I Dominated Him Under the Table with the Tips of My Heels

We had booked a table at La Trastienda to celebrate our three months, and although the anniversary sounded far too solemn for so little time, we both knew we needed an excuse to make that night something different. The restaurant was one of those intimate, unpretentious places, with bare brick walls, hanging lamps that cast a warm circle of light over each table, and a low hum of other people’s conversations that made us lean in to hear each other.

The waitress had seated us in one of the back corners, in a burgundy velvet banquette shaped like an L. The rectangular, narrow table sat close to the wall so that our knees almost touched underneath. I had chosen that corner on purpose when I made the reservation. I liked tucked-away places, not because I was shy, but because corners hide better what a woman is thinking.

I was wearing a dark blue dress, fitted at the waist, with a modest neckline that still managed to create the effect I wanted. Sheer fine stockings, and black pointed-toe heels. Underneath, a black thong that had already started to dampen just from thinking about what I was going to do to him. That night, as I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving, I had felt something like a silent promise. Tonight you’re going to remember who’s in charge.

Mauricio had arrived on time, wearing dark gray dress pants and a white shirt with a crisp collar. The clothes suited him as if he’d chosen them to please me. Maybe he had.

—You look beautiful —he told me when he helped me take off my coat.

I didn’t answer. I gave him a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth and sat down first. I liked watching how his gaze followed me when I moved slowly.

We ordered red wine and two pasta dishes that took long enough for the conversation to soften. At first we talked about stupid things: traffic, work, his sister’s birthday party. But after the second glass, Mauricio’s voice dropped lower and he started telling me in detail what he had thought of me when he saw me walk into the restaurant.

I listened with my chin propped in my hand, playing with my right foot under the table.

—You should stop looking at me like that —I told him.

—Like what? —he asked, pretending not to understand.

—Like you want to fuck me right there in the car.

He laughed. He looked down at his glass. And at that moment, without warning him, I took off my right heel.

***

The first touch was cautious. I stretched my leg far enough for the sole of my foot to reach his calf, and I slid upward slowly, almost asking permission. I felt him tense up immediately. His eyes flew to mine and I was no longer playing innocent: I held his gaze, biting my lower lip just a little, while my foot kept climbing along the inside of his thigh.

—What are you doing? —he murmured.

—Thinking about dessert —I replied, without losing my smile.

I reached his crotch and started pressing slowly, with the tip of my foot, in a circular motion that set the rhythm. Under the fabric of his pants, the hard bulge was already visible, his swollen cock pressed tight against the seam, and every time I squeezed a little harder, his breathing changed. The hottest part was watching him try to hide it: his jaw clenched, his shoulders rigid, his left hand gripping the edge of the table as if he needed something to anchor himself.

I could feel the heat rising inside me too. Every time I rubbed the top of my foot against that hardness, my cunt answered with a sharp pulse, clenching tighter around itself, soaking my thong more. I crossed my thighs for a second under the skirt and felt how sticky I already was between my legs.

I looked around. The couple at the nearest table was already having coffee, too absorbed in their own conversation. A family with two small children was getting ready to leave. The waitress drifted across the far end of the room. No one was looking at us. No one could suspect what was happening under the starched tablecloth.

—Someone’s going to come —he whispered, almost pleading.

—That’s the point.

I smiled sweetly at him, as if I had just said something about the weather. Above the table, my hand held the wineglass elegantly. Below it, my foot was dictating what he could and couldn’t do with his cock. And I realized, with a clarity that almost frightened me, how much I loved that difference.

—Take it out —I told him very softly, barely moving my lips—. Now. Without anyone seeing.

***

Mauricio gave in a few minutes later. I watched him move his hand beneath the tablecloth, find his belt with the clumsiness of someone who doesn’t want to make noise, carefully open his pants, and free his erection. When I pressed my foot against him again, there was no fabric between us. Only the sheer stocking and the heat of his skin throbbing against my sole. I heard him swallow hard.

I felt him fully: the thick vein running underneath, the swollen head slick with a thick drop that had beaded from the tip and was staining my nylon. I slid my foot from the base to the glans slowly, and he let out a tiny gasp that he smothered by taking a long drink of wine.

I took off the other heel too. I needed both soles to do what I had planned.

I placed my feet carefully, one on each side of his cock, and started moving them back and forth, squeezing it between my soles as if I were hugging it. The texture of the stocking made the friction soft and slippery at the same time, and every time he reacted, I felt him throb against the arch of my foot. I moved up and down patiently, setting a cadence that didn’t let him rest but didn’t let him come either. The tip of his cock pressed into the hollow of my arch, leaving bigger and bigger stains on the black nylon.

Every time I sensed he was close, I eased the pressure just enough to let him breathe. That pause was mine. That control was mine.

—Please —he murmured at some point.

—Please what.

He lowered his head. It cost him to say it.

—Don’t stop. Don’t leave me like this.

—Say it properly. Tell me what you want.

He licked his lips, looking at me with glassy eyes.

—Make me come. With your feet. Here.

I smiled. I didn’t stop.

Under the table, I squeezed his cock between my soles and jerked him harder, feeling it pulse every time I pressed it. With the tip of my right foot I played at circling his glans, and with my left I pressed the base so he couldn’t spill. He tried to keep his face relaxed but everything gave him away: the trembling in his thighs, the way the veins in his neck swelled, how he bit the inside of his cheek.

I had never been especially into feet, mine or anyone else’s. Neither had he. But in that dim corner, with the silverware gleaming under the lamp and the murmur of the other tables as a soundtrack, what I was doing felt far more erotic than the simple gesture would have suggested. It wasn’t the foot. It was the risk. It was him, biting down on his tongue so he wouldn’t groan in front of strangers. It was me, sipping wine with one hand while with the other end of my body I had his cock completely at my mercy.

