She pulled back. Her face — flushed, cum-splattered, wine-stained — looked up at me. "What — it tastes—"
I smiled. Let her lick my cock clean. Her tongue — obedient, devoted, the tongue of a woman who had been told she was going to be a wife — moved over the shaft, gathering the cum and the wine and the saliva, cleaning me with the careful attention of a healer tending a wound.
I laid her on the table. Rubbed my cock against her face — the limp shaft, the wet head, the residue of the orgasm — and let her lick my balls. Two days of licking. Her tongue — small, pink, eager — found the sac and worshipped it, her eyes closed, her internal voice a murmur of contentment.
I stood. Walked toward the back room. Called over my shoulder: "Do not you think you are acting too much, ignoring what is happening here?"
Silence. Then, slowly, the door opened. The bartender — the quintuplet — stood in the doorway, her face flushed, her eyes wide, her hands clasped in front of her apron.
