8 comments/ 93225 views/ 11 favorites Lawyer Debbie Does Dessert Ch. 01 By: shaunreagh Simply being a lawyer could sometimes be a pain. "How nice is nice?" I hissed, starting to get just a tad annoyed. He'd come back later than planned with our guests, we'd had no chance to talk. A quick Hi-Hi at the door and a peck on the cheek and that had been that. He dumped the plates in the sink. "Debs, honey, we got no time for this," he said, sounding frustrated -- with me! "I gotta get back to our guests. Besides," he turned, "this sets us on our way. You should be happy." "I am happy," I said, defensively, (but added to myself -- the lawyer in me -- 'Or will be once it's signed'). I took a deep breath, turned on the water, and tried another approach. "Jim, sweetheart, we both know how much you want this," I said, sounding reasonable -- damn it all, being reasonable! "But how ..." I searched for a word that would fit, "compliant ... must I be to help this thing along?" He didn't reply. He didn't get it. My klutz of a husband didn't get it at all. Or didn't want to. I'd eaten the shrimp and avocado starter with one hand on my fork and the other on the hem of my dress. Keeping it decent beneath the table while our guest of honour, the boss of Intermax Financing, showed more interest in getting his hand between my legs than he showed in the shrimps. I'd taken an hour to prepare the damn things! (You ever try shelling two dozen shrimps?) I started to rephrase things when Jim turned away. "I gotta get back to the guests," he said, and was out of the door before I was half way around. Damn it! I turned back to the sink, droop shouldered. I stared at my reflection in the window, the tiny yard beyond. We could surely do better than this? Two years ago, newly married, we moved here. 'Temporary place until we find somewhere nice,' we'd said. 'Just a few months,' we'd added, full of hope. Two years on, and we're still here! And to think I gave up a good job with one of the big city law firms to move here. Okay, I grant you, Briarsfield is not exactly Hick Town, and Fozzler and Gleizz where I work is not the worst little law firm in the world, but neither is the centre of the universe, if you know what I mean. Jim and I met in College. I was the studious one, model on the side, Jim was a jock. Athletics, pole vault. Mild natured, broad shouldered, DIB, (dynamite in bed). A real tiger in bed, in fact. Hence the attraction, I guess. I've always had a weakness for guys that are hot, (and know how to make me the same). But that had been then. Before the strains of his job began to prey on his urge and debilitate his hormones. Now he tended more towards the pussy than the tiger, more's the pity. A glint from the window across the yard caught my eye. I reached for the cord to yank the blind closed, but just as quickly dropped my hand. I broke it last week. Yanking too hard, or too quickly. So what! I thought. Give the lecher his eyeful. It hardly does me any harm. The glint was my neighbour's binoculars. His nightly ritual was to switch off his kitchen light, stand back from the window, and wait for me to come into the kitchen. What he didn't seem to realise was that whenever his binoculars were aimed at the window the light from my kitchen reflected back from the lense. Dumb, or what? I seemed to be surrounded by klutzes. My neighbour, our dinner guests, even my husband right now. Were ALL males this annoying? I turned from the window and leaned towards the oven and as I did I wondered how far up the back of my legs the hem of my dress would climb. I wondered if the klutz next door had his binoculars trained on my legs? I took the coq-au-vin from the oven, straightened, and wondered about the clothes I was wearing. The choice for tonight's little dinner -- or should I say Jim's selection -- was my little black dress with all the 'trimmings', as Jim liked to put it. The dress was short, very short, worn with charcoal stockings that clung to my legs with an elastic band of jet black vines that curled around the top of each. 'We don't want the imprint of a suspender belt to spoil the line,' Jim said, patting my derriere possessively as he picked the clothes out this morning before he went to work. 'If my charm doesn't work," he'd suggested with a leer, "we'll flaunt you instead!' Well, as of right now, that seemed to be the way this thing was going. No-one was noticing Jim's big amount of charm, just the more slender parts of me. I turned with my Le Creusot clutched in oven gloves, mind wondering which part of me was under scrutiny now through the eyepiece of my neighbour's binoculars. How close could these things focus? I headed for the door with the main course, wiggling my butt just a tad for the letch next door. Why should he miss out on all the fun, after all. Everyone else seemed to be getting a piece of me tonight. "Coq au vin," I announced to our guests -- Dunkerly, the ox-like boss of Intermax and his watery-eyed accountant. They were not nice men, I was discovering. I'd had to deal with the watery eyed accountant on the Finance Agreement details -- a lawyerly freebie from me to my cash-strapped husband. Every meeting we had I felt myself being undressed by these watery eyes! As I put the coq au vin on the table in front of Jim I wondered if Duffy, the one with watery eyes, was aware of what his boss had been doing to me beneath the table during the first course. If he had, might he have spoken up in my defence? Done so, perhaps, during the break between courses while Jim and I were speaking in the kitchen -- whispering urgent nothings by the sink! If Duffy's eyes had anything to say on the subject, I doubted it! I sat, spread my napkin over my knees, slid my chair towards the table, and reached for the serving spoons. But perhaps I was being unfair on Duffy. Perhaps he was nicer than he seemed. A family man, even. Three or four angelic kids at home. A pillar of his local church? "Mashed Potatoes?" I asked his boss, and as I did I felt a hand on my knee beneath the table. It stroked, then cupped, then gently squeezed my knee. It was Duffy's hand. (Trash the church idea!) So ... when Jim and I were talking in the kitchen had our guests been talking too? About how I let his boss fondle my leg, without complaint? I turned to Duffy, about to ... What? I've no idea! But just as I did he leant forward and told me how much he liked my home and how impressed they at Intermax Financing were with my husband, and how optimistic they were with the project Jim wanted them to finance. I have no idea what I thought I might say to him about his hand, that was fondling my knee, but ended up leaving the hand where it was, and replying, "Well thank you, Mr Duffy. I know Jim won't let you down." "Call me Issey,' said Duffy, looking sincere -- if watery eyed -- but leaving his hand where it was, continuing to do what it was doing. "Love my spuds," said Dunkerly, the boss, the other side, reclaiming my attention from his minion. I left my knee in Duffy's dubious care and served his ox-like boss. "Some more?" I asked, one spoonful served. "Twist my arm," he said, then winked and added with a leer, "someone as appetising as you, Mrs Lewis, could make me do practically any thing." He turned and winked at Jim -- some macho bonding crap? -- and added, as if I'd disappeared, unannounced, "You should take her into your firm, Jim. Gorgeous little cutie like Debbie here would have us old 'uns eating