I Had Him in My Power for the Entire Dinner

It was our six-month anniversary, and we had booked it weeks in advance for that night.

We chose a restaurant neither of us knew, recommended by a friend who insisted we reserve well ahead of time. It wasn’t the kind of showy place with menus that didn’t list prices, but something better: intimate, with exposed brick walls, tables separated by dark wood partitions, and lighting so carefully designed it made everyone look more attractive under it.

I wore a bottle-green dress I hadn’t worn in months, very thin nylon stockings, and a pair of black stilettos that made me three centimeters taller and a lot more aware of how I walked. Under the dress I wore no panties: I had decided at the last moment that tonight my cunt would be bare beneath the fabric, and that little secret already had me wet before I left the house. He arrived in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark gray trousers, no tie. He kissed me on the cheek before opening the door for me.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

And he meant it. Not in that automatic way people toss out compliments without really looking at you.

The maître d’ led us to a table at the back, in a sort of little bay set apart from the rest of the dining room. The seats were banquette-style, burgundy leather, arranged at right angles so we could face each other. The table was solid wood, almost flush against the wall, with a candle in the center casting short shadows over the white tablecloth.

I sat down.

He sat down.

We ordered wine.

***

The first glass went by with the usual stories: how we got here, what we’d done that week, an anecdote from his job that made me laugh more than I expected. We’d been together long enough that silence wasn’t awkward, but we were still in that phase where desire was present in every conversation, seeping in beneath ordinary words.

With the second glass, the tone changed.

I don’t know exactly who started it. Maybe him, with a look that lingered a second too long on my mouth. Maybe me, when I asked if he remembered the first night we spent together — the one where he fucked me against the hallway wall before we even made it to the bed — and smiled before he answered. The point is that the heat in the conversation rose in a way that had nothing to do with the wine or the temperature inside the restaurant.

His fingers found mine on the table. He brushed them slowly, unhurriedly, tracing the shape of my knuckles.

I let him, and without taking my eyes off his, I slipped off one shoe under the table.

He didn’t see it. He was looking at me.

***

I started slowly. Just the tip of my foot, brushing his calf over his trouser leg. I felt the exact moment he understood what was happening: a little tension in his jaw, a nearly imperceptible pause in his breathing.

He looked at me.

I kept smiling, as if we were talking about something completely ordinary.

I moved a little higher. The stocking made the contact soft, slippery, more intimate than bare skin would have been. I pressed the sole of my foot against his thigh and gave him a light squeeze, exploring.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. But his voice sounded different. Lower.

I reached his crotch.

What I found there was already answering. His cock was hard against the fabric of his trousers, a thick, hot bulge growing by the second under the pressure of my fingers. I rubbed it with the sole of my foot from top to bottom, feeling the whole length against my arch, and noticed how even harder it got, how it pulsed alive beneath the fabric. I massaged it in slow, controlled circles, without urgency. The urgency was his; the pace was mine.

He rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers in front of his mouth, in a posture that looked casual and was in fact the only thing keeping him still.

“That’s not fair,” he murmured.

“What isn’t?” I said, innocent.

I pressed a little harder, trapping his cock between the sole of my foot and his own thigh, and rolled my toes over what I guessed was the head. I saw him swallow.

“You’re rock hard,” I whispered. “Is all of that for me?”

“All of it,” he said, barely moving his lips.

His gaze was slightly glazed and he had a taut smile that never quite formed.

***

A waiter came over to top up our glasses. I kept my foot exactly where it was. I slowed the movement for just a couple of seconds, enough to seem completely indifferent as I answered the question about whether we were enjoying the wine.

The waiter left.

I picked the rhythm back up.

I felt the moment he decided he couldn’t keep going like that. He shifted in his seat, unbuttoned his trousers with a quick, discreet gesture, pulled his underwear down just enough to free his cock, and that hard, hot cock came free against my stockinged foot.

The heat was immediate. Living skin, taut, throbbing under the thin fabric. I could feel the pulse of the vein running along its length, the thick swollen head, the dampness of the pre-cum already staining the toe of the stocking.

