Read also:

• Slim, Youthful, and Well-Endowed in Part 2
• Removing Obstacles in Chapter 2
• Advancing Professionally
• Who's More Skilled at Taunting?

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