out of her hand in no time flat!" He winked again. At which point Jim got up and smacked him in the mouth! (Fat chance!) "I'm delighted she meets your approval, boss," oiled Jim, unforgivably. He wasn't Jim's boss for one thing. (But that's what he liked being called, apparently, or so Jim said.) The three males laughed anyway. Easily amused! Then Jim fawned some more. "Debbie does a lot of things to die for. Making mash is one of them." Gufaws all round. (Assholes.) "Bet that's not all she could do that would make ME die," said Duffy, joining in the fun. More smutty laughter. I bit my lip. I can never understand why men doing business have to be so damn obsequious to each another, and how smutty asides can possibly be seen as bonding in any meaningful way. I splashed a third spoonful of potatoes, mashed with butter and garlic and chopped red onions, on the boss's plate. I hoped he choked on it. "Do help yourself to the coq-au-vin," I encouraged, smiling as warmly as I could into eyes just returned from a leisurely examination of my breasts, the upper slopes of which were bared extravagantly in the deeply scooped neckline of my little black dress. Jim has always been proud of how I look, but this was verging on salesmanship. "My mother's recipe," I added, untruthfully, trying to suggest that I wasn't a toy at all, but a real live person -- with parents and everything. But the subtlety was missed on our guest. "I'd rather you served me," he simpered, leaning forward, going for the teddy-bear look but failing. More like an elephant seal stranded on a lard-polluted beach! I watched, hopelessly -- helplessly! -- as his hands snaked beneath the table yet again and found my other knee. For some idiotic reason, tied up, I'm guessing here, with not wanting either of my guests to know that the other was handling my leg, I spread my knees. And yes, I know, this probably encouraged each to believe that I was offering my leg for them do with as they wished, but by the time I figured this out it was kinda too late to do much about it! My eyes went to Jim at the head of the table. Filled with what? Entreaty? I'm really not sure. I don't know what I wanted to express to my husband at this point. All I did know, with certainty, was that my husband did NOT want this evening to sink -- or worse still, explode! -- into unpleasantness. So with my legs now the objects of exploration by my guests, I tried to keep still, and relax, and not offend anyone. "Perhaps you could pass the coq-au-vin?" I said to Jim in lieu of anything more constructive to say. He adjusted things in the middle of the table. Moved the potatoes and vegetables -- brussel sprouts with thyme and baby carrots -- closer to himself. The coq-au-vin he moved towards me. Our guests did nothing to help. Other than under the table, of course, where they helped themselves, to me. I was unhelpful too,in the circumstances, as I couldn't move. Not without upsetting things. Or guests. And we didn't want that! My eyes were on Jim as I served the coq-au-vin, then vegetables, to Dunkerly, then Duffy, and Jim took his attention from me, to pouring wine, and Duffy then Dunkerly decided to examine, I am guessing again, how I might react if they ran their hands on my legs up the insides of both. Outwardly I didn't, of course. React. But inwardly I did. Respond. With concern, then growing alarm. It was when I served Duffy his final spoonful of vegetables -- two brussel sprouts and four baby carrots with a sprig of thyme -- that the backs of their hands must have met, high up between my legs, where stockings end and flesh begins. They stilled. The hands. All three. Six inches from the flimsy black silk of my panties. I waited, to see what would happen next. "This is delicious, Debbie, my pet," said Jim. Jim was the only one eating. The others were otherwise engaged. On me. My legs remained apart, unmoving, the hands between them, stilled. Moving from the hips I reached to the table and served myself. Three hands, high up on the insides of my legs, fingers grazing skin as their owners worked out (presumably) their next move. I reached for my knife and fork. I was determined not to get involved. "Do eat before it gets cold," I said to my guests, my eyes on Jim. He made an encouraging face. 'Good girl,' or something, I took it to mean. One hand from the three beneath the table returned to the white-damask-cloth covered surface where the plates, and food, and decency lay. It was one of Dunkerly. Then another made the trip. This one Duffy's. One hand now, but only the one thank goodness, remained beneath the table, between my legs. Dunkerly's right. Pulling rank, perhaps? I made an encouraging face of my own, at Duffy, who was picking up his knife and fork, starting on his food. The solitary hand that remained beneath the table eased up the hem of my dress. I didn't react. Fingers began to gently, carefully -- agonisingly slowly! -- stroke my silk-clad pudenda. Still, I didn't react. Stroking ... lightly probing ... pressing gently. I focussed on my knife and fork determined not to move; determined not to allow what he was doing beneath the table to affect me. After a further, tortuous, lengthy caress during which I put some coq-au-vin in my mouth, and chewed, then swallowed ... and then some potatoes, and chewed, and swallowed them ... then two baby carrots, and chewed some more, and swallowed them as well, the fingers finished up with me. They signified this state had been reached by patting the bulge, of me, in silk, between my legs. Then the wayward hand returned to the table top, leaving me in peace. "Mmmh," said the Intermax boss, eyes on mine, licking his lips, raising his knife and fork. "Now THAT's what I call appetising!" He winked at me. I thought it best to respond in some fashion, so did. I smiled back. Though not a great one. But it seemed to suffice. He stuffed a well-loaded forkful of food in his mouth. I stretched then rolled my hips atop my chair as my hand slipped beneath the table cloth to rearrange my hem and reposition my napkin over my knees. As he occupied himself with food I found myself wondering, not for the first time this evening, how much this Finance Agreement was worth. I mean in terms of me. What was at stake here? I crossed my right leg over my left easing welcome pressure into places that were moist. Other than producing a cocktail of disconcerting juices from within -- that made me moist -- and heating me up in various strategic locations, had I suffered? I mean REALLY suffered? Even applying the dubious modern concept of 'emotional trauma', had their little foray caused me any lasting physical or mentally harm? Was I emotionally traumatised, for example? And how -- even if I might be, which I didn't think I was -- did that compare with the likely advantages to be gained from the Finance Agreement going through? They were talking amongst themselves, and eating, and sipping wine. I watched, but after a while lost interest in their talk. I started to relax. I let my mind wander. I had learned, long ago, what it was like to be 'desired', as certain magazines tend to term this men-coming-onto-women thing. It came with the territory, I guess. The territory of half decent looks, not bad legs, and a pretty good figure. My mother, a looker herself in her day, always said it would cause me more heartache than joy. But then, she was always a kill-joy! As I chewed, cogitated, and dreamed just a little of this and that, my eyes drifted to the sideboard beyond Jim. It was a present from his mother. Fussy and heavy. Both of them, I guess. Though thankfully Jim had only inherited his mother's shoulders! Jim's looks, and his at times annoyingly inoffensive nature, were his father's. 