No would be a fail. Of course he wants me to say it.
‘Yes. That sounds fine.’
‘Good. Well, take off your jacket and let’s have you standing on that chair in the corner. Give us something nice to look at, and something to play for.’
The other gents smirk and chuckle, watching me take my display position. It’s not easy to maintain in these shoes, but I strike a pose, hand on hip and watch them from my height.
They are not playing poker, or even whist, but pontoon, or blackjack as the American gentleman in the party calls it.
I take a good look at each of the four, trying to figure out which would be the best to spend the night with. Lloyd, behind me, is quiet and discreet, only making a sound when one of the players calls for more cigars or a drink. I want to forget that he is there, but I can’t.
The young guy has the face of an assassin. I really hope I don’t get him.
The American looks kinder, in a silver foxy kind of way. He has broad shoulders and looks a bit like a newscaster for CNN or something – avuncular but sharp.
A third man at the table appears to be Russian. He is thin, a little haggard, not wearing as well as the American, though just as expensively dressed. He has astonishingly blue eyes, though, that transform his face from tired to alert in the time it takes to blink.
The final man looks familiar, and it takes me about five minutes to realise, with a frisson of shock, that he is a Cabinet minister. One of those expansive Old Etonian types that our prime minister is so fond of, greying at the temples, heading into jowliness and gout.
Play is desultory, but eventually the Russian wins the first hand.
I expect him to ask for a blow job, and he does.
I step down from the chair, moving towards the lewd smiles of the gamblers until I am beside the Russian.
Without ceremony, he unbuttons his trousers and removes his semi-erect cock.
‘Get on your knees,’ he orders gutturally.
Maintaining perfect expressionlessness, I drop to my haunches in front of him, then kneel. I put out a hand to touch him, but he bats it away.
‘Use your mouth only,’ he instructs. ‘Hands off.’
I shuffle closer and bend forwards, licking the curving underside of his shaft first in an effort to bring it to full erection. It isn’t a huge organ and should be easy enough to take the full length if I keep my throat relaxed. I breathe gently on it, kissing it, feeling it harden under my attentions.
‘Stop playing with it and suck it,’ scolds the Russian, putting a hand under my chin and nudging my mouth over his cock tip. Those are the last words he addresses to me for some time.
While I gobble and suck, the men discuss great blow jobs of their life.
The Cabinet minister’s took place at the Playboy mansion, apparently. The Russian got his mistress to suck him off in the royal box at a football cup final. The American enjoyed three episodes of fellatio in quick succession at an orgy in San Francisco, but he wasn’t able to stretch to a fourth.
As for the younger man, his took place in an alleyway, the girl on her hands and knees in the dirt. He took his cock out of her mouth and came over her face, then made her go into the neighbouring pub for a drink with him.
‘Shall I do that?’ asks the Russian idly, while I bob up and down on his stiff cock. He must feel the tension that takes momentary hold of my body at the idea – I don’t like it on my face, never have done, though sometimes it seems like the right end to a particular encounter. But not this one. There are still four hands to play, for heaven’s sake. He laughs. ‘I don’t think she wants me to.’
‘Make her,’ says the younger one eagerly, but the American demurs.
‘Hey, no, we want her in a good mood for the rest of us, right?’
‘I suppose,’ the Russian concedes. ‘OK. Just because I’m a good guy, I’ll make her swallow instead. Oh yes. That’s good. Keep sucking. You’ve got a great mouth for it.’
‘She’s got a great everything,’ remarks the Cabinet minister. ‘Lovely arse. I can’t wait to get it out of that skirt. If you can call it a skirt.’
‘Is she deep-throating you?’ the American wants to know.
But I have tipped my Russian oligarch just over that edge where speech becomes too difficult.
‘I don’t know what to ask for,’ the American continues, canvassing his friends for their opinions. ‘Such a lot of possibilities. Well, that’s if I ever win a hand, of course.’