You follow Robert’s hands as he unbuttons his fitted floral shirt, working down the length of his chest, button by button, before finally slipping his powerful shoulders free from each sleeve, leaving the cotton-sail garment to fold down onto the floor.

His stature could be carved marble, an Adonis or David, his form stands still before you and begs for your approval, while his own man-boy gaze climbs down over the contours of your body, imagining your undressing, discovering you with every weighted, patient move, held confidently behind his beautiful eyes.

You stare across to Dante and in disbelief, sense your conscience decommissioned, your reason and reserve rendered somehow mute witness, you watch yourself reaching forward, carefully placing your almost finished cocktail on the floor.

Then sitting upright, you observe yourself in disbelief, watching as your own knees slowly ease apart, your dress too short to stop them, your legs spreading, opening wider, until they press against the thigh of Aragorn, calling for his attention.

Robert’s unbridled cock bounces in the air, confident with wanting you, as his eyes now warm the space between your thighs with their heated gaze.

Speechless, spellbound, you watch your own hands slowly caress your body, starting at your neck as well they might if you were laying alone in your bath and soaping yourself.

You watch your hands journeying downwards, stopping to cup and squeeze at the firm of your breasts, feeling their swell, before pulling at your sleeve, the material of your dress stretching, as your slender shoulder slips free, offering the magnificence of your hardened, erect nipple to all the waiting, wanting, eyes that fill the room.

Seductively your mouth slowly opens, and placing your fingertips on your wet lower lip, you tongue and lick the tips until they’re sticky, wet with your saliva.

And once you’re satisfied, you motion your hand back to your naked nipple, your fingertips tracing perfect circles, wet with the stain of slick champagne and infused by your own mouth, appealing for tenderness from those watching, before squeezing and pinching, to prove the incredible rigidity of your erupting buds.

Angelica now turns her gaze on Aragorn, and her concentration shifts as she projects her command and bidding. Aragorn stands, his cupped hand grabbing at his prominent erection through his jeans, squeezing and stroking his rigid cudgel, clearly aroused by your display.

Robert, meanwhile, obeys Minerva’s needs and teases his hard-on toward you; running his fingers around the length of his shaft, occasionally tugging at the unyielding thick outline.

Both men standing, they cup, cradle and massage their balls with their free hands. Feverishly you can see how they enjoy the feel of their own cocks and just the sight of their mind-induced masturbation increases the ache of carnal need mounting involuntarily inside you.

Aragorn unbuttons his shirt, revealing a lattice of scar tissue from countless conflicts, the scars crease across his strong shoulders and crisscross his back and broad chest.

Your eyes obediently follow Aragorn’s hands as they wander down over his flat, tight stomach, and you almost groan aloud as he carefully unpeels his jeans and lets them fall open, loosening his own magnificent cock, so rigid, and ready, and filled with wanting you.

He steps away from his jeans and gropes at his manhood while watching you come alive. Aroused, stimulated, your hunger grows rampant, and uncontrollably you helplessly watch your free hand move down your tight torso, palming at the muscle of your thighs, opening your legs wider.

You’re abiding to the pull of your pussy’s passionate ache, wanting to be owned, acknowledged, touched, cupped, caressed and rubbed. And oh-my-god, if you could feel one of these men kneel between your thighs and press their tongue tight to you, right now, god, you would.