tagBDSMLunch Special

Lunch Special


The hostess glided between the tables of the gleaming Village restaurant, her mid-back length blonde-and-pink tresses glinting as she moved and contrasting sensuously with the dark tan which crept forth from beneath her clothing. She was leading the way to the table we'd indicated, a booth next to windows opening upon the bustling afternoon City sidewalk. Since the place was largely empty at this hour, we'd been able to choose our table rather freely. Reaching the booth, she stood silently facing us in her black halter and black low-rise stretch-slacks, nipple-rings outlined against the accommodatingly thin material of her top and accentuating her small but obviously firm breasts. Patiently, the sun-darkened young woman cradled our menus as I turned to my lover and directed her to slide into the booth, facing the front of the restaurant. With a nod, she slid into place, her tight black miniskirt pulling upward along white thighs as she folded herself into the polished hardwood bench.

I waited, watching, until my slave was settled into place, enjoying the way the movement caused her B-cup breasts to sway within her sheer, loose-fitting but contour-draping black top. I always required her to dress in sheer tops in public, not least because it went so strongly against her natural modesty to be so uncontrollably and consistently exposed. Her bright red areolas were clearly visible through the filmy material, her nipples in that almost constant state of erectness that is a consequence of regular nipple torture and the sensitivity resulting from it. I'd chosen the top because its material was ever-so-slightly itchy, almost subliminally irritating to her nipples, contributing to the maximal extension to which those thick, fleshy garnet peaks were currently standing. The bright sunlight streaming through the window made her blouse virtually disappear, and my petite, expectant slave knew as well as I did the erotic spectacle that she presented. I saw her hazel eyes flick nervously toward the window, its bottom sill at table-level, well below the level of her display.

I slid next to my auburn-haired companion and looked to our hostess, who was uneasily and unsuccessfully trying not to look at the spectacle of my companion as she held out our menus. I took my time taking mine, and I made the hostess hand my lover's menu directly to her so that she would have no choice but to turn her eyes upon my slave's exposed, jutting chest in the process. I smiled as I watched her turn and take her leave of our table in a state of confusion and maybe even more than a little desire.

I turned to my slave, her expectant uneasiness already palpable. She had expected me to sit across from her, not slide in next to her, thereby locking her into the booth with my body. I saw the realization creep across the finely-carven features of her face that this was probably not going to be an uneventful meal. I turned toward her and reached behind her graceful alabaster neck with my left hand, pulling her head to me and kissing her deeply. While I probed the moist, responsive cavern of her mouth with my tongue, my right hand slid the hem of her clinging ebony skirt upwards along her silky thighs, stopping only when the leading edge of my hand made contact with the naked skin atop them. Releasing her neck, I broke the kiss, allowing her to settle back into place. "Don't!" I commanded as her hands drifted towards her lap, the adjustment of her skirt their obvious and almost instinctive purpose. "Place both hands palm down on the table and leave them there."

I relished the anticipation that shimmered upon her face and shivered through her frame as she carried out my command. Her breathing was deep and a bit panicked; its rhythm thrusting her breasts forward deliciously as her tongue darted anxiously forth to moisten nervously parted ruby lips. "Good girl," I said, smirking. "Now, spread your legs until your knees are 12 inches apart, and I don't want to see you look down. It's none of your business what you do or don't look like."

She was well-trained - a very good, promising slave. She hesitated only long enough to draw a deep, shaking breath before complying, only long enough to set her delicate jaw almost imperceptibly and steel herself for the act. As I'd expected, in her attempt to make sure that she achieved the required gap without being able to gauge the distance visually she spread her legs wider than necessary. The movement stretched the hem of her skirt across the top of her smooth, freshly-shaven loins, pulling it taught and rendering the presence of her pale, crimson-slashed nether-region clearly visible. Since we were facing the door of the restaurant, it was always possible that someone, especially another seated diner, with the right angle would be able to see her thus splayed and exposed, a fact which I immediately relayed tauntingly to my companion. I watched with glee as the knowledge embedded itself into her awareness with a gulp. Her eyes drifted closed for a moment as if to hide from the vision of herself - or maybe to see it in her mind's eye - before snapping back, open and wide, gleaming with a heady mixture of fear and arousal.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waiter heading in our direction, dressed in the black jeans and white oxford shirt that is the uniform of Village wait-staff. From his perspective, facing us across the table as he approached, I knew that he couldn't see the condition of my lover's legs and pussy, but her breasts would be facing him without escape. "Sit up straight like a good girl," I ordered. "You know better than to try to hide." As she straightened from the slight-slouch she had unconsciously adopted, her dusk-draped nipple-peaked mounds thrust proudly forward.

