Kelly's New Man

It took a couple of tries to get them right. I have large nipples and they become erect easily. Fresh air will do it! John has always loved that. I thought the nooses might slip off, so I tightened them another notch on the clamp. There was a new sensation, one that was not confined to my nipples. Oh my, I was getting turned on. It was like when John would take my nipples in his teeth or in his fingers. Somehow those nerves connected to all of my other pleasure centers. How sensitive I am!

And how strange to be pushed around and abused like this and yet to find it arousing. The filmy panties on my trimmed mound had started me feeling sexy. The tension on my nipples, with the weight of the little chain tugging at them, and of course the double drink, and also the tension of the situation with John being so intense and angry, was all having an effect. And then I thought of going out into the dining room full of customers and walking past them, and of that little boy smiling with his big, bright eyes. I knew I would feel conspicuous and embarrassed, and I became even more aroused. It was new to me. I thought: "How interesting."

I wanted to do it. I hoped the jacket would cover enough. I put it on, and did up the buttons, and looked in the mirror. My cleavage was very evident, and the swell of my breasts, and the chain was clearly visible! Just above the bottom of the 'V' where the jacket came together, the chain for the nipple clamps showed just a bit, maybe a couple of inches. It was easy to see my breasts curving to disappear beneath the jacket. I felt more aroused.

The weight of the jacket was pressing down on the clamps and pulling at my nipples. With all my moving around to fit the clamps and then adjust them to the hardening little nubs, the filmy green panties had crept up into the crack of my ass and were pressing into the cleft between my legs. When I moved, I could feel them move too and put pressure against my sensitive skin. It felt very good, and oh so very improper. It was thrilling. I didn't think anyone I knew would be in the restaurant. I told myself that I wanted to try it for John. Finally, I put on the four-inch slingback heels he'd bought.

I started to leave the stall, but then I remembered the makeup. So I had to go back in, and as I leaned toward the mirror to do the eye makeup, I could see my breasts hang free inside my jacket. I was aware of the tug of the nipple chain as it swung with each move I made. It felt so good, and I felt sexy. I put on the lipstick and combed my hair – I really did look good. Then I remembered to take off the jacket so I could put lipstick on my nipples. Really, this was overkill. But in for a dime, in for a dollar! Whatever made me think of that? I giggled as I touched my areolae and nipples with the lipstick. Oh, that made my nipples even tighter.

Then I added two things John hadn't told me to do, just because I was having fun. I tightened the clamps a little more on each breast; the tingle made me close my eyes and inhale softly. The second thing I did was to roll the waistband of my skirt enough to raise the hem another couple of inches, right to the edge of anything useful in public. Then I put my jacket on, checked myself over once more in the mirror, picked up the bag, and went to join John.

I remembered to stand very straight. Surprisingly, I did feel good about myself, beautiful and confident in a way I hadn't felt in a long, long time. I could get used to this feeling. The little boy smiled at me, and his stare gave me a pause as he looked down my length. I smiled back at him this time and at his mother. I noticed a couple of men following me with their eyes, and one or two women were looking daggers at me. Bitches.The thought made me grin.

When I got to the table, John had moved, damn him! He had moved our settings so we would be sitting in the back of the round booth, next to each other. To get to my place, I had to slide the length of half of the booth. I was careful to hold the jacket and the hem of my skirt as I sat down and slid in, and I made it without any of me 'falling out.' I asked him how I looked. He was indeed checking me out, and I could see the cloud of desire that I know so well settling on his eyes. I looked good and felt in charge again and even a little smug.

But the waitress, who probably had been holding our food for my return to the table, picked that moment to rush up with the trays, and she placed the dishes in front of each of us. As she sat mine down, I could see her eyes go to my skin. She had a perfect view of the nipple chain, but I'm sure she couldn't see my nipples, just the chain. She could see that I had nothing on like a bra. I was suddenly embarrassed and feeling in over my head, and I looked away from her.

Of course she didn't say anything, but when she left I could not help but notice that I had a different, new reaction to the eyes I'd felt watching me. The tingle in my breasts, and the moist feel of being turned on between my legs, and the flush that kept rising to my face made me aware for the first time that there was an exhibitionist streak in me. I was loving this!

