Dinner for Two
We sit face-to-face, gazing eye-to-eye in the upscale restaurant surrounded by opulence and overtaken by the scents of fine wine and gourmet cuisine. The illumination is low highlighting your curving features and the straightness of your hair. The day has been full of romance and passion, intimacy and sensuality. Our time together is all too brief and infrequent, but this has been the very day we had hoped for, worth every agonizing minute of wait and anticipation. And now here we are, capping it off with a wonderful meal, in perfect surroundings, our hearts full and minds swirling. But we both know this is not the end. It is merely a transition from the glow of sunlit romance to deeply shadowed debauchery in the darkness of night.
But for now there you are, radiant in your new dress, the color exceptional and the cut accentuating your finest physical attributes. The heels you thought seemed odd in their shape complimenting the ensemble, displaying your shapely legs to perfection. You have never been dressed more beautifully in your life and yet you have never felt more naked beneath my gaze.
You are all too aware that the night is just beginning and of the direction it is likely to take. We have been here before, you and I. You know the meaning of that look in my eye, the upward tick at the corners of my mouth, the deepening hushed tones of my voice. The day passed in loving companionship but with heated anticipation you now await that darker companion who emerges with the night. Indeed He made his presence felt before ever leaving the hotel room. His reminder most evident as you shift in your seat, the ever-present Swarovsky crystal plug a lone sentinel standing watch over your submission, reminding you of your place between us, a simultaneous warning and welcome.
With the first glass of wine and the appetizers behind us, it began. You knew it was coming. It had to. It always does. And yet you’re never certain quite how, quite when, quite what. The change in tone. The shift from amiable conversation to firm direction. It seemed such an innocent thing to do, asking where the ladies room might be. But the response from your Sir is anything but innocent. The pointed finger, the offhand mention that while you are there you might consider removing your lacy panties and bring them back to the table.
You shift in your seat, mulling the politely veiled direction just received and all of its its implications, terrified that removing the panties will result in an obvious and embarrassing dampness to your dress. Sure that the crystal plug, the thought of your own nudity, and anticipation of the night ahead will leave you slick and wet. Indeed you are convinced this is already the case even with the panties on. You dread the walk through the crowded restaurant having been stared at by the lecherous older male clientele since first arriving. But now, with what you are sure will be an obvious wetness in an obvious place, you are mortified.
And yet that is what we do. That is who we are. We challenge and accept. We rise above fears and insecurities in our quest for absolute release and perfect union as Dominant and submissive. Your hesitation is nearly imperceptible but there. Just long enough for an arched eyebrow from your Sir to press you into action. Silently and purposefully you fold the linen napkin and rise, making your way toward the ladies room with a poise and purpose you surely do not feel.
Returning to the table you retake your seat, blushing and grinning sheepishly but mischievously. “Give them to me,” I command and you hold your tightly clenched fist across the table, the delicate lacy thong balled up in your tiny hand so no one might see. I hold out my hand, palm up, fingers straight. You place the white lace ball on my hand hoping I will promptly clench my fist, covering the evidence as you pull your hand away, but I do not. Instead, with our eyes locked, my arm extended across the table, I slowly unravel the covert lacy ball with my thumb revealing its true shape and form to the rapt attention of the lecherous onlookers. You stare into my gaze wide-eyed, afraid to break eye contact, as though by boring a place to hide deep within my eyes you will somehow make the emerging panties in my hand disappear. Your cheeks flush, your lips tremble. The emotions that wash over your face simultaneously say “please stop” and “oh God, this is so hot.” Slowly, without breaking eye contact, I gradually close my fingers around the soft wisp of material, retract my arm and place the warm moist lace into the breast pocket of my dinner jacket. You avert your gaze, swallowing hard, looking down at your hands clenched tightly together in your lap.
The beautiful mauve dress still adorns your stunning body but now you feel more naked than if you wore not a stitch, sure that you are not alone in the realization. The two women you encountered in the ladies room sitting across from us know. The old men at the table beside us know. The waitress who passed as I spread your panties across my hand knows. And above all your Sir knows. Every one around you is surely looking through that dress as though it were not even there. Judging you. Shaming you. Desiring you. Commanding you. All eyes are on you. Or so it seems.
But in fact as you sit there in your discomfort no one is paying the least bit of attention. No one has. It is just your mind playing tricks on you. But then that is precisely what I desire and what you crave. It is part of my pleasure and my reward that you should twist and turn yourself without my so much as laying a hand on you. And yet that is the very thing that you keep coming back for. It is the thrill you seek amid the kind love and affection we have for one another.
But not everyone is ignoring you. Indeed, I have not taken my eyes off you from the moment you sat down. I am gazing past that dress to the familiar yet oh so desirable body beneath. My body. The one that brings me so much pleasure and joy, softness and warmth. The one that writhes and moans, whimpers and sighs, coos and cries at my touch. And it is tonight now mine for the taking. You have given it to me. You have given you to me. When I want. Where I want. How I want. And at the moment, nothing stands in my way but a short hem line.
It is that very recognition and desperate aching anticipation that does you in. Not the crystal plug, not the touch of my hand on your knee beneath the table, not the cool air wafting between your hot thighs. No. It is the all consuming awareness that you are completely covered and yet have never been so simultaneously exposed. It is the realization that your Sir will be taking advantage of this all evening long in the most public and private of ways. Sitting, standing, walking, dancing. The knowledge that He will reach for you, claim you, tease you, perhaps even please you, before ultimately taking you does you in. As the thoughts of lust and trepidation flood your heated mind another hot flood of its own begins and you know there will be no escape from the crowded restaurant unnoticed.
He has done it to you again. He always does. You don’t know how and you don’t know why but he gets to you every time like no one else can. Without saying a word. Without touching a thing. Just a thought. A look. A knowing glance. And the anticipation begins anew. A tingle. An ache. A throb. Warm. Wet. Surrendered.
The main course is served.
Caption © For The Love of a Submissive, 2013
Image - Dinner Engagement by China Hamilton