'Annoyingly inoffensive' ... as in situations such as this, this dinner, when I almost felt that either of our guests could slip beneath the table and push his head between my legs and receive nothing more stern from Jim by way of reprimand than a suggestion that perhaps he should eat his coq-au-vin before it gets cold ... as under the table the guy makes a meal of me! So much for defending my virtue. Jim didn't get it, sometimes. My file case from work, I noted, was leaning against the sideboard. Dropped as I came in the door, missed as I tidied things up. The carpet it was on was depressingly threadbare. One of the first things we'd replace when money was available. The fire in the grate beyond Duffy needed an extra log. I made a mental note. There was a wedding photo one side of the mantelpiece -- Jim looking very masculine and me, surprisingly virginal! A framed print of Venice was above it on the wall. We'd gone there on our honeymoon. Virginity shot to hell during these ten wild fun-packed days! It had, in truth, been shot to heck long before that, but that's hardly relevant here. Then I noticed Dunkerly, the boss, he of wandering hands. Having clearly wolfed down his food at breakneck speed he finished with a belch that would have done credit to the elephant seal he so resembled. He patted his stomach, pushed back his chair, leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. Then he thrust his hands beneath the table. I took a deep breath. His chin was low, on a level with the table top. He was arranging the overhanging cloth atop his forearms with the sort of care you'd expect of a surgeon working on an open heart. I found myself wondering why. No-one could see what his hands were doing. And no-one was paying attention in any case. Other than me! When he considered concealment appropriate, at least I am assuming this is what it was about, he asked Jim, "How does your wife feel?" and, as he did, started to feel me under the table. I found myself flip, from honeymoon in Venice and dying logs and threadbare carpets to the much more serious business of here and now: the dinner table, my husband Jim, the flanking guests, the coq au vin, the Financial Agreement that meant so much to us both, the touch of a stranger's hands on the sensitive underside of leg. "About what?" I asked, off balance, leaving my legs where they were. I thought they'd been talking about football. "The Financing," said Dunkerly, easing my crossed leg off the one beneath, casually and as if by right, and parting my knees once he'd done that. "I think it will be good, for all concerned," I said, hesitantly, letting him position my legs as he wished, the nearest tilted towards him. Then I took my roiling thoughts in hand. I hardly saw that my 'dignity', if that is what this was about, and I figured it probably was, could be regarded as so fragile that my leg being pawed by an influential older man who found me desirable, was worth throwing away the Finance Agreement for. After all, I rationalised, keeping still as the movement of his fingers, now high on the inside of my legs, caused a sudden jolt to flip through me ... it was not as if others hadn't done the same thing. Quite a few others, in fact. In quite the same way. And in exactly the same place. Another jolt shot through me. "So you're all for it, Debbie?" he enquired, fingertips stroking my skin, eyes locked on mine, wanting to be interesting -- wanting to be intimate! "You don't mind if I call you Debbie, do you?" he practically whispered. "No, please do," I said, letting my legs drift further apart, softening my eyes on his. "And yes, I'm all for it," I said, dropping my voice an octave, making it throaty. Heck, I figured, if he found me sexy, and my being sexy helped the Agreement, what harm could it do? Other than making me hot. And blush. (I always blush when aroused. Breasts and chest and neck and face, one minute softly pale and then, bing-bam, beetroot red! Having my legs caressed like this aroused me. I didn't want it to but it always did, no matter who was doing the caressing!) I tried to think of other things but parts of my mind kept coming back to his hands, deep in the gap between my parted legs, and the realisation that this time he was exploring the inside surfaces of both with a lot more care than the first time around! I wondered if the others at the table guessed what he was doing? But what else could he be doing, leaning so close, hands beneath the table-cloth like this! "You cook very well, Mrs Lewis, " said Duffy, eating more sedately than his boss. "I've always enjoyed it," I replied, meaning cooking, as his boss's fingers reached the strip of silk between my legs. Lawyer Debbie Does Dessert Ch. 01 "You could teach my Millie a lesson or two." Duffy eyed me over his fork. He knew what his boss was doing! (Of that I have no doubt.) "About a lot of things," he added, his watery eyes attempting to dance with mine. I let them, for a step of two, then averted my eyes as fingers brushed the tight bulge of my clitoris imprisoned in silk. My pelvis produced an involuntary kick, then thrust, as the fingers brushed it a second time. Duffy asked Jim what he would do now, now that he had the finance. I took this as a good sign, a sign that we were on the cusp of getting our agreement after all. My pelvis kicked and thrust, again, into Dunkerly's irritating fingers doing their manipulative worst. I was becoming ever moister as they spoke. I simply cannot withstand a lengthy exploration of the inside of my thighs without becoming damp. Especially if the hand doing the exploring every so often, and ever so gently, brushes my clitoris. And he had, again, JUST THEN! I almost dropped my knife and fork onto my plate so intense was the kick this time. So difficult too, to conceal. I hurriedly finished my coq au vin, placed my knife and fork together on my plate. Looked up. I was the last to finish. My eyes surveyed the table, and the plates, but my focus was pelvis and hips. Willing the damn things not to move, or jump, or kick, or suddenly leap off the chair. The conversation had died. Three pairs of eyes were on mine. I looked at my husband. I gave him a look which said something along the lines of, 'Either you get up and see about desert or I am going to have to be rude to the boss of the firm you hope will invest in your future, for although we have finished our food he hasn't quite finished with me.' Or, put another way, 'I have the Intermax boss's fingers stroking my pussy, and my legs are spread to let him, if I have to get up now he might be offended, deprived as he would be of his toy, and this might annoy him sufficiently for him to decide not to give you the financing.' "Why don't I help you with that," said Duffy, coming to his feet and reaching for the plates ... and proving that watery eyes alone do not necessarily mean the absence of a mind adept at quickly summing up situations, and acting appropriately. Or maybe he thought that if he played his cards right his boss would let him stroke me next? "Oh," said Jim, clearly not as adept at summing up situations as Duffy, looking from Duffy to me as if for help. "Should you ... is it ... do you ..." he stammered, either at Duffy, or me, or possibly both, then he too came to his feet. "Should I?" I looked at the boss man -- his hunched-over figure, the absence of arms on the table, the presence of fingertips in and around my private parts, starting to fizzle and hum, "Help them ... do you think?" "They're big boys," was all he said, finding my clitoris, making me jump, letting me know that he was (in all probablility) a 'big boy' too. "Why don't you ..." I started, once my pelvis had settled, to Jim, or maybe Duffy, or possibly both, "Get the desert. It's on the tray in the kitchen. Cheese board next to it." The boss and I were left alone at our end of the table. He playing with me between my legs beneath the table. Me letting him. What would he do now, I wondered, now that we were alone. Might he want to slip below the table and put his face between my legs? And if he did, what would I do? To be honest, I didn't know. I heard the kitchen tap turn on, water running in the sink, Duffy saying something to Jim -- I couldn't catch what -- the chink of plates on plates, the tinkle and clatter of cutlery being dropped in the sink, water on water as if the plug had been applied. Were they going to wash the dishes? "Come, luscious pet," whispered my elephant seal, coarsely and gruffly, as, to my astonishment, he started to pull me onto his lap. 'I can't do that!' I thought, momentarily outraged at the presumption of the man, pulling back from him. But he already had me half out my seat and half way towards his lap. "I can't," I started to say, surely just stating the obvious. "My husband," I said next, trying to explain what surely had no need of explaining. "What would he think?" I added, lamely, out of my seat altogether. "What would he think?" he turned the question back on me. "A thank-you kiss from a grateful guest to a delightful hostess. Where's the harm in that?" He said it calmly, reasonably, increasing the pressure on my elbow and wrist as he did. He had one hand around my wrist, the other on my elbow, and was proving much stronger than he looked. I found myself leaving my seat and moving, still resisting, round the corner of the table to his lap. "Well I suppose ..." I said, as he started to turn me, and the tap in the kitchen turned off. "But just ..." I decided to negotiate, (I was the lawyer after all,) "... the one." I tried to make it sound light, airy, professional, me-the-one-in-charge, as he drew me onto his lap. And as he did, and casually flipped the table-cloth over my mostly bared legs, the door to the kitchen opened and Duffy and Jim came back in. The former with the cheese board, the latter with desert. I froze like a rabbit in the headlights of some thundering truck, not at all sure that I knew how to handle this, when Dunkerly announced, apparently to all, "For being such a delightful hostess, and providing such a succulent meal, she deserves a kiss, don't you think?" Lawyer Debbie Does Dessert Ch. 02 "Well I suppose ..." I said, as he started to turn me, and the tap in the kitchen turned off. "But just ..." I decided to negotiate, (I was the lawyer after all,) "... the one." I tried to make it sound light, airy, professional, me-the-one-in-charge, as he drew me onto his lap. And as he did, and casually flipped the table-cloth over my mostly bared legs, the door to the kitchen opened and Duffy and Jim came back in. The former with the cheese board, the latter with desert. I froze like a rabbit in the headlights of some thundering truck, not at all sure that I knew how to handle this, when Dunkerly announced, apparently to all, "For being such a delightful hostess, and providing such a succulent meal, she deserves a kiss, don't you think?" It was Jim I was watching most closely. Waiting for him to explode. Here was his wife of not even a year, dressed to the nines, flaunted like a model on a catwalk, now in the lap of a dinner guest who had his arms wound around her like he was the husband and I was HIS wife! But to my amazement, Jim didn't react. Or not in the way I'd expected at least. Jim could be fearsomely jealous at times. He almost throttled a waiter at the beach in Cannes on the way back from our honeymoon, for staring at my breasts. It was a topless beach, for goodness sake. What did he expect! (He's usually the first to admire the damn things.) "Glad you liked the meal," was all Jim said, averting his eyes from his wife in the lap of his guest. A guest who, as he returned the smile from my husband at the head of the table, slipped his hand back beneath the table-cloth, and back between my legs. I felt it against the skin at the top of my legs, and against the silk, slightly higher. Black silk. Black silk of briefs so flimsy they were a lot less protection than I needed right now! I didn't react. Then the fingers brushed my clitoris and I did. React. Lurching in his lap, spine snapping straight. "That tickles," was all I could think of blurting out, though what it was that tickled, and where it was when it did, was not explored. No-one seemed to mind. No-one seemed to notice at all, other than me. And Dunkerly, of course. That bastard knew exactly what he was doing. And damn his eyes, he was a damn sight better at it than you wanted him to be. He did it again. This time I swivelled and glowered, our eyes mere inches apart. "Don't," I mouthed at him angrily as Jim and Duffy fiddled with cheese and desert, arranging the cheese knife on the cheese board, squaring off the four bowls of strawberries and cream, moving the Brie a little left, the Gouda right, the Halumi equidistant between the two. I started to squirm. Fingers were lightly caressing my clitoris -- hard and proud and vulnerable as hell, badly aroused, and hot, and swollen. My quim was salivate greedily, as Jim likes to term it when I start to flood his hand with my juices. I cannot sit still if a man is playing with my clitoris like this. Any more than I can if a man were playing with my nipples. I am sensitive. Both places. (Much more than most, I believe.) "So where's this thank-you kiss, then?" enquired Duffy, sounding much brighter than his eyes made him look, back in his chair just as Jim was in his. "Maybe they want to take their time," said Jim, eyes flipping from Brie, to Duffy, back to Brie. What the heck was that supposed to mean, I wondered, slightly outraged -- 'Take our time' indeed. "Savour it, you mean?" said Duffy, winking at Jim. To my horror, my husband -- the klutz! -- joined in with this macho bonding crap, where woman is toy and man more prick than usual! "Gotta make good things last," he adds and then, bugger me, he winked at Duffy! RIGHT, I thought, turning my face to Dunkerly, reaching my hands to his cheeks and palming his ill-shaved jowls. I pulled his face to mine and closed my mouth over his. No sooner had I started to kiss him than that damn fool husband of mine sings out, "Good girl, Debbie. Let it all hang out!" Then the bastard I was kissing tweaked my clitoris. I thrust down hard on the hand doing the damage, gasping, loudly, "Ngrraaah!" but nobody seemed to noticed. Or if they did, ignored it. Including my damn-fool husband. The kiss went on longer than I wanted, and towards the end I had his tongue in my mouth, but eventually it seemed it was time for it to end. Even Dunkerly would have been hard pushed to explain to Jim had it gone any longer than it did! I felt half ravished when it finished. Although