Happy Anniversary (Patreon)

"To us." 

The clink of glass and the quiet slosh of liquid filled the intimate, candlelit space between the couple. 

"To another 10 years," added Chelsea, beaming at her husband. "May every day be happier than the last."

"I'll drink to that," grinned Brad as he took a swallow of champagne. He sat back in his chair, admiring his beautiful wife. They were a charming couple, both tall and ravishing blondes. Brad was 6'5", slender but muscular, with strong hands that held his glass with delicacy and grace. Chelsea had a curtain of straight platinum blonde hair, high cheekbones rosy with drink, and a pair of baby blues the color of the Caribbean sea. 

Chelsea giggled again and finished her glass -- her third, though she hadn't kept track. Mischief caught her eye. She glanced around the darkened restaurant, before a sly curve of a smile lit her lips. "Baby, I have a present for you," she purred. 

Brad felt a flutter of excitement and nervousness in his chest. He smiled a crooked smile and lifted a sculpted brow. "A present? Dare I ask?"

"You just dare to stay where you are." Her eyes turned liquid with heat. "And don't … make … a sound." 

With that, she set her napkin on the table and slid down in her seat, the long white tablecloth swallowing her until even her sultry smile and beautiful hair disappeared. Brad cleared his throat, fiddling with his fork. He couldn't see her, he couldn't hear her… but oh, he could feel her fingers slide along his thighs, teasing them apart. He could feel the warmth of her skin through his trousers. He hoped the red in his face would be mistaken for drunkenness. 

As much as public sex made him nervous, the prospect excited him more. His cock was hard as a rock and throbbing, trapped against his thigh. Her fingers caressed his bulge and he had to clear his throat against a moan. 

"No sounds," purred the whisper beneath the table. 

In response, he grabbed his drink and downed the rest. 

He felt the pressure lessen ever so slightly as tooth by tooth, his zipper crept down. Her soft hand slid against his tucked shirt and down below his waistband, to grasp at his hardness. He let out a soft, glazed breath as she freed his cock from his pants, letting him bump against the lip of the table. 

"Sir?" 

Brad jumped, head whipping around as the waiter smiled apologetically. "Y-yes? She's in the bathroom," he blurted. 

"Very good. The chef sends his apologies for the delay of your food." Fingers stroking his sensitive skin. "The wrong meal was made." Her tongue running up the length of his cock, swirling along the top. "He sends a complimentary foie gras and duck in apology." Her lips pursing at the tip, toying with him. 

"Uh…" All he could think about was the lipstick on his cock. "Yeah, okay," he said. "Let's … let's go with that." He suppressed a shiver. She started to slide him into her mouth and it was all he could do not to let his eyelids flutter. 

The waiter said something in response and then vanished from Brad's attention as he felt the roof of her mouth, the eager wet tongue. His fingers twitched in his lap. His muscles strained to keep from grabbing her hair, urging her on. He could hear -- could feel -- the moan thrumming through his cock. She sucked, taking him in, until he could feel her throat around him. 

"Fuck, Chelsea," he breathed quietly. Her hand on his thigh squeezed to remind him. 

She started to bob along his cock, a hand squeezing along the base. Thank god for the string quartet or others might hear her eager sucking. 

He could feel his nerves heightening his pleasure. He felt electric with fear and excitement. Chelsea found a rhythm, fast and demanding, urging him to greater heights. He felt it mounting, felt his balls start to tighten-- 

"Sir, your foie gras."

Brad jumped, banging Chelsea's head under the table. He blinked glazed eyes up at the waiter, who set a plate down on the table. 

"Um," Brad managed, his voice hoarse from heavy breathing. 

The waiter paused. Then he winked. "I shall wait until your wife is back from the...bathroom...to bring your food." 

Brad couldn't answer intelligibly so he just nodded. Chelsea hadn't relented, even with the thump on the head. As the waiter exited the periphery, Brad could hold back no more. He reached under the table and grasped her hair, shoving in as deep as he could and letting his hips go wild. Despite her cry of surprise he kept going, face fucking her with restrained fury. 

It built and built, images of Chelsea on his cock swirling in his mind's eye. He imagined her, lips tight on his cock, mascara running around those sultry, lusty eyes, her gaze locked on his with that Fuck Me stare… here in this restaurant, where people could see, could watch… 

He felt a jolt of pleasure crash through him as his balls wrung tight. He clenched his jaw tight against the roar of climax, as his seed shot in eager spurts down the willing throat of his dirty fucking wife. She swallowed every jet, relishing every last drop. 

Finally his muscles unlocked and he sagged in his seat. He felt her slow withdrawal, the cool air on his wet cock. A manicured hand slid up discreetly to grab his napkin, and soon he was tidied, put away, and buckled. 

It was a few more minutes before Chelsea reemerged, perfectly coiffed and with only a hint of redness around her lips. She grinned at him over the table. 

"I see mademoiselle has returned," the waiter says with impeccable timing. Their entrees balanced on each hand. 

Chelsea grinned at Brad and winked. 

"Happy anniversary."