In the fantasy I keep having, you take me out to dinner, someplace fancy, the type of place with overly-attentive waiters, food shaped into abstract art, real crystal. The tablecloth is long enough to brush my thighs, to give slight cover when you work my dress up, casually tracing infinity into my too-soft flesh, your hand slowly climbing.2321Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8n8fXHt44g
I spread my legs wider, subtly shifting so that you can’t even be sure I’ve done it on purpose. Your touch is light, meandering, though you grip me roughly when you feel that my wetness has worked its way down to my thighs. Despite the sudden urgency in your touch, you show no outward signs of it, choosing instead to take a bite of some strange dish you’ve ordered, some rich-people bullshit that we’d usually never bother with. Your face is passive, blasé, as if you’re not even fully aware that I am there beside you.2321Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLXuiCfSIK0
You work a finger underneath my underwear to stroke me then, though you only do it for a moment before you take your hand away, laughing at the way I whimper in frustration when you do. You reach out to stroke my cheek, run your fingertip over the jut of my bottom lip, lingering there so I can smell myself on your fingers, dipping it in for me to taste it as well.2321Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGKhLEpV9Qs
As the waiter approaches, I go to pull my dress back down over my thighs but you stop me, firmly tell me no, sending a thrill through me. So strange how much I get off on you telling me what to do, stubborn and defiant as I am.
He refills our glasses, thankfully not noticing my dress pushed up to my hips. When he leaves, you take another leisurely bite, then tell me to take my underwear off.
“What, here? Are you serious?” I ask, glancing around at the other patrons nearby, far too little cover where we are – a table in the middle of the room, the whole restaurant surprisingly well-lit given that it’s dinnertime.
“Yes. Here. Now.”
My face gets hot and I know I must be blushing, a flush rising up from my chest to engulf my cheeks as I shake my head no, say, “I can’t, someone will see. This kinda thing is hot in theory, but I don’t wanna get kicked out of some classy-ass restaurant for getting undressed in the middle of dinner.”
“I don’t care. Do it.”
One of those bursts of euphoria that you’re constantly causing goes racing through me and I shift uncomfortably in my chair.
“This is a really bad idea.”
“I’ll leave town without fucking you again if you don’t do it.”
“Oh, please. Like you even could.”
“Try me.”
I give you a hard look that you return twofold, makes me back down, glance away. I squirm a little then sigh, look around again, trying to evaluate where the other diners’ attention is, grateful to find that they all seem to be incredibly focused on the elaborate meals in front of them.
Slowly, I pull my dress all the way up my hips, work my hands under it to hook my thumbs around the lacy waistband. I lift my ass up as little as I possibly can and slowly pull them halfway down my thighs, trying desperately to make my movements slow and smooth, hoping that to do so will draw less attention than if I were to yank them down quickly.
You take a sip of water, a bite of food, don’t even look over.
I pause for a moment, glance around again, feels like someone’s watching me though I don’t catch anyone’s eyes.
“I said ‘take them off,’ not ‘pull them down,’” you say, still not looking at me.
“I’m fuckin working on it, alright?” I snap, exasperated even though you’ve made me so wet that I just know there will be a spot on the back of my dress when we leave.
You laugh, take another sip, reach over to squeeze my thigh again, filling your hand to overflowing with my flesh. When you take it away, I glance around again then take them the rest of the way off, immediately balling them up in my fist beneath the table.
“Put them in your mouth.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Jesus Christ, we’re at dinner. How am I supposed to eat?”
“You can eat at the hotel, we’ll take it back with us.”
“Um, okay, but the waiter’s still going to ask me his dumb waiter questions, you know that right?”
“Not my problem.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I say, still holding them beneath the table, slick and wet against my palm.
You smile, look over at me, the lusty fire in your eyes setting off sparks up and down my spine.
“Do it.”
I sigh again, look around, catch an older man with salt and pepper hair and heavy jowls looking at me, takes a long moment to return his attention to his dinner companion.
“I think that old guy’s watching me,” I say, tugging my dress down over my thighs, though you immediately reach over and push it back up, casually brushing your fingers over the hair between my legs as you do, acting as if it were an accident.
“Good,” you reply between bites.
“This is insane.”
“Make me say it one more time and I swear to God, I will leave you so thoroughly unfucked you won’t be able to see straight.”