that was probably due more to the fingers between my legs than the tongue in my mouth. I opened my eyes, surprised that they had closed. I looked around the table ready to get off his lap now the kiss was done. But the arms around me hadn't moved, and the fingers between my legs showed no interest in discontinuing what they were doing to me. Even as I sat there, rather stupidly, undecided, not sure where to move, or when, I felt a finger ease the leg band of my briefs to one side, and slip beneath. I started to chew on my lip. "Why don't you feed me desert, cutie pie," said the boss man, giving me a peck on the cheek, sliding a second broad finger inside the leg band of my panties. Onto skin. Both moist and hot, engorged, and sensitive as heck. "Clearly a man who likes his creature comforts," said Jim, looking at Duffy with a half-baked smile on his rotten face. What did that mean? That he approved? Approved of his wife in the lap of this guy, feeding him, as he played with her pussy? I just didn't get this at all. "I don't think ..." I started to say, hands flat on the big man's chest, ready to push myself off his lap as Duffy moved a bowl of strawberries topped with thick whipped cream to the place-setting next to my elbow, and the fingers of his boss fed hungrily on the heat and meat of my tenderest spot. I hesitated ... a heart-beat too long ... and paid for my indecision by suddenly starting to climax. My knees hooked high and my legs began to squirm over his. One rolled over the other, then the other over the first as my core pumped hot and heady feelings into the tantalising pressure of the fingers lodged between ... and what they were doing to me there ... and how they were doing it. I entered a world where urges ruled and in this mounting, blinding daze I reached for the spoon. I loaded it up with cream and the tiniest of strawberries. I raised it to his lips. I slipped it into the boss man's mouth and trapped his fingers between my clutching thighs and squeezed and let him suck the spoon as I climaxed as quietly and as secretly as I could. The spoon stayed where it was, in his mouth, as the waves of bliss rolled through me. I could no more have pulled it out then than I could have bench-pressed a Greyhound bus. Sensing my dilemma my attacker sucked on the spoon some more and gently lifted the growing bulge of his crotch into my grinding buttocks, and let me get through it in silence as the others changed the subject and talked of something else. When the waves of lava lushness ebbed, ran from my thighs and hips and trickled from my innards like a slow departing sea, I withdrew the spoon from his mouth. Time to draw the line, I decided, resolve replacing lust, lifting my hands to his shoulders and pushing our torsos apart. I dipped the spoon in the bowl. "Finish up now, there's a good guest," I said, as I might to a child, for this was becoming insane. I glanced at Jim. He was staring right at me, with a look on his face that was questioning. This was more than insane, this was stupid! Straight faced, thighs closed tight around his fingers so they couldn't move, I fed our guest. Thus deprived of any opportunity to feed on me, as I fed him, he ate, as he was bid. If he minded this forced deprivation (of me) he made no sign. Or if he did I didn't notice. When it came time to deliver the last spoonful of strawberries and cream to my Financial Agreement Invigilator, as I was starting to regard him, I did so with aplomb. No sooner had I done so than I disentangled my limbs from his, slid from his lap to the floor, lowering my hem as I did, (it had been suicidally high,) and landed lightly on my feet next to his chair. "Coffee?" I asked brightly. The only one talking. The only one bright. Jim appeared dumbstruck. Whether he was dumbstruck because of the sudden change in chemistry around the table, or the altered geography of who was where doing what with whom, or dumbstruck because he knew I'd just climaxed dramatically on our guest of honour's lap, I did not know. Nor was I about to enquire. Not with him at any rate. Not with anyone, in fact. I headed for the kitchen. They could help themselves to cheese. Once in the kitchen I made for the sink. All I had in my hand was one empty bowl and the spoon I had used to feed Dunkerly. I had grabbed them on leaving. As props I suppose. I put them in the sink and turned on the water. Hard. I needed the rush of cleansing H2O to clear the heavy air, the crash of water on metal to cleanse my troubled mind, the din of kitchen sounds to wash away the ... sinfulness, I guess. I tried to ignore the way my thighs still pressed each other tight and how one knee had lifted off the floor and squeezed across its partner; the way my shoulders were up around my ears, and that my eyes had tightly closed. I heard a gasp behind me. "Sheeooow!" or something close. "Damn!" came next. Said with venom. I knew I was in trouble. It was Jim. He'd followed me into the kitchen. Clearly upset. I didn't turn round. My face I knew was flushed. The flush of sex as clearly writ across my brow as if someone had written, in balloon-like graffiti five feet tall, SHE FUCKING CAME, THE BITCH! I dropped my head to the froth of water tumbling into the sink, the single bowl, the single spoon. How would I get out of this one? Where could I hide? "I cannot believe it!" He hissed. I knew how he felt. Neither could I. But isn't this just what I'd warned him about? A half hour ago, here in this kitchen. 'How nice is nice?' I'd asked. How compliant must I be? Well, that was that. Now we knew how compliant I must be. Compliant enough to let that great ox of a guest of honour excite me to orgasm. That's how compliant I'd had to be. Was that my fault? Well okay, a bit, I concede. But was it ALL my fault. "Look, Jim, honey ..." was as far as I got. I had said it to the sink. "Where the hell will I get it at this time of night?" I didn't react. Get what? A whip, to teach me a lesson? A knife, to cut it off? (What off?) A gun, to make a clean break for us both. Was he going to shoot me? "Help me here, sweetie pie," he said, spoken with pleading in his tone. "Of course," I said, but was confused, and completely in the dark as to what he wanted help with. But I didn't turn round. I could feel from the heat in my face, and on my neck and breasts, that my colour was high. To put it mildly! I picked up the cleaning brush and started to scrub at the bowl in the sink. "There must be some place," said Jim, clearly walking round in a circle in the middle of the kitchen floor. This is what he did when looking for an answer. Like trying to understand why I disagreed with him, say. About ... well, anything. When it happened he'd walk around in a circle in the middle of the floor, chewing on a thumb nail. "Some place for ... what?" I asked, gingerly, wanting to keep my head pointing at the sink. "Champagne." "Champagne," I repeated, stupidly. "I said I'd get a bottle," he added, clearly still rotating. Why? I asked myself. But I didn't want a discussion about this, because that might mean I would have to turn round. So I tried to be helpful, "What about Chan's place, in Main Street." "Will it be open this late?" I noted the hope in his voice. "He always stays late on Friday," I assured him. "Debbie, Debbie, Debbie, my honey, my sweet, my love, my light!" He clasped his arms around me from behind, lowered his lips to my shoulder, kissed and slobbered a bit, and