"You look like the slut you are," John answered the question I had asked.

"Well, thanks a bunch," I said warmly.

"Fabulous," he continued, "but like a slut anyway." He poured wine, first for himself, then for me. Once again, he was pushing my buttons. So much for any idea I had of taking charge. "Do you like the way you feel?" he asked.

I nodded. He put pressure against my back with his right hand so I would lean forward a couple of inches. As I moved, I could feel the heft of the chain, and I could feel his eyes. "Your breasts are stunning," he said. "I can almost see your nipples."

Then he said: "Show me" in that demanding tone.

I looked around. No one was watching. The people who were nearest had their backs to us. I looked into his eyes. I opened the jacket just enough for him to see, just for a second. And behind him I could see our waitress coming our way. I closed the jacket again.

She came up with her bright, shiny waitress smile. "How is everything," she stated.

John surprised me again. He said to me: "How is everything so far?"

Surprised to be asked, I said: "Just fine."

"Is that all?" he asked, his hands folded in a triangle in front of his face.

'Actually, this is very good," I said looking at the waitress and then at him to see if I was okay. She didn't know I wasn't talking about the food.

The waitress was ready to leave, but as she turned to go, John once again surprised me, and this time surprised her. "Tell me…," he said to her. She stopped, her eyebrows raised in her professionally polite expression of concern. I wondered what was coming.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he said to the waitress.

"Sir?" she asked, taken aback.

"I think she is stunning," he said, looking at me. "Don't you think?"

"Yes, sir," she said, "she is lovely." Now she was smiling solicitously.

I wanted to crawl beneath the table and started to say something, but I suddenly felt the pressure of his foot on mine and his hand suddenly tight on my bare thigh. I just looked at the waitress and smiled. "Is this your anniversary?" she asked.

"Oh no," John said. "We just met. I picked her up."

The waitress was even more stunned than I was. I at least had felt something coming and, though mortified, was not entirely surprised.

He chuckled as the waitress beat a hasty retreat. Now I was actually feeling angry, and he would know it, not that he was concerned. That would have been the old John. He said: "Don't say a word," and "Eat your dinner before it gets cold."

He refilled my wine. Once in awhile he would lean into me and say something about my breasts, or about how the chain made him wonder if my nipples were hard, and once – he knows I love this – he moved my hair to the side and teased my ear with his tongue. I looked around, and there was no one liable to see nearby, only a woman at an adjacent table who was engrossed in a conversation with her husband.

He touched my breast with the back of his hand, not caressing me but with enough pressure through my jacket that I was aware of my nakedness. Each time he told me I was a slut, I felt something stir inside. It was like he reached me in a private place. Near the end of the meal, his hand was on my bare thigh, or at least his finger tips were lightly touching my skin, tickling but also teasing my leg. He said, whispering into my ear so I could feel his breath: "Does your husband know what a slut you are?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, he does."

"I'll bet he likes you like that."

"He loves it," I said, smiling at him. The waitress ventured near again, and he asked her to take the plates. "Can you handle another drink?" he asked. Usually I can handle quite a bit to drink, but I'd had the double cocktail before dinner, and I'd had most of the bottle of wine, and was feeling tipsy. "I don't think I probably should," I said.

He ordered two coffees with a chocolate liqueur. When the waitress had turned to go, he said quietly to me: "Lift your skirt from underneath your ass. Bring it as high as you can." I looked around. No one was looking, and the woman across from us had her head turned. I swear I've never done anything like this in my entire life. I raised my hips from the seat and moved the hem of my skirt up and behind me so I was sitting with my nearly bare bottom, except for the thin strip of the gauzy green panties, directly on the vinyl cover of the booth seat. I smoothed the skirt on my lap and made sure to adjust the table cloth so that it hid my thighs.