Under the dress, my cunt was leaking. I could feel my thong stuck to my lips, soaked through, and how each movement of my legs brushed my clit against the seam of the dress. I was one hair’s breadth away from coming too, without even touching myself, just from seeing him so thoroughly under my control.

***

The waitress appeared just as I started pressing harder. I watched her walk toward us with the easy familiarity of someone who had crossed the room a hundred times, notepad in hand, professional smile in place.

—Would you like dessert? Coffee, maybe a digestif?

I didn’t stop moving my feet. I moved them more slowly, almost imperceptibly, but I didn’t stop. I kept stroking that swollen cock under the table, squeezing it lightly between my soles while I looked her in the face. Mauricio let out a deep breath and covered it with a throat-clear. I gave him a brief look, smiled at the waitress, and with the cleanest voice in the world I said:

—Could you ask the kitchen if they can pack up what’s left of the main course for us to take home? And the bill, whenever you can.

She nodded, wrote something down, and walked away. I worked as a waitress on weekends somewhere else. I knew exactly how long that sequence took. Box up the food, bring the check, collect payment. No more than five minutes. Maybe seven if the kitchen was slow.

I had five minutes to make him come.

I sped up.

I pressed my soles down harder and started fucking him with my feet mercilessly, sliding them from the base to the head in a steady rhythm, no pause, feeling his cock swell more with every pass, feeling it get slicker with the fluid leaking from the tip and wetting the nylon. Mauricio stopped pretending to be composed. He grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, knuckles white, eyes closed for a second and then opening again as if he needed to look at me to endure what he was feeling.

—You’re going to do it here —I told him softly, leaning in just enough for only him to hear—. You’re going to come for me now, in my feet, without making a fucking sound. And then you’re going to drive home with your sticky cock inside your pants, thinking about how I just fucked you without touching you with my hands.

He gave the smallest nod, eyes shining.

—Say it.

—Yes —he murmured.

—Yes what?

He swallowed.

—Yes, I’m going to come for you. In your feet.

—Good boy.

I let him go for a second. I left him on the edge, suspended in that point where the body no longer answers the mind. I watched frustration wet his eyes, watched his cock pulse on its own against his belly, red and shining, searching for something that was no longer there. Then, slowly, I closed my soles around him again and gave him three long, deep, controlled strokes, feeling every vein, every centimeter.

***

It was on the fourth that I felt him cum. His cock contracted between my feet, went even harder for a second, and then the first warm spurt splashed onto the sole of my right foot. Then another, more generous one bathed my instep and seeped between my toes through the stocking. A third thick lash stained my ankle. I felt the hot cum spilling between my soles, dripping along my arch, soaking into the nylon seam and leaving it sticky and warm. A small part landed on the fabric of his pants, and another stayed trapped between us, dense and alive.

Mauricio clenched his teeth so hard the veins in his neck stood out. He made no sound. Not a moan. Not a whisper. Just air going in and out through his nose in short bursts while he emptied himself against my feet under the tablecloth.

I clenched my thighs too. A short tremor ran up from my cunt to my stomach, a small, contained orgasm, unasked for, that left my cheeks burning. I took a sip of wine to hide it. The glass trembled slightly when I set it down.

I held him between my feet one second longer, feeling him relax, feeling his cock lose strength against my slippery soles. When I let him go, slowly, his gaze was already lost somewhere out in the room.

I lowered my legs just in time. The waitress appeared with a paper bag smelling of tomato and basil, and with the card reader.

—Here you are. I hope you enjoyed everything.

—It was perfect —I said, smiling in a way that was far too much mine for her to suspect anything.

Mauricio tucked his still-wet cock back into his underwear with careful movements, fastened his pants under the table, paid with his card, and signed with a hand that trembled a little. I wiped my feet with two folded napkins, never losing my composure, soaking up what I could of that thick mixture that had left my nylon practically ruined, and put my heels back on even though the right stocking was warm, wet, and sticky against my skin. Feeling it like that, as I stood up and took my coat from the back of the chair, brought back an echo of the same tingling I’d been feeling all through dinner. His semen between my toes, every step toward the exit, was a signature only I could read.

***

The cool street air slapped me affectionately. Mauricio walked beside me in silence for half a block before speaking.

—You’re insane —he said, his voice rough, still recovering.

—Only a little —I answered.

I leaned on his arm, let him open the car door for me, and settled into the passenger seat with my heels crossed to one side. He was driving faster than usual. Every time I looked at him, his jaw was clenched in a different way than it had been at the restaurant: no longer restraint, but anticipation.

—Do you know what you’re doing to me? —he asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

—I can imagine.

—No, you can’t imagine it. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.

—Only if I let you.

He glanced at me sideways, dark-eyed, and said nothing. I smiled. I rested my head against the window, feeling the cold at my temple. My feet were still wet inside the stocking, with his cum sticking between my toes every time I moved. The thong was glued to my cunt and throbbed whenever he sped up at a traffic light. We had fifteen minutes to his place. Fifteen minutes in which he was going to be thinking that the moment we crossed the door there would be no table, no tablecloth, no waitress, no other people’s silverware. Just us, and the rules I still hadn’t decided whether we were going to break or whether I was going to lay out step by step.

When we arrived, I got out of the car slowly. I walked to the entrance with my heels in one hand, barefoot on the cold concrete, feeling him follow me in silence, not daring to touch me until I allowed it.

And while I waited for him to open the door, I smiled again. The night had barely begun.