I give the older man another guarded glance, certain that I see his eyes flit up again, though it’s so brief I can’t be sure. I start to duck my head, try to hide a little behind the table, but before I can put them in my mouth you say, “Oh, no no no. No hiding. Sit up.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, giving you a withering stare that only makes you laugh.
I realize then that if I don’t do it right now, I’ll lose the little bit of nerve I’ve got, so I bring both hands up to my mouth, trying to conceal myself as best I can as I shove them in, the taste of me filling my mouth as the slick crotch presses against my tongue.
You look over at me then, lean in to whisper, “Good girl,” in my ear, your hot breath tickling me there, giving me goosebumps.
Just then the waiter approaches.
“How is everything?”
“Excellent,” you reply, then turn to me, ask, “How about you? Tell me, what do you think?”
I cut my eyes at you, give the waiter an awkward smile and nod.
“Are you still working on this or would you like to take it home?” he asks, gesturing to my half-eaten meal.
You give me an expectant look, grinning.
I try to speak around them but it’s hopeless so I just nod again. The waiter gives me a quizzical look, then looks to you to see if you’ll clarify.
You study my face for a moment, relishing my discomfort, then tell the waiter, “I think she’s ready to leave. She’s very eager to get back to our hotel room.” You pause, then ask me, “Aren’t you, baby?”
I blush brightly, can’t meet the waiter’s eyes, though I can feel his energy shifting, his curiosity piqued as you idly run your fingers through my hair. He reaches for our plates, asks, “Can I interest either of you in dessert?”
You raise your eyebrows at me, ask, “How bout it? Tell me, what would you like?”
I hazard a glance at the waiter, who is now looking at me in a new way, a mixture of curiosity and arousal skating across his plain face, then look back at you, shake my head.
“No? You sure?”
I shake my head again and you smile, say to the waiter, “I think she’d rather wait. Maybe have something sweet back at the hotel, hm?” you ask me as you return your attention to my red face, cock an eyebrow.
“Would you like something to go?” the waiter asks, ever-so-slightly shaken, then adds, “Our cheesecake is sublime.”
“Hm,” you respond, ruminative. “Hear that? Sublime,” you say to me, grinning.
“What would you like, baby?” you ask as you reach over to grip my thigh.
I lay my napkin across my lap, shake my head.
“No? Are you sure? We both know how much you love to have something creamy in your mouth.”
I give you my most intense ‘I’m gonna fucking kill you’ glare, shake my head no, more firmly this time.
“Alright,” you say lightly, unfazed. “I guess we’ll just take the check then.”
The waiter, dazed, takes a moment to respond, “Very good, I’ll be right back with it.”
“Thank you,” you reply, leisurely looping your arm around my shoulders, kissing the side of my head through my hair, inhaling deeply.
“God, you smell good. Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” you ask, nudging me sweetly with your nose.
“No,” I mumble through the fabric.
“Well, you do. Sexy too. I love this dress.”
You run a finger along its scooped neck, brushing my flesh with the tip as I turn my head to catch the old man blatantly staring now, though he quickly looks away when I give him a death glare.
When the waiter returns, I demure yet again, silently willing him to go away, which he finally does, leaving with the credit card you’ve handed him. While he’s gone, you lean in and kiss my neck, acutely aware of how much it turns me on, your hand pushing the napkin to the floor as you shove two fingers inside me, shocking me, making me gasp.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice muted, cottony.
You work them in and out of me a little, waiting until the last possible moment to stop as the waiter approaches. I become certain that he saw, though I tell myself I’m just paranoid in the hopes that I can make it so through sheer force of will.
He thanks us, gives me a long look before turning away. You place your hand between my legs again, run your fingers through my pubic hair as you sign the bill, your touch light and meditative like it is when we’re lying in bed after we’ve had sex, petting me as you fall asleep.
You keep doing it a bit longer, smiling at the old man when you catch him watching us. Uncomfortable, his cheeks flush and he looks away.
“I think you have a fan,” you murmur into my ear, reaching up to cup my cheek in your hand.
I lay mine over yours, pressing your palm harder into me, nuzzling against it, then give you a pleading look, impossibly eager to get back to the hotel. You smile sweetly, kiss my cheek then say, “Come on, let’s go.”
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