then, "Half an hour. Keep them happy for half an hour. Then I'll be back. You gorgeous woman, you!" And with that he was out the back door and running round the house to the car in the driveway up front. I let out a sigh of relief. It seemed I was not under scrutiny for allowing a stranger to fondle me to orgasm at the dinner table, but had rather been the more successful part of a two-person team striving to establish where you could buy champagne at this time of night in HicksVille, where we lived! Thank heavens for that, I thought, relieved, and raised my head, to find myself staring into the glittering lens of my neighbour's binoculars in the darkened kitchen across the yard. I filled my cheeks, blew out, and smiled at my reflection in the window. If that was the most serious of my problems right now, being looked at through binoculars by a fifty-three year old male, who was actually quite pleasant face to face, then ... I started to chuckle. "What's the joke?" came next. I would have to do something about that damn kitchen door. People were coming through it in droves. So quietly I didn't know they were there. I turned to this latest threat. Dunkerly was in the door. Duffy stood beyond it. Both had their eyes wandering ... me. Dunkerly took a step towards me and I suddenly knew from the look in his eyes, and the way his hands were spreading, that he was about to get fresh with me again -- and our neighbour was watching! I put up my hands with alacrity. Both of them. Palm outwards towards his advance. Then I raised them to the ceiling in the recognised gesture of surrender. I did not want him pawing me here in my kitchen, for my neighbour to watch and mentally record and probably -- after all, who could tell he wouldn't? -- spread around the neighbourhood in no time flat. "I surrender," I said, because that is what went with my stance and the fact of my hands in the air. "But, boys," I added, playfully, because although Dunkerly had stopped in his tracks he looked like he might start again, pretty soon, if I didn't give him very good reason not to. "Give me one minute to finish up here, then I'll join you boys back at the table." I winked at Dunkerly. "Lady's business," I added, with enough innuendo to disable an aircraft carrier. They took the bait, and left. But then I realised, I was the bait. I turned back to the sink and turned off the water. Glanced up. Mr binoculars was still there. Armed. I had no choice. With a very quick check of my hair in the reflection in the window, and an easing ever lower of the wont-go-lower hem of my much-too-skimpy dress, I headed back to the dining room. "Okay, boys," I said, slipping round the kitchen door like an otter cautious of leaving its lair. "Let's get one thing straight." I was still in high colour, panting just a tad, but before I could carry on, Dunkerly said with a whistle, "Wow, but you look hot!" This was not surprising, I was hot. "Jim will be back in five minutes," I said, the message being: So there isn't time for any of that. "He's just gone down the road." "Chan's place isn't just 'down the road'," said Duffy, looking smug. Had our guests been listening to a private conversation between husband and wife? How low would they stoop! "Chan's place is half an hour away, at least," said Dunkerly, taking up the slack, metaphorically winding it round my neck. "This time on a Friday night it's always packed. He'll be lucky to be back in an hour." "You can do us both, have time for a cigarette afterwards," said Duffy. I couldn't believe he just said that! "I don't smoke," I retorted, imbuing the comment with all the bile I could muster. Then I couldn't believe, THAT I JUST SAID THAT! "Where shall we do it?" said Dunkerly, eyeing the room. To my stupefaction -- if you don't like it you get a better word! -- I found myself doing the same thing. The dining table was clearly out, the legs were too shaky. The side board was strong enough, but too high. The back of the sofa would do, him from behind, me on my stomach across, but ... WHAT THE HECK WAS I DOING! I shook my head. Not once, but four times. Hard! I stared at Dunkerly. He had both hands flat on the dining room table, shoogled the table with ease. He shook his head. "Don't like to do it in the guy's bedroom, hardly fair," he remarked, as if sharing his core philosophy of life with Duffy and me, his acolyte and neophyte, (newly converted by wetting my pants?) "On the other hand, this is too high," he noted, giving the shoogle test to the sideboard and reaching the same conclusion as me. "Back of the sofa, however," he said, making for it, knocking over my note case next to the sideboard with his size thirteen shoes. He patted the sofa's broad rounded back and eyed me thoughtfully. "You bend over this, gorgeous little ass in the air ... heaven, here we come." He leered. And then, to my incredulity, he reached for the buckle of his belt! "This is ... this has ..." I shook my head again. "You don't honestly believe ..." "Yup," said Duffy, pushing things a tad, reaching for his own damn belt buckle. "You and us are goin to ged-it-on cutie pie." 'Cutie pie'! 'Who the heck was this guy to say that to me?' I turned on him, annoyed. "Sorry, Mr Duffy. Nothing personal. But you and I are not going to ged-it-on as you put it. That is not going to happen." "Course not, pet," said Dunkerly, jumping in quickly, fingers stilled at his belt, flashing Duffy a look sufficiently poisonous to take out a fair sized city. "Pay him no heed, Debbie honey. You don't mind if I call you Debbie, do you?" he asked, disarmingly considerate. I fell for it, not thinking. "Of course not, please do," I assured him, remembering -- too late! -- that we'd been through this already. "So that's all settled, then," he said, smiling kindly at me. "Just you and me. The boss. The man. That's all." I turned my blazing eyes on him but he was already bending to the floor, reaching for the notecase he'd kicked half way across the room. He straightened with my note case in his great mitts of hands. "This yours?" He held it out to me as if it were a nest, with young. "Thank you," I said, taking it from him, clutching it tight to the deep scooped neckline of my dress. "You want I should send my Finance guy to the kitchen?" he asked, keeping respect high and present in his deep gravel voice and broad sagging face and piss-hole tiny eyes. I nodded, speechless. Yes, I wanted shot of Duffy with his thoughts of 'gedding-it-on'. Especially with me. The cheek of the man! I kept my eyes averted as he slunk from the room. "The sofa?" said Dunkerly next, consideration still to the fore. "You over the back, me in from behind." He allowed himself a modest smile. "Great penetration." I stared at him, struck dumb. This guy was huge. Huge in size, huge in ideas of himself, and even huger in his assumption of where this was going. "Why do you think I would submit to you?" I asked, playing for time -- using up time! I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, next to the photo of Jim and me on our wedding day. Jim had been gone five minutes. Half an hour until he got back, give or take. He took a step towards me, reached his hand beneath my dress and cupped my pudenda. It was unexpected, and far too fast to counter. I thought of outrage -- but he'd been there before, for quite a time, doing quite a lot. I left the hand where it was, and held his gaze. I was determined to show him I was no pushover