I noticed a man in a booth diagonally across from us. He was talking to his wife, who had her back to us, except he was looking at me. I wondered if he could see, if he had seen, or if he was just wondering. After all, my cleavage was still very visible, but he surely could see nothing below the tabletop. I felt John's touch on my thigh again. This time it was a gentle, soft touch as he stroked the pads of his fingers down the outside of my leg. When he got to my knee, I said "That tickles."

"I know," he said. "You'll get used to it."

His fingertips moved to the inside of my leg and moved steadily up the soft, inner skin of my thigh. When he came to the front of my skirt, he lifted it and folded it so it would be hiked even higher than the top of my panties. I moved my hands to put it back down, but he said firmly: "Don't."

That voice was new this evening, and I was finding it undeniable. I put my hands back on the table and wondered how I felt about what was happening to me as his fingertips rotated outward on my thigh and began their maddening move again back down my leg.

He never changed his pace. He moved up the inside and back down the outside again, and again, I have no idea how many times. His hand gradually went further into the inside of my thigh, and inevitably went further up, to my panties. And then his hand pulled my right leg closer to him, so my legs were spread.

On each circuit the side of his hand started brushing, just barely, the green, transparent threads that separated his touch from my pussy. It was electric. It was a tingle of energy and a melting of my soul. I was so turned on, and getting more turned on each time he came so close to actually touching me there. I had started to want him to. "I could get used to this," I thought. It was like there was no one else around and like I didn't have to think about being in public.

Then he moved his hand up, deep in between my legs, and I spread a little more to make it easier for him to reach wherever he wanted, and he laid his fingers gently on my mound, his finger tips between my legs and one finger gently tapping, like a heartbeat, on the very sensitive center of my sensations, my clitoris, or at least on its hood.

And then the damn coffee arrived. The waitress was bending over me to serve it. I froze, not wanting to give myself away, and I suddenly wondered if the aroma of my sex was noticeable. God knows, I was turned on. I could feel him tapping insistently at my clitoris even while she added whipping cream in big dollops to each cup of coffee. I wondered if she knew.

She had made our check out and was ready to place it in front of John. "Give it to her, please," he said.

"Here you are, Ma'am," she said, and I had to reach out to take it from her across the table. His fingers had not moved from my pussy. There was almost nothing between his flesh and my pussy hair and clitoris and all of my sparkling nerve endings. I took a deep breath. "Thank you," I said. When she left, as his hand began to move, very deliberately stroking up and down on my sex, I said to him, "You shouldn't do that."

"You're wet," he said, ignoring me. I rummaged in my purse for my wallet and credit cards. "Spread your legs a little more," he said.

I felt him push the cloth of the panties away from my cleft, and then his fingers slid over my bare sex. At last he was touching me. I was so turned on that it was all I could do to keep from moaning out loud, but something perverse in him wanted me to keep acting like I knew what I was doing and he kept up the incessant teasing while I paid for the dinner. I left my credit card with the bill in clear view on the table.

His finger was dipping down into my slit, spreading slick moisture all up and down my labia, and he began to do that thing I love so much where he takes the labia between his thumb and forefinger and gently slides up and down, close to going inside of me but not doing it, close to touching my clitoris but not doing that either. I knew my clitoris would be swollen. It did not happen every time we had sex, but only when I was tremendously turned on, and I was very turned on. The waitress came for the card and said she would be right back.

He moved to my clitoris again, but this time his touch was direct. I slouched to give him access, and his finger and thumb gently grasped my swollen clit and twisted. He made me gasp. Through my half-closed eyes the room was hazy, the people a blur. He began to insistently rotate my clitoris back and forth with his fingers, and with each rotation the pressure of his thumb and forefinger increased.

I bit on my lower lip to keep from making noise. I could hear my breath becoming ragged, short, shallow, and suddenly there were stars and I was cumming.

His touch slowed, and as my senses settled I could see the woman across from us now looking past her husband and looking at me. Strangely, I didn't care. John's hand left my pussy and moved the fabric of my panties back over my sex. I could feel how wet the cloth was, how wet I was. He brought his fingers to his mouth.

"You are a slut," he said, "and you're delicious."