The waiter, all teeth, accent, and Eastern-European charm, was much less nervous than our hostess had been - or maybe he was just more visibly appreciative. He looked openly at my companion's breasts, not bothering to hide that he was enjoying the show. Good for him, I thought. He'd enjoy what was yet to come. I ordered a cappuccino for her, an exotic ale for me, and told the waiter to return in a few minutes for our food order. As he retreated, I commented to my slave on the direct, lewd and appreciative gaze which he had let loose upon her chest, ensuring that she would be highly conscious of him and his attention toward her when he next returned. I could see my strategy working, as she glanced sideways toward where he had gone and then lowered her eyes momentarily to the hands that she kept glued to the table before her. I saw the thought flash through her mind that the waiter would know she was a slave by the fact that she was unable to move her hands, that they would still be plastered in position on his next return, and I watched with contentment as a pale pink flush suffused her cheeks.

My eyes glued to her face, my left hand settled between my auburn-haired slave's parted thighs. I made no attempt to be subtle or to hide the placement of my hand from anyone who might care to look as I stroked my middle finger with excruciating slowness along the full length of her already-moist cleft. I saw her eyes dart furtively around the restaurant as I did so, the forlorn hope that no-one would notice what was unfolding shining from her lust-brimming eyes. I, however, wasn't looking ... not only did I not care if anyone saw, I hoped that they would.

A gasp escaped like steam from her startled lips, parting as if to mimic those below her waist as I buried two fingers unceremoniously within the slick tunnel between her legs. Her eyes were wide as I spoke, the increasing depth of her submissive state unmistakable in their gleam. "Just so you know," I said in a steady tone, "I plan to keep my hand in your pussy from now until we leave. I wonder how many times I can make you come while you sit here and try to hide it and not draw attention to yourself." I grinned broadly at this last. She was highly orgasmic; not showing her orgasms would be almost impossible for her, and she knew it. A shiver trickled through her as I began to move my fingers slowly in and out of the tender tightness between her legs.

It should be about time for our beverages to be coming, I thought. Turning away from my lover's quivering form without dislodging my tormenting hand, I looked toward the bar. Indeed, our waiter was just beginning his return-trip. As he approached, I could see the trajectory of my left arm registering in his eyes, and I increased the pace of my probing, increasingly wet digits. I wasn't sure whether the low moan which drifted from my companion was due to the slow finger-fuck, or whether it was due to her knowledge that the waiter would be unable to miss seeing what was happening to her, what she was allowing to happen to her. Modesty is so much fun. I love to force shy, modest lovers to behave openly like shameless sluts, and she knew it. "If you close your eyes," I warned her, "I'll remove your top until we get home." I didn't want her to be able to retreat behind the comfort of her eyelids, and I'd made sure that she was aware that it was not a crime around here for a woman to be topless in public; she knew it wasn't a bluff.

As the waiter approached, I saw him take in the position of my quietly ravished lover's hands on the polished hardwood tabletop, their placement unchanged since his last visit. Her nipples were at full extension and straining for more, and there was a bright red blush flowing from her cheeks to her heaving breasts. The waiter had to come to our side of the table to deliver our drinks, and as he leaned forward with my lover's cappuccino he had a clear view of my hand and its activities. I took that moment to move my entire hand as I clearly pulled my fingers almost out of her now-dripping pussy and then plunged them back in for his amusement. I heard my lover whimper as she felt my movement and realized what it meant. From the corner of my eye I could see her almost slack face turned in his direction as she confronted her spectacle from his vantage-point.