here. He curled his fingers, rotated the heel of his hand on my pubis and caused my clitoris to jump. I reached for his wrist. Thick wrists. And a very strong forearm indeed. "I don't think ..." I started to say, but his hand stayed where it was, and I stayed astride it, and my hormones started to fire. But all of a sudden, so did my brain cells. Lawyer Debbie Does Dessert Ch. 02 I opened the flap of the note case clutched to my breasts, drew out my copy of the draft of the agreement I'd done for Jim, and said, "Here's the way this is going to work." I thrust down hard, a sudden jolt then -- CURL! -- as his fingers did intimate things to my private parts. "Hey!" I snapped, taking charge. "Don't move your hand." His fingers stilled. On I went, "This is a copy of the final draft agreement I prepared for Jim. I believe he showed it to you today." That at least had been the plan. "So here's what we're going to do." His fingers were still, still. "You sign this, here, now, and get that trouser-buckle-happy Finance man of yours in the kitchen to witness the signature, and I'm yours for fifteen minutes." Silence ... then, "Mine for fifteen minutes ... if I sign this?" He was staring at the paper in my hand with a bemused expression on his face. "Yes." I confirmed. His expression changed. It became a self-satisfied grin. "Make it half an hour and it's a deal." "Fifteen minutes." I stuck to my guns. "Negotiate," he suggested, the grin becoming a smile, as if he knew something I didn't know. But I knew what he figured I didn't know. He knew he was about to have sex with a hot-looking chick half his age. (When I'm aroused I know I look hot). And he probably guessed it would be good. And he'd be right, for putting it bluntly I'm a first rate fuck. (F***ing is high on my list of skills.) "Twenty minutes, no more," I conceded, glancing again at the clock, wondering how tight this would be. "Twenty-five, and it's a deal," he said, as if we had all the time in the world. "Twenty," I insisted, handing him the document and a pen from the flap of my note case. "But starting in one minute, max," I appended, becoming concerned that we were cutting this fine. What if Jim got back before we were finished? What if he got express service, or something. Or the traffic lights were green all the way. I wanted him pleased about the contract, not pissed off at me at what I had done to get it. Dunkerly was scribbling his signature already, half way to the kitchen. "And put your assistant on look out!" I called, good ideas pouring forth as I turned in a circle on the carpet. "Here it is," said Dunkerly, thirty seconds later, with a smug self-satisfied look on his face, as if he had the better deal, rather than me! It was all about priorities, I guess. But this seemed fair reward for fifteen minutes of my time. Well ... twenty minutes. As I reached behind me to the zip of my dress I realised how much this would mean to Jim and me, which is when I saw that eight minutes had passed since he left. As I stepped out of my dress I noticed the kitchen door open a sliver. "He doesn't watch!" I said, sounding nervous, slightly shrill, pointing at the kitchen door. "Go away!" shouted Dunkerly. "Outside. Be a look-out!" Good idea, I thought as the kitchen door closed. I folded my dress and laid it over the back of a chair. "Over the sofa?" I asked, seeking confirmation, stepping towards it. I slipped my briefs from my hips and starting to push them down my legs. "And the bra," he suggested in a voice that broke over 'bra'. You can say what you like but the sexual power that can make a grown man lose his voice, is one heck of an aphrodisiac. But I hung tough. "No bra, not part of the deal," I said, showing who was the lawyer here. "The deal is, You're mine for twenty minutes. And I said lose the bra," came back at me. No break in his voice this time round as he showed me who was boss. I reached behind me. Lost the bra. "Okay," I said, wondering if the stockings and heels would be next, but it seemed we were done with the strip. Besides, he had access to all the important bits. "A kiss first," he said, holding open his arms. "Watch the time," I said, glancing at the clock, going into his arms and resignedly offering up my lips. But there was something unexpected in the kiss. Ingredients that weren't in most kisses these days. A stranger, for a start. Different lips, different shape, different taste. In my sitting room no less. Marriage photo on the mantelpiece. Ink drying on a contract. Husband driving through the night. Hormones kick-starting within me. Naked but for stockings, shoes, and earrings. Chemicals stirring up a hotpot of arousal and excitement within. Stir, then twitch, they boil, then bloom -- EXPLODE! This was different. This was needy. This was hungry. This was NOW! In less than a minute our tongues were at war with each other. They started light, explored a bit, got fresh, then hard and lively. Now they were at war. No quarter given. Two mouths on heat building to a climax we both knew would come. There was no other way could this end. Fire in our chests, fireworks at the core, eruptions from the spirits: a lot to look forward to. So little time: it added to the mix! A large hand clutched my butt and pulled it right and up and as it did the buttock clenched and filled his hand and climbed. The sound was me, groaning in his mouth. A finger eased into my anus. I cut it off, or felt as if I did, so hard did I react. The bulge within his crotch became apparent, growing large, growing fast and well defined. But still our kiss continued ... To have a mouth so hungrily attack ones own spurred on by no more than the male-driven take on a female presentation of her charms, does a lot for a girl's self esteem! When a similar desperate grasping of hands, and powering of chest, and thrusting of groin at the charms of the female presented reaches such a frenzy of excitement as this, it does more than stroke self-esteem. It ignites retaliation. A bush fire of rampant arousal and wild unbridled response. Is this what we females are? Mere biological machines that seek to stoke our self esteem with the sexual devotion of men? Arousal the encouragement; the joys of unrestrained orgasm our just deserts? A stirring of anticipation, growing excitement, mounting passion. The ultimate total surrender of self to the lust-driven hunger sparked in the male by what he thinks of you the female. The softer, smoother female part. That he thinks so much (of you) that it drives him to such animal slaverings and lust says a lot of what he thinks about You. You the desirable female. You the possessor of requisite charms. You the lusciously desirable sexual animal that stokes the fire in the savage breast of the savage beast, called man. "Quick," I mouthed in a guttural groan down his throat. We gotta hurry, I thought to myself, urging my hands to swing him around and ease us towards the sofa. There wouldn't be time if we didn't. (There HAD TO be time.) "You gotta move," I groaned, encouraging, pushing myself away from the man then leaning towards him, planting a kiss on the tip of his nose. "Let me turn," I whispered, reaching behind to prize off his hands. "I need to turn around," I explained, the back of the sofa against my butt, my butt being deprived of his hands, the fingers now all prized loose. "Let me turn." I beseeched with my eyes. He let me turn. The ham-like hands stayed where they were, at my hips, as