When the card was returned, I added a tip and signed the receipt. I remember he picked the receipt up. I was going to have a hard time getting my balance when I stood up. I felt like I was glowing. Suddenly he was all business. He came around the table and took my arm. I remembered to smooth my skirt back down as I stood up, and to adjust my jacket, and to stand straight. I could feel a little moisture trickle down the inside of my right thigh. I looked at the woman who had been watching and smiled when I met her eyes. I really could get used to this.

He had the duffel and guided me to the door of the restaurant and to the car. As the cool breeze of the night air chilled the moisture beneath my skirt, I wondered if he was done with surprises. Clearly, he needed to be the one who drove. It was dark out now, and as he started the car, I told him dinner was good.

"Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to speak. Or give you something to suck.," he said.

"A slut like you needs to get fucked," he said. Oh, I thought, now we go home and go to bed.

"Move your seat all the way back," he said. I fumbled with the buttons, but the seat gradually moved back. "Now lower the back part way."

"Are you going to fuck me right here?" I asked, playfully. He grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.

"Have you forgotten what's in the bag?" he asked. "Do you want to get fucked with that?

"Be very careful…." This was John, but I shivered. He wouldn't really hurt me, I reminded myself, but this voice was so serious and, in the dark, it was easy to find fear.

"Put your feet up on the dash," he said. "Pull your skirt the rest of the way up." He was pulling out of the parking lot now. "And play with yourself. Make yourself cum."

I just looked at him, my hands still on the hem of the skirt. I was about to refuse. We were on a public street, and my legs weren't under a table this time. But he reached over between my legs, grabbed me, and roughly massaged my mound, pressing his middle finger hard into the cleft between my legs so his finger and the panties rode up inside of me. "I'm not joking," he said. "Do it."

I was still very stimulated from the restaurant, and I really did want to cum again. Actually what I wanted was to fuck. I put my feet on the dash, I lifted my hips to pull up my skirt, and I tentatively touched my lips for him. The sensations took over almost immediately, and I could feel my body begin to respond. The urge to cum moved from the back of my mind to the center of my body. It occurred to me that I hadn't cum twice in a night since just after we were married.

The streetlights going overhead were soothing and provided a rhythm. I moved my hand down beneath the waistband of the panties and dipped my finger just inside my entrance. I felt slutty doing this for him, and I wanted him to watch, too. This was far from the kind of thing I had been raised to do, but I was very much enjoying it. I looked, and his eyes were moving from the road to my hand and looking back again, and his own hand was moving slowly against where his erection filled the front of his pants. It occurred to me that he had not cum yet and he must be very hard.

One advantage a man has as he gets older is that he lasts longer, and John had always had good discipline anyway. Otherwise, he probably would not have put up with my crap for this many years. I dipped two fingers as deep inside of me as I could. I really wanted to fuck. Oh well, if he was dissatisfied he couldn't say it was due to my "lack of interest" tonight at least.

We came to a stoplight. I guessed there were kids in the car next to us because their music was shaking our car. "Should I stop?" I asked. "No" he said, "I want you to cum." I glanced over and it was three young men. I decided they couldn't see anything beneath my shoulders other than that my feet were on the dash because of the side of the car. One of them looked at me and he must have guessed. He said something to his friends. The driver was looking over when the light changed. I could feel the wetness gathering on my fingers. I looked in the side mirror, and the young men's car was turning, thank God. It was time to focus on an orgasm.

I touched my clitoris and felt electric again. I was still sensitive from the restaurant. The motion of the car was providing a soft rhythm. My fingers were bringing me higher, and I started to raise my hips off the seat to hasten the orgasm, but the car suddenly swerved into the turn lane and went into a parking lot. "Stop," he said.

"I want to cum," I whispered.

"You were too slow," he said. "We're here. Maybe we can find someone here to make a slut cum."

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You're where you're going," he said. "Get out of the car."

He came to my door; I could see that the duffel was already in his far hand. I looked around. We were in the parking lot of the damned Connecticut Yankee, a luxury Radisson next to the expressway, and he was holding my wrist behind me again. He was guiding me to a side entrance. "Why aren't we going home," I said.