Beautiful Platter

“Don’t move.” His voice is low but firm. I freeze. Every muscle in my naked body stiffens as he places the finishes touches on his “masterpiece.” Hard walnut and mahogany press against my spine, but I don’t move a muscle while he carefully arranges sashimi on the seaweed elaborately draped over my breasts. I remain frozen on a gaudy Francesco Molon dining room table, except for my dilated pupils, which move over his face.

Dark, slanted eyes. Thick, even darker lashes. I wonder what’s going through his mind as he places maki and sushi rolls in a straight line down the center of my body. The tips of his chopsticks graze me, sending goosebumps cascading over trembling flesh. With everything I have, I force myself to remain still as he prepares my body for nyotaimori. His normally low eyes are almost closed, the dark centers barely visible behind his squinted gaze. Beads of sweat form along his hairline. He wipes them away with a thick, white cotton sleeve before walking out of my line of vision.

He places the last piece of temaki somewhere between my legs and I let a gentle breath slip past my slightly parted lips. His intense face comes back into view and my nipples harden beneath their seaweed covering. “Beautiful,” he whispers and I’m not sure if he’s talking about his work or me. Despite my uncertainty, butterflies take over my belly and travel south before nesting between my clammy thighs. He paces around the table, his eyes taking in every inch of my sushi covered body. He dips in and out of view, but when his face returns, it’s always with increased intensity. There’s a hungry look in his eyes and I can’t be sure if he wants to eat me or the sushi. But he walks close, and all doubt vanishes from my mind. It’s me he wants to eat.

A few people maunder into the dining room and he fades out of view. Soon the room is packed. My eyes study each partygoer as best they can as they help themselves to sushi prepared by the world renowned itamae. Whether with chopsticks or bare fingers, they feast on a seafood bounty served on my naked flesh. I remain frozen until there’s no sushi left, and the last partygoers have strolled out, appetites satisfied. Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s there. Somewhere lurking out of view. So, I remain still, my back flat against polished, exotic wood.

“I want to see you.” His voice reaches me before I see him. It travels past my ear drum and straight to my clit. I spread my legs and he comes into view. His face has its usual intensity while he studies every inch of me. He removes his apron and unzips his pants and I remain frozen. No words are spoken as he carefully peels away the slick seaweed wraps and edible flowers that are my only covering.

“May I?” The question sounds more like a demand, but I slightly dip my head, giving him permission to continue. He begins at my nipples, grazing over them with open palms. His fingers brush over my lips as he runs a hand down my neck. I remain frozen, no longer concerned by the hard wood pressing into my spine as he leaves no part of me untouched. “Wider,” he says not taking his eyes from my junction. I spread my thighs. He grunts his approval and reaches in his pants. His cock springs to life, but his face remains serious and harsh.

“Touch yourself.” I obey. My hand travels over trembling, pimpled skin while he fists his cock, which juts out from a mass of thick, dark curls. My fingers find my clit, swollen and throbbing. “Slower,” he rasps. I obey, running my fingers in slow circles over my clit. His squinted gaze zeroes in on my fingers working my bud. His eyes occasionally dart to mine, but he gives no more instruction. The tip of his cock shines with small beads of precum and I quicken my pace. I slide my fingers lower and delve inside to dampen them, before returning to my clit. He moans low and throaty, and my stomach dives. He pumps away until the head of his cock swells. “May I?” he asks. I nod.

With a low grunt, he comes. Warm cum splashes my breasts, setting off my orgasm. My pussy contracts and I quiver, naked on the Francesco Molon table. He squeezes the length of his shaft before shaking the last droplets of cum onto my neck. “Beautiful,” he says before fading out of view.

Masturbation Monday

Masturbation Monday is the erotic brainchild of Kayla Lords. This is my first time participating in Masturbation Monday, which is a weekly erotic writing challenge. Each week a new photo is posted to inspire our dirty minds to write a short story. Visit her site for more about Masturbation Monday and to read other erotic short stories by dirty-minded authors like myself.

Masturbation Monday