I turned within their scope. I felt every inch of his hands and he felt every inch of my buttocks and hips as I turned and leaned over the back of the sofa. Legs straight and apart, ass cocked in the air. I lowered my arms and shoulders and head into the fragrance of Jim and me in the sofa's soft seats. Regency stripe on the cushions. The down of duck they were filled with. It has been our first purchase for the house. We'd got it in a small ... "Ngaaar!" I groaned as something large and warm and blunt and moist -- and forbidden -- inserted itself into the swamp-like heat and honey-stickiness of the fantasy world that existed -- forbidden too -- between the fat engorged lips of my slavering sex. My pelvis (immorally) rose, to greet it. I arched my ass ever higher in the air. I gasped. My thighs sought to open my innards up wide to the man who had his hands around my hips. I clutched at my breasts and squeezed and tweaked the pea hard nipples. I squeezed again as he ran the tip of his penis up and down the runnel of my labia. The slickness of my juices made it like a spurtle through warm porridge. But I wanted him inside me. Spurtles were one thing, but the state to which I'd let myself ascend had far more specific demands. Demands that had requirements all their own. Pressing needs, you might say. I started to beg him to press, as I tweaked and squeezed my breasts again. Rolling my shoulders round my ears. Pushing my face in the smell of my husband's rump on the sofa's soft cotton. Regency striped. "Ngaaaar!" I groaned as the tip of his penis positioned itself for the final assault. "Aaaaaagh," I gasped as the head eased slowly inside me. I felt my grip apply. The core awareness flutter, pulse, then suck. Like lips compressed around a candy bar. Seeking flavour, size, and warmth. Caressing the invader with an almost curious hunger. What is this? What does it want? What have I inside to offer it? The body has its own inbuilt protocol when it comes to manners pertaining to sex. When a visitor comes calling -- is over the threshold as it were, assertively entering the vestibule with its bulk and its heat and its hunger and wants -- lubricating juices like offerings of myrrh are liberally placed along its way to ease its passage. The body wants it there. It wants it to come in. Greetings are extended in the manner of the pulsing of the walls. Welcome is expressed in the manner of the thrusting of the whole. Achieving the entry and encouraging penetration ever deeper is a matter of joint cooperation, rather than a solitary chore. One wants the guest to feel at home. But also feel it IN the home. To let it enter, deeply, completely, so thoroughly that it is in and beyond the bulk of this obviously 'desirable residence'. All the way in, in fact, until the tip, the manly head, the bulbous expression of adoration manifest, is snug in the deepest recess of the most intimate part of the mistress's bedroom. That's what we're after here. That is the hospitality the female strives to provide to the male in moments of heightened excitement. To those whom the body decides to favour with its charms. Or the mind decides, for whatever reason suits, should be willingly entertained. Even if only a one-off. Once the decision to open the door is made, the body wants it there. Inside. Snug and warm. Hard and maybe throbbing. Deep inside. To have it finally as far as it will go inside the willing suitor, trembling perhaps, slavering possibly, pulsing in all likelihood -- in the male's more vulgar fashion of sexual oscillation -- that is what this is all about. We hold it there, like that, for a beat, or two ... then three. But then, of course, it must withdraw. It must withdraw not because it wants to get away. It withdraws because the entry itself was something that deserves to be repeated. It was exciting in itself. In moments, explosively so! So exciting, in fact, that the body wants to do it all over again. It wants to repeat it because ... it was fun! So he did. Of course. Repeat it. Right there in my sitting room. Accountant on the lookout. Husband temporarily away. Then he did it again! I gasped. And again! I gasped again. Again! A groan. Again! A yelp. Again! Another yelp from me. A harder thrust! An even louder yelp. A mighty thrust and then, "Graaaagh!" I let it out into my forearm held across my mouth, head stuck deep in cushions. The entrant was larger than I'm used to. Not huge, I do not think, as I could take him, but more than enough for me to know that he was there ... going in and out of me with an energy bordering on frenzy. Bouncing my buttocks and hips and pubis and front of thighs against the broad soft back of the sofa in a way that the maker of the sofa may not have allowed for in its design. Might it collapse? When I came -- and Boy! Did I come! -- I did so like an animal on heat. Steam powered it must have seemed like from the sounds: a series of anguished yelps. Piston driven from the manner of my thrashing up and down. The delirious end result was many times more powerful than the earlier bout had produced, that time with fingers this time with something a lot more robust. I bit down on my forearm. Hard. I was much too loud. I continued being bounced around like a ball on a beach, about to object and ask for peace. I craved some respite from it all -- when suddenly: Zonk! "Aaaaaaaaaargh!" I keened as my back arched tight and my head lifted high off the seat of the couch. I had climaxed again. A riveting, unexpected hallelujah from a far off land of ecstasy I hadn't even known was there. Where everything was magnified a hundredfold. Where mortal beings most rarely tread. Where this one never had before. Multi orgasmic, always my wish. But never my experience. I froze like that, inside and out. Nothing moved but the pulsing waves that had taken up rhythm inside me. Causing my innards to thrust and strut and pluck at my core. An array of finely tuned sexual strings, some of them new ones on me. Then he came himself. Spurting, spluttering, fluttering like the strong broad fin of a diving whale. As if waving farewell in a manner that had me holding on for dear life, as I climaxed yet again. Three times in a row. I started to cry. I was dressed when Jim returned. It took him longer than we thought it would. A lot longer. Almost two hours. The guests had gone an hour before. Tired of waiting, I suppose. Nothing more in it for them, perhaps. I was dressed in my nightie, in bed, with the duvet up to my chin and a bag of ice cubes on my forehead. It was Dunkerly's idea. The bag of ice. To take some of the colour from my face. And it had worked. As too had the hour in bed, to get my breath back. "They gone?" said Jim as he entered the bedroom. "Hours ago," I responded, tartly, exaggerating just a tad. (I think I had decided this was mostly his fault.) "Puncture," said Jim looking morosely into the carrier bag from Chan's. "Don't know where the jack is, do you?" "I thought there wasn't one," I replied. We'd got the car fifth hand. He pulled a bottle of champagne from the bag. "Don't suppose you'd like a glass," he said, looking at the label. "What's it in aid of," I asked, still not sure why he had bought it. I mean, what was it for? "Signing the agreement," he said. "Sorry ..." (How did he know it was signed!) "Signed after lunch," he said, looking at the bottle. "After dinner, you mean," I put in, confused. "After lunch." He looked up. "At Dunkerly's Club."