You surprise me with the reservations- there’s a new restaurant in town you’ve been wanting to try and you got us a table for tonight. It’s a bit more modern, fancier than our regular spots. You pick out which dress you’d like me to wear, a plunging black one, the front low-cut enough that I need a specific bra to fill it out properly. You ask me to forget the bra this time.
I try it on and after fastening the back you have me stand in front of the mirror. You show me in the reflection how whenever I bend or reach a certain way, the dress gapes open enough that I’m completely exposed. Anyone looking down can see my entire breast, the shape of my soft nipples, the way they darken just slightly around the edge. You slip your hand into the gap to tease one, your fingers circling and tugging lightly until it’s hard enough to see through the fabric, then you pull your hand away abruptly and shrug. I look at you in mock horror, chastise you for how completely unfair it is to touch one and not the other. You laugh, tell me that if I want more I’ll have to wait until later.
When we arrive at the restaurant they seat us at a booth in a small, dimly lit room in the back. There’s only one other couple there and it looks like they’re getting ready to leave.
The first time we do the trick you ask me to grab something in my purse for you, knowing full well it will take me a minute to dig it out. As soon as our server realizes he can see down my dress he stops, mid-specials, clears his throat and forgets which dish he was on. I glance over, see you trying to stifle a laugh into your fist. This makes me want to laugh too, but I manage to keep a straight, if not entirely pink, face.
We are ordering our second round of drinks when you have me do it again, “forgetting” to hand me the cocktail menu, making me lean across the table for it. His eyes dart downward immediately, but he doesn’t react this time. Just smiles politely and nods when I tell him what I’d like. After he leaves with our order you slide into the booth next to me. “He thinks you have no fucking idea,” you say, laughing, entirely amused. “He’s probably back there describing your tits to some busboy right now. How much do you want to bet they send someone else out next time?” I laugh too, but sure enough when our drinks arrive someone completely new is carrying them. He sets both glasses down in front of you, and looks noticeably disappointed when you hand me mine instead, smiling enthusiastically and thanking him.
When he’s gone again, you reach your hand down to my knee, squeeze as you ask me if I’m enjoying dinner. Your fingertips trail along the edge of my dress, lightly lifting the hem before moving beneath it. You run your hand up my thigh slowly, giving me time to stop you if I’m afraid. I don’t. You lean in closer, drop your voice a little quieter, “I thought it might make you feel good to be looked at a little.” You find my panties, fingers softly pushing them aside, tracing down the part in the smooth skin. “Did it?” You ask.
You slide one inside of me, feel how undeniably aroused I am, and whisper “…fuck.” Then, suddenly, “we need to go outside.”
We tell the hostess we’re stepping out for a cigarette even though neither of us smoke. It’s dark outside, and you grab my hand, leading me to the back of the restaurant. You kiss me hard against the wall. My hands search along your jaw, neck, your hair. You’re pulling off my panties, stuffing them into my purse. I’m already so turned on by the tension that I cum almost as soon as I feel your cock inside me, a couple of thrusts and my mouth is buried into your shoulder, trying hard not to make a sound. A couple more and you’re right there too, the escalation of this entire night being released inside of me. We hold on for a brief moment before pulling apart. I straighten my dress as you tuck yourself back into your pants, tell you that I’m going to go to the restroom to clean up and put my panties back on. Your eyes find mine, hold on. You reach for my hand, squeeze a little, “Don’t.” It’s a request, not a demand. A question, almost. Something I could do for you, a way to make you feel good. I lift our hands, kiss the inside of your wrist and smile.
I keep my legs pressed tightly together as we finish our drinks and close out our tab. Once we’ve paid the check we stand, and you look at me, curious as to the result of our sudden change in posture. I blush, which tells you all you need to know. I’m overwhlemed by the slickness of our mess between my legs, and I discreetly check the back of my dress to see if it soaked through. As we walk out of the restaurant, beneath the fabric, where nobody can see, a small streak of your cum is running down my leg.
When we get back to the apartment you soak a washcloth in warm water. You ask me to take off my dress, have me lie back on the bed. You part my legs, and clean me gently with the damp cloth, kissing each part that you clean. When you’re finished you lie next to me, your lips grazing my temple. You tell me that I was incredible, and you’re practically glowing when you pull me to you, holding me tightly, sharing your warmth.