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MadameDahlia -> That Night At Dinner (2/9/2005 2:29:09 PM)
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This was written with a certain special someone in mind...
We pulled into the parking lot and before exiting the car I slid my hand over your thigh gently. You swallowed tightly and glanced over at me. I could hear you breathing as your breath fogged the windows: heavy, slow, sensual.
I curled my fingers a bit tighter and you swallowed again. “A – aren’t you hungry,” you whispered, as though you were afraid to wake someone sleeping nearby. You watched a smile slip across my face and shifted in the seat, hovering on the edge of discomfort and pleasurable anticipation.
I allowed a grin to creep across my face as I murmured, “Right – hungry.” The words fell from my lips, sexual innuendo lacing them. But just as quickly as the moment had escalated it soon fell flat as I lightly slapped your thigh. “Well, are you going to sit around all evening or shall we go eat?”
You blinked and shook off the sexual daze you’d fallen into. In a youthful and slightly worried manner you drew your lips in slightly. I expected fat tears to well up within your eyes at any moment. The expression you wore upon your face was almost too heart wrenching. Half of me wanted to order you to drive us back home. Screw eating! I was hungering in an entirely different fashion. But I forced myself to open the car door and exit.
After we’d been seated and given our menus I slipped one of my heels off silently. Lifting my foot slowly, I touched the inside of one of your knees, urging them apart.
Your eyes flew to meet mine, curious and slightly bewildered. I had rested my elbows upon the table so that I could touch one hand to the other. Drumming my fingers silently against each other, I smiled at you from over the tops of my fingertips. You bit your lower lip slightly as you allowed your legs to relax.
My toes continued upward, teasing the inside of your thigh until I’d reached where your legs meet your body. I continued to tease the apex of your thighs. To you it felt like skilled fingertips, expertly heightening your sense of arousal.
You squirm a bit… but you don’t want anyone to know. You don’t want them to look. Drawing attention to your – problem would only make a slightly embarrassing situation that much worse.
(Side note: You interject as I was paraphrasing this to you via IM: “I'm so going to have to do dinner with you.”) Mmm... I can't wait.
You look across at me, wondering if I’m watching intently – wondering how much mirth I may be expressing because of your dilemma. However all you notice is a small, serene smile and gently drumming fingertips.
The waiter shows up and for a moment her toes stop moving, but they remain poised in your lap – ready to pick up where they left off the moment the waiter has left.
You order but hear my laughing voice declare, “No, no. He’s quite mistaken. He’ll actually be having the dish at the bottom of page six. Yes, that one there.”
I then ordered, leaving you to stare across the table at me in confusion. The waiter figures the transaction was some sort of odd lover’s quarrel –which he wishes to be no part of. He scribbles the last of my order down and beats a hasty retreat, to avoid being hit with the fur that’s bound to start flying.
You’re a bit confused but still enjoying yourself. You’re wondering why you’ve had your dinner choice corrected. But thoughts of anything soon leave your mind when toes begin to tease you once again.
The waiter returns a while later and you do your level best to sit still despite the frustration you’re feeling. You’ve gone through six napkins, having squeezed and shredded them to death while trying to deal with the build up of tension.
After he places the food in front of you it is removed almost immediately. I set both plates on my side of the table and remove your silverware from you as well. With a dismissive smile directed toward the waiter I then return my gaze to you. The waiter hurries away once more, a bit red in the face.
I lean a bit closer and smile sweetly. “If you want something from your plate you will request it politely. I will then cut off a bite and feed it to you. You will not reach for your silverware or the next time we dine out I’ll restrain your wrists and have you keep them in your lap.”
You flush profusely, crimson hot color racing through your cheeks. “B – but Empress,” you begin to protest.
I offer you The Look and the protest dies upon your lips. You hang your head slightly, temporarily forgetting the tension below your belt. “Yes of course Empress,” you utter, quick to correct yourself.
You lift your head briefly and after a bit of an internal debate whisper, “Please Empress, may I have a bite?” You hope that no one overhears… but you don't hope too much. After all, part of the fun is the risk involved. Being caught, stared at - knowing someone who has passed the table is walking away wondering just what in the hell they've witnessed... it teases the back of your mind while you try to get through dinner, frequently asking for bites of food. You become so adjusted to the habit that you also politely inquire, “Please Empress, may I have a sip of my soda?”
I grin, knowing that the night was a marvelous success.
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