I took off my other shoe.

With both feet free now, I surrounded him completely: one sole pressing up from below at his balls, the other pressing his cock down from above against his stomach, trapping the whole thing between my insteps. The texture of the stockings created a different friction from anything else, and I could feel him reacting to every variation: when I changed the angle, when I squeezed his balls with my sole and slightly rolled my toes over the head of his cock, when I eased off and then increased the pressure without warning.

I started wanking him with both feet at once, up and down, wrapping his entire length between my soles. I could feel the tip getting wetter and wetter, that dampness soaking through the nylon, my stockings clinging to the skin of his glans and sliding over every pump.

He stared into my eyes as if that were the only thing keeping him anchored to the moment.

I kept the same expression as always: the face of someone having dinner with good company on an ordinary Tuesday.

“Should we order dessert?” I asked, while dragging the head of his cock between my big toes.

“Jesus,” he said, very quietly. “Fuck.”

“Fuck what?” I whispered. “Do you like the way I suck you off with my feet?”

He closed his eyes for a second. A new spurt of pre-cum stained my stocking.

“You’re killing me,” he said.

“Not yet,” I replied.

And I glanced down for an instant at my naked cunt beneath the dress. Every time I squeezed his cock between my feet I felt a surge between my legs, and I could already feel my own juices moistening the inside of my thighs.

***

I started moving my feet faster. Up and down, with steady pressure that only changed in speed. I could feel the exact shape of every part of him: the full length, the slight upward curve, the head broader than the rest, the thick vein running along the underside, even the taut weight of his balls shifting whenever I stroked the base. The moisture that appeared — a mix of his pre-cum and the way everything got sticky between the stocking and the skin — made the movements smoother, more precise.

He breathed through his nose, slowly, with a discipline that struck me as almost funny.

One hand was braced on the edge of the table, his knuckles white from gripping it.

“I want you to concentrate,” I told him in a very low voice.

“I am concentrating,” he answered.

“Doesn’t look like it. It’s obvious from your face you’re right there.”

“I’m right there,” he admitted, gritting his teeth.

“Hold on.”

A brief smile crossed his face, though he was too busy trying not to make any noise to keep it there. Around us the restaurant carried on as normal: the other tables talking, laughing, asking for the bill. That Wednesday-evening energy of people eating well and going home early.

Nobody was paying attention to us. Nobody had any reason to.

Only the two of us knew that I had his hard, dripping cock trapped between my feet beneath that dark wood table, and that exclusivity made everything even more intense. The danger of the waitress bending down to pick something up and seeing his cock peeking out between my insteps, the obligation to keep up appearances, the calm face while I was down there wanking him with complete patience.

That was exactly what I wanted.

Beneath the dress my cunt was soaked. Truly soaked. I could feel my own wetness slipping out and staining the leather seat. I squeezed my thighs against the edge of the chair for a moment to calm the throbbing of my clit and went back to pumping his cock with my feet, this time tighter.

***

I kept him close for several minutes more, not letting him come. Whenever I felt his posture stiffen and his cock swell even more between my soles, I suddenly slowed down. When he relaxed a little, I started again more forcefully, wrapping the head with the arch of my foot and pumping him all the way. It was a game of sustained tension, and I had every advantage because there was absolutely nothing he could do from where he sat with his cock out of his trousers.

He knew it. And that was part of the game too.

I picked up the speed for a moment — wanked him fast, steadily, feeling his cock start to tremble between my feet — and then, just when his breathing genuinely shortened and I could tell he was about to come, I slowed down again until I was almost stopping altogether.

He made an involuntary sound, a muffled groan in his throat, and looked down at the table.

“You’re...” he started.

“Yes?” I said.

“You’re a bitch,” he finished in a whisper. But he said it with a taut smile and that pleading look he only got when he wanted to come badly enough to force it.

“I know,” I answered, and squeezed the tip of his cock between my toes.

Then the waitress appeared with a professional smile and a notepad in her hand.

“Can I get you anything else? Dessert, a digestif, perhaps a coffee?”