Straightening, the waiter stood directly to my right this time as he asked for our orders, openly appreciative as he positioned himself so that he had a direct view of my tormenting hand. "Just a moment," I told him.

I turned to my mortified companion. I could tell that she hadn't expected what was happening. I could also tell, from the molten lust dripping from her eyes as heavily as her juices were dripping from my hand, that the thing that was humiliating her most of all was the level of arousal that she was feeling as a result. "Pull your skirt up around your waist and spread your legs wider," I said in a tone loud enough for our waiter to hear. I turned back to him as I felt my lover shift upon my hand as she obeyed, settling back into place with her thighs open yet further. From the smile on his face and the lust seething from his mahogany gaze, I could tell that we were going to get fabulous service today. I slid a third finger into her waiting pussy as her hands settled, trembling, back onto the tabletop. I emphasized the movements of my hand as I fucked her while placing our order. Our waiter took his time, repeating the order several times to stretch the moment. There was reluctance in his body as he turned from our table.

By the time our food arrived, our waiter had been back to our table three times to make sure our waters were full and we seemed to have acquired our own bus-boy. My lover was moaning quietly, her eyes open but unseeing. As the waiter leaned forward further than strictly necessary to place her plate in front of her, she was forced to bite her lip in the drive to remain silent - her orgasms tended to be volcanic and very loud. I could tell that she was about to come, because her hips began to rock, thrusting forward to meet my relentlessly fucking hand in a shameless display of passion-fueled sluttiness. I couldn't resist looking at our waiter and commenting with a grin: "Isn't it nice when they lose control?"

"Absolutely!" was his response. As he spoke, as she was forced by the exchange to confront the display that she had become, I felt my slave's muscles tighten convulsively around my fingers and she gurgled with the force of an orgasm choked to silence. I'd known that being reduced to a pure sexual object in such a way would drive her over the edge. She succeeded in swallowing her screaming release, the muscles of her neck exploding into stark relief from the strain of keeping mouth and throat closed, but her body betrayed her as her upper body shook violently with the power of her mute climax. I looked toward the door, and saw the hostess staring wide-eyed at my slave as her body thrashed in her seat, and then thrashed some more, reduced to pure, non-self-conscious animal response.

If my slave had thought that her orgasm would buy her release from the torment, she was certainly mistaken. I inserted a fourth finger, now, and began to eat one-handed as I continued my ministrations. By the end of the meal, I had made her come four more times, her fourth orgasm occurring as the waiter collected our money and wished us quite sincerely to "come back again soon". The glazed condition of her eyes was nectar to me, and I drank it from her. Several of the other diners had long been aware of the performance unfolding before them by that point, initially-furtive glances having become open, spell-bound stares gripping eyes almost as glazed as hers.

From the periphery of my vision, I saw the lithe, dark figure of the hostess approaching our table. My smile grew wider. During the course of the meal, I'd watched her fight and then surrender to the desire to watch us as surreptitiously as she could - after all, she couldn't contribute to drawing attention to us by staring as some of the other diners were. Not turning toward her but feeling her presence as she arrived, I withdrew my hand from the molten pussy in which it was embedded and raised it dripping before my slave's face. She needed no encouragement by this time, all modesty, all sense of boundary, long abandoned in her animal passion, and I allowed her to clean my fingers one by one with her lips and tongue as the hostess stood silently behind me looking on.

Finally, my hand licked and sucked clean of my lover's fluid, I turned and slid my gaze slowly upwards from the hostess' loins to her face, stroking her with my eyes as I did so. Her nipples were like rocks upon her dancer's chest, trying to part the thin material of her halter, and her she seemed almost hypnotized, unable to tear her icy blue eyes from my still-raised hand. I swear that I could smell her sweet, pungent aroma rising from her loins and wafting to me across the distance. There was no questioning the sincerity with which she also asked, stammering slightly, that we come back again soon ... "maybe even later, next time, and try our dinners." We, in fact, would do just that on another day, at which time we found out that her shift ended after dinner, but that would be another story.

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