@ 2018 Asmodeus

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Table for Two

I enjoy mindgames. Oh, not always serious, Freudian analytical things, but I enjoy the way minds can amplify the erotic. Like the way a prolonged "vanilla" environment can act as foreplay for a whole night of decadence.

Like this dinner. Plain old restaurant. Plain old people. Plain old food. Even the ice-cream for dessert is vanilla. To most people, a rather enjoyable evening out, but no more. Oh, most people could understand a meal being a prelude to a fuck, but as part of it?

Except for the guy across the table. He's been noticing glimpses of stocking all evening. Well, to be honest, it would have been hard for him not to. Your dress is just a little too short for the full fashion stockings you’re wearing. But I'd chosen the wardrobe, and so it was always going to be just that little revealing, wasn't it? A little short black skirt, a tasteful, but revealing red top, and your stockings and shoes. Nothing more. Not unless you count the buttplug that nestles in your ass, that is.

And he, the guy at the table had noticed you the moment we'd walked in. Oh, I could have been Darth Maul, or a headless chicken, or Bill Clinton puffing on a cunt juice covered cigar for all the notice he took of me. But you? His eyes followed your every move with laser-like precision. Every curve, every fold in your skirt and blouse fed into his little erotically underendowed brain. And when he had caught that first glimpse of stocking top as you spread your skirt to sit down (You know that nothing must come between your flesh and the chair after all.), the waiter could have started feeding him fried testicle of Gnu for all he would have cared.

So I'd started playing with him. To start with, my foot slipped out of my shoe and slowly - so that he got every microsecond of it - up your stockinged leg. Up the outside at first, lifting your dress up a little bit more so that our "guest" could see those last few inches of tanned flesh.

Then inside your thighs, parting you. Opening you up a little. Feeling the warm haven that is My cunt. His eyes follow my foot. Under the cover of the tablecloth, he is the only person in the restaurant who can see our little play and he is enjoying every little episode of it as it unfolds beneath the table.

You give out a little sigh, and move a little on the chair, opening up to my touch. My toe starts to rub on your clit.

"What are you doing?" you laugh.

"Oh, just entertaining the crowd," I reply, nodding towards our "guest."

He doesn't even see me motion towards him, but as soon as you turn to look, he blushes, and vainly tries to look as if he had innocently been reading the wine list all along.

"You cruel bastard," you chide.

"Moi?" I laugh. "Cruel? Surely you're thinking of someone else, I'm a quiet wee lad."

"Oh, right. Mr Choir boy, aren't you?"

My toe slides down and finds the base of the buttplug, pushing it deeper into your ass.

The response is instantaneous. The smile slips a little, your thighs tense, the sensation of the medium sized plug burrowing deeper into you enough to make you remember that you're my slut.

My toes slide back up to your pussy. You are already damp, a fine trickle of pussy juice lubricating you as you sit. Easily my toes slip into your oiled cunt, feeling the lips part and suck me in.

"Our guest is back," I say, noticing that your crutch is again the centre of his universe.

You hardly notice my words. Already, almost imperceptibly, you are bearing down on my foot. Fucking me there, under the table. Gently writhing from the waist down, you work my toes like little cocks. Gently squeezing, then relaxing on them.

But, enough. It is becoming awkward. Working your wet cunt under the table. The toes will never be enough, and even playing with your plug will loose it’s thrill in a few moments. Not for me, not for you. The little jerk at the other table has served his purpose. He has fired my imagination, and he has had a free show. He'll be pumping his wife / girlfriend / fist for weeks with the one image of your stockinged thighs and my toes between them. Imagining what you would feel like around his own cock.

"Time to go," I say.

"Already? We've not had our desserts yet?"

My toes slip from between your slick thighs, my socks wet with your pre-cum. "You want vanilla ice cream here? Or something more 'Exotic' outside?" I ask. "CHECK PLEASE!" I announce, without giving you the choice.

The waiter is apologetic, as if by leaving early we are saying his establishment was at fault. How can I diplomatically tell him that unless we go now, his "establishment" will most likely be closed down because a couple got into an SM scene right there on their table?

I pay the bill, and watch the growing disappointment on the face of our unwitting foreplayer.

"Becca" I say as the waiter arrives with our coats.


"Turn round, dear."

You do as I say, expecting the waiter, or myself to put your coat on.

I lift your skirt momentarily, exposing your ass, still showing the weals from our previous nights work, and I grab a coarse handful of ass cheek. "MINE," I mouth at our guest. I press on the purple base of your buttplug. "ALL MINE." Then drop the skirt again, before anyone - except our guest, and us - know what happened.