My feet didn’t stop.

I reduced the movement to almost nothing, nearly imperceptible but constant. No pause. His cock was still hard as stone under the sole of my right foot, throbbing slowly, while I looked at the waitress with the most neutral face in the world.

“Honestly, we’d prefer to take what’s left of dinner with us,” I said in a completely normal voice. “Would it be possible to have the rest boxed up to go?”

“Of course. I’ll bring the bags right away.”

The waitress collected the plates and disappeared into the kitchen.

I’ve worked in hospitality for years, and I know exactly how long it takes to pack up a dinner: no more than four or five minutes. Less if the kitchen isn’t backed up.

Four minutes.

I sped up.

***

My feet found the final rhythm: firm pressure, continuous motion from base to tip, rolling slightly over the head on each stroke upward. I pumped his cock fast, without rest, squeezing his balls with the sole of my other foot on every downstroke. I could feel him tightening more with every pass, feel the heat rising under my insteps, feel the moisture making the thin nylon almost transparent from so much contact, sticky and hot against his skin.

He rested one hand on his knee under the table, not touching me. Just there, as if he needed to hold on to something solid.

“Look at me,” I told him.

He did.

His eyes had that particular expression that only appears when someone is completely at your mercy and knows it. Lips parted, breathing short, jaw tense from holding back.

“I want you to come now,” I whispered. “Empty your cock between my feet.”

I squeezed the head hard between the big toes of both feet, twisted once, twice, and felt his cock swell all at once, his balls tightening against my other sole.

The first spurt hit hard, harder than I expected. I felt it against the sole of my left foot first, a hot, thick lash of semen that soaked the entire stocking, and then came the second, and the third, splashing between both feet, soaking the nylon, seeping little by little through to the skin. He came a lot — he’d been holding back for an hour — and it kept firing in short pulses while I kept pumping him slowly, milking his cock down to the last drop. He clenched his teeth so hard his whole jaw went taut, and his eyes shut for exactly two seconds before coming back to me. A thin thread of semen slid from the tip and dripped onto my instep, warm and viscous.

I kept his cock trapped between my feet for a little longer, feeling it pulse through the last shudders, until I noticed it beginning to soften. Only then did I lower my feet slowly, calmly, just as the waitress was coming back with the dinner bags. He barely had time to tuck his still-wet cock back inside his trousers and fasten them before she reached the table.

We smiled. Paid. I signed the receipt leaning on the bar, with my shoes back on but my feet still wet and sticky inside my stockings, feeling his semen clinging to my skin, sliding every time I moved my toes.

If the waitress noticed anything, she didn’t show it. She wished us a good night with the same smile as always.

***

It was cold outside. That dry autumn cold that gets in through your neck if you’re not wearing a scarf.

We walked to the car without saying much. He opened my door first, as always, and when he sat in the driver’s seat he looked at me for a moment before starting the engine.

“How can you be so calm?” he asked.

“Practice,” I said. And I spread my knees a little in the passenger seat, hiking my dress up just enough for him to catch a glimpse that I wasn’t wearing panties, that my cunt was soaked and shining, and that I’d been like that the entire dinner.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and accelerated.

He laughed. A short, bewildered laugh, still a little incredulous about what had just happened. At the traffic light he reached over and shoved two fingers into me in one thrust, all the way in. I was so wet they slid in completely the first time. He pulled them out slowly, took them to his mouth, and sucked them while looking at me.

“You’re going to pay for what you did at the restaurant,” he said.

“I’m counting on it,” I answered.

He drove fast, faster than usual. The streets were almost empty at that hour and the ride took less than ten minutes, though we barely spoke during that time. The tension was different now: not the anticipation at the start of the night, but something more concrete, more immediate. We both knew exactly what was going to happen as soon as we crossed the door.

When I got out of the car, I followed him barefoot up the driveway, my heels dangling from my hand. The cold of the ground under my feet was a sharp contrast to everything I’d felt during the last hour. I could still feel his dried semen on the skin between my toes.

He opened the door. We went in.

And this time there was no table between us.