Go: A Surrender by Jane Nin Page B

sure you do.” And then a
beat. “I’m going to close the lid now; are you ready?”
     
    I nodded, shot him a last trusting look. He lowered the
tabletop and once again it was pressed against me, my bare breasts protruding
from a gap in the cool, hard wood. Gently he guided my legs into place,
spreading my vagina wide open. I took deep breaths, trying to relax.
     
    “Wet already?” he asked, mock-surprised.
     
    Even though the table blocked me from looking up, it was
open at its end, and my head, tilted back, was exactly at the level of his
crotch. I could see his swollen cock inside his perfectly tailored slacks—it
was barely an inch or two from my face. This aroused me more, even as I
realized it was unlikely this element of its design was any accident.
     
    “Touch me,” I whispered, but he was already turning away,
and there was the noise of a group of men entering the restaurant and greeting
each other jovially. Mostly they spoke Japanese to each other, but here and
there I could pick out Jack’s voice, greeting them in English, asking after
their wives, their kids, their golf games.
     
    Suddenly a man’s voice was loud, right next to me. I could
see the expensive blue suiting across his hips. And the hardening organ inside
it.
     
    “Jack,” he cried out, “what is this? Special omakase ?”
He chortled at his joke.
     
    “Bento box?” suggested someone else. I heard Jack’s laughter
among the others’.
     
    The other men were approaching now, laughing and murmuring.
     
    “You will have to show us the polite way to eat this dish,”
said someone. “It appears to be American, not Japanese.” More laughter.
     
    “Oh,” said Jack, “I think you will find that eating this
dish is simple enough. But I should warn you that there is a chance the dish
may also eat you.”
     
    Exclamations of delight as the men caught his meaning,
confirming my deductions about the table’s design.
     
    “Who’d like to start?” A pause, shuffling of feet. “Our
Board President, of course. Please, Mr. President, come stand here.”
     
    A moment later another crotch was at eye level. This one
without the telltale bulge of the previous two. I felt and heard the sounds of
small ceramic dishes being placed upon the tabletop.
     
    “These,” he paused, “are mostly just for texture. You may
enjoy touching them if you like.” Another pause, as more dishes were set down.
“This, of course, for dipping. It is milder than your soy sauce but I assure
you, just as sweet.”
     
    “Ah, yes, yes,” said Mr. President. And then I felt his
fingers gently pulling at my nipples. They were cool and dry and slender, and
if there was any doubt I was certain now that he was an older man. My nipples
hardened at his touch. He laughed nervously and said something in Japanese.
More laughter.
     
    “Please,” said Jack then, “eat.”
     
    I’d been wet before but these faceless men all staring at my
spread vagina and asshole had me fairly soaking. I wanted him to keep touching
my breasts, but then he stopped. I heard the paper wrapping being torn off a
pair of chopsticks, and then there was a moment of silence throughout the room,
and a moment later I felt cold, wet flesh rubbing against my clit.
     
    I gasped. The room stayed silent for a moment—I sensed them
watching the man bring the fish to his lips, chewing.
     
    Through the mouthful came an appreciative grunt, and the
room burst into applause.
     
    Now a second cool morsel was being rubbed against the wet
and swollen lips of my pussy—and then removed, as he took a second bite.
     
    “No wasabi?” said someone.
     
    “Compromises,” said Jack, to my relief.
     
    This dipping and slipping of fish flesh against mine
promised to be torture—too short to get me off, but constant enough to keep my
pussy wetting and re-wetting itself.
     
    The next piece of fish was warm, almost hot, and I gave a
little cry. I watched the man’s crotch—he still wasn’t