The waiter looks bemused, not quite sure of things. I had shielded him a little from the show and he only had a mild 'understanding' of what had taken place. Perhaps he had sensed more than he had seen. Perhaps he had seen nothing, even he couldn't be sure. Unlike our guest, who now had a red striped ass and a buttplug to work into his fantasy.

"Come on," I whisper into your ear as I slip your coat on. "I'm having you NOW."

The car is already warming up nicely, it's heater fighting off the cool late-summer chill. I look across at you in the half light of the evening, and start to feel rampant. Your blouse accents your already full breasts, and your skirt shows the merest glimpse of stocking top.

"Slut," I say. "Turning those poor innocent men on like that."

You smile. "Would I?"

I pull off onto the country road that leads down to the river.

The last remnants of dusk still linger on, fighting for their survival against the advancing darkness. Fingers of half light stretch out from where the sun slipped beneath the horizon. The lights of the town fall behind us. I slow down and pull over in a deserted lane.

"Out of the Car," I announce.


"Do as you're told, no arguments."

You get out. I roll the window down and tell you to walk in front of the car.

Slowly, nervously, you do so. I edge, slowly, out behind you, following you along the lane, flooding your back with my headlights.

For five minutes or so, I continue following you. The lights of the car outlining you against the lanes. You look nervous. Flicking a glance back towards the car every now and then. I know you can no longer see me for the glare of the lights, and I can only guess at the thoughts going through your head. My cock twitches.

You wobble uncertainly on your heels as you glance back at the lights again, shielding your eyes from the intense glare.

I stop the car, and watch you continue to walk. At about 20 yards from the car, I sound the horn. You turn round and stop.

I get out the car, and stand to the side, knowing full well that I am still hidden from you by the glare of the lights. "Stand and face me." I order.

You comply, nervously, but nonetheless quickly.

"Take your jacket off."

Again, with nervous speed, the jacket is discarded in a heap on the road.

"Now your blouse, then your skirt."

Finally, you are naked, except for your stockings and heels.

"Now, walk forward to the car, and lean over the bonnet."

You do as I say, leaning over the front of the car, your breasts hanging in the cool evening air. I can see your nipples are already erect, taught with anticipation and  apprehension.

I go round the back of the car and open the boot, searching for anything I can use. A few bits and pieces, nothing much, nothing like I have in the playroom, but enough, for now.

I take the tow rope, and wrap it roughly round your breasts, tying them off. You wince at the roughness, as the rope bites in round your hanging breasts. I tug on your nipple rings. "Don't move slut, or I'll make it really hurt, understand?"

You nod.

The rope is a little on the short side to fully bind your breasts, but it is enough to bundle them crudely into restricted, painful mass of titflesh. I watch in the flood of light from the headlamps as they turn an enchanting shade of pink. I slap them, enjoying the slapping sounds as it reverberates in the night air. I knead them next, feeling their straining flesh under my rough fingers. Digging in around the aureole, pulling on the nipple rings, stretching those erect nipples.

You moan animalistically, moving your hips forward rhythmically. I know you are grinding down on your plug, trying to coax an orgasm from that wet, hot cunt of yours.

I grab your hair and pull you forward, over the bonnet by it. "Don't even think about coming yet, slut." I reach back and yank the plug from your ass, stuffing it into your mouth. You gag initially, at the shock, but then slowly accept the intrusion and start suckling on it like a mini cock, tasting yourself.

I flick you over, still leading you by the hair, and push you down onto the road in front of the car. Leaving you on the ground on your back, legs open. I get up, and stand over you, looking down at you in your now laddered stockings and with your buttplug firmly in your mouth. I kneel beside you, to one side, and slip my hand inside your distended, hot cunt. Your juices are all over the place, leaving a little trail on the grey of the tarmac, two fingers, three, fours… I twist my hand slightly and tuck my thumb inside… Finally, my whole hand is devoured by you.

Slowly at first, but firmly, I start to pound you with my fist. Opening up my fingers, I can feel the ridges of your inner cunt, the little caverns, the neck of your womb, everything is there for me to explore and use.

My free hand reaches over and grabs the rope around your tits. Pulling down on the rope as my fist moves upwards into your cunt, in slow, powerful rhythm. I quicken the pace, as your moans become more and more animalistic. You are bearing down on my fisting hand with all your strength, as if you are trying to break it from my wrist. Your hips rising and falling in time with my thrust / pulls on your tits.

Your tits are a dark red now, aching at the punishment as I pull on them in time with your fisting.

Then you are exploding with an orgasm. Flooding my forearm with pussycum, and grinding down on my hand with all your strength. Grunting, moaning, your head rolling from side to side. I tighten the grip on the rope even more, lifting this time, as well as pulling towards your cunt, lifting you off the ground by your tits, watching as they twist and contort under your weight.

More to follow……….