That Night I Took Control Under the Table

We were celebrating our first six months together, and I had chosen the restaurant with a very specific plan in mind. It was called El Olivar, one of those little bistros tucked away on a side street in the center, where the lighting is so dim that each table seems to live inside its own bubble. Perfect for what I wanted to do.

Tomás suspected nothing. He arrived freshly showered, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and that cologne I had given him the month before. He wore it for me. I knew it because he only used it when he wanted to please me, and that night he had succeeded from before we even sat down.

I was wearing what I had bought that afternoon: a black dress with thin straps, short, nothing over the top. Dark stockings, very thin. Stilettos the same color as the dress. And underneath all that, a decision I had made days earlier: no panties. The restaurant air slid between my thighs every time I shifted in my seat, reminding me with every step that tonight I was in charge.

—You look gorgeous —he said as we settled in.

—I know —I replied, and I loved the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

They seated us exactly where I had asked for by phone that morning: a corner of the room, away from the other tables, on a dark green upholstered bench that made an L against the wall. The table was tall, with a long tablecloth that fell almost to the floor. Exactly the stage I needed.

We ordered red wine, starters, and a main dish to share. Tomás talked about his week at the studio, about a project that had him exhausted, about a stupid argument with his brother. I nodded, watched him, and every so often stroked the back of his hand with a finger. Inside, I counted the minutes.

Over the last few days I had been telling him, little by little, that I wanted to try new things. That I liked the idea of taking the reins sometimes. At first he had laughed, but then he had looked at me in that way he has when something genuinely intrigues him. We hadn’t talked about it again. I wanted the next time something happened to be without warning.

The wine arrived. We toasted. The waitress, a young woman with braids, brought us the starters and disappeared among the other tables.

—What are you thinking about? —he asked me.

—About the fact that tonight you’re going to do whatever I tell you.

I said it without stopping cutting an olive. He froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.

—Excuse me?

—You heard me. And you’re going to obey. Understand?

I hadn’t exactly planned those words, but they came out, and I liked how they sounded.

It took him a few seconds to answer. He set his fork down on the plate. He looked at me without smiling.

—Understood.

His voice was shaking a little. Not from fear. From anticipation.

—Good —I replied, and took a sip of wine without looking away from him—. And I should tell you something: I’m not wearing panties. So think very carefully about what you do with your hands and your mouth tonight, because everything that happens depends on me.

He choked on his wine. He coughed, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and looked at me as if he had just discovered another woman in the same body. I loved it.

We ate the starters almost without speaking. Every now and then I asked him some trivial question just to make him answer, to remind him that the dynamic between us had changed. He replied in short sentences. The tension was a taut wire neither of us wanted to snap just yet.

When the main course arrived, I had already made my decision. I let the napkin fall to the floor on purpose. I bent to pick it up and used the movement to slide the right heel off my foot. I sat back up with my smile intact.

—Did you drop something? —he asked, his voice still steady.

—The napkin. Keep eating.

I stretched my leg under the table. The stocking slid against my skin. With the tip of my foot I found his calf. I felt him tense at the first touch.

—Don’t stop eating —I said, barely moving my lips.

I moved upward slowly. My foot, barely covered by the thin dark fabric, advanced from calf to knee, brushing against the fabric of his trousers. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again.

—If you stop now —I whispered—, I’ll get up and leave. And I’ll leave you with a hard cock all night alone in your bed.

He kept eating.

I continued up to his thigh. The tablecloth was long, heavy, and no one in the restaurant could guess what was happening. When I reached his crotch, my foot found what I suspected: he was already hard, pressing against the fabric of his trousers, a thick, hot bulge throbbing under my instep.

I pressed with my instep. Slowly. Firmly. Enough to feel it pulse and to feel the fabric of the trousers tighten over it. I traced the full length with the sole of my foot, from base to tip, measuring him as if I didn’t know him by heart. I felt him swell even more under the pressure.

—Jesus —he murmured.

—Silence. And don’t you dare move.

I started moving up and down. Very slowly at first. The fabric of his trousers tightened with each pass, and I could feel with the tip of my toes how the head was marking itself, broad, throbbing against the zipper. He kept his eyes fixed on mine, his fork resting still on the plate.

—Eat —I ordered him.

He obeyed. He speared a piece of meat and chewed it without tasting it. I kept going up and down with my foot, calibrating the pressure, learning to read each of his reactions. When something pleased him more than it should, his jaw shifted. When he struggled to hold back, he squeezed his fingers around the wineglass.

I took off the other heel. Now both feet were free. I crossed my legs underneath, separated my feet, and rested my right instep over him. With my left, I stroked his inner thigh, climbing until I brushed his balls over the fabric. I squeezed there, softly, with my toes, and felt him bite his lower lip.

—Are you listening to me? —I asked, in a normal voice.

—Yes.

—Unbutton your trousers. Take it out. I want to feel it on my skin, not through the fabric.

He looked down at his hands for a moment. Then he lowered them slowly, beneath the tablecloth. I heard the sound of the button coming undone, the zipper sliding down. I felt the fabric give way against my foot. A second later, warm skin replaced the cloth. His cock sprang free, heavy, the skin so tight that I felt it throb against the arch of my foot as soon as it brushed it.

—So obedient —I said, and it was the first time all night I truly smiled—. And so hard you are, my love. All for me.

His dick pulsed against the sole of my foot, thick, swollen, the vein underneath bulging against the stocking. I enclosed it between both insteps, pressing from both sides, and moved it slowly, measuring it centimeter by centimeter. I felt the fat head slip between the toes of my right foot, and there, at the tip, a thick drop of warm liquid that clung to the dark silk and left a shining stain under the faint light leaking in beneath the tablecloth.

—You’re already soaking my stocking —I whispered—. And we’re not even halfway through dinner. You’re going to have to hold back, Tomás. You’re going to have to take it every time I feel like squeezing that cock with my feet, do you hear me?

—Yes —he murmured, his voice half broken.

I started working him between my feet. Up, down, with a slow rhythm. The stocking fabric slid, yes, but it also rubbed in a rough way that made him tremble. The contrast between the silk’s softness and the firmness of my arch pressing him was exactly what I wanted. I closed my feet more tightly around the base, leaving the head peeking between my toes, and with a short motion I milked him from top to bottom. Another thick drop fell, this time onto the thigh of his trousers. I felt it run down against my ankle.

—Do you like it?

—Yes.

—Louder. So I can hear you.

—Yes. I like it. I like it a lot.

—Say it properly. Tell me what you like.

He swallowed. He looked off to the side, toward the nearest table, and came back to me.

—I love the way you grab it with your feet —he said quietly, almost through clenched teeth—. I love the way you squeeze it.

—Good boy.

He turned his head for a moment toward the room, checking that no one was close. The nearest couple was three tables away, absorbed in their own conversation. The waitress was attending the far end of the place. He looked back at me.

—Hands on the table —I said—. Both of them. And don’t move them.

He obeyed. He placed his open palms on the white tablecloth, on either side of the plate, as if he were about to get up and couldn’t.

I picked up the pace a little. Not too much. The last thing I wanted was for him to come in five minutes. I wanted him to sweat. I wanted his breath to catch every time he answered something I asked. I changed the angle, placing my left instep just under the head and massaging the frenulum with the edge of my foot, while the right pressed the base and stroked his balls with my toes.

—Tell me how your day went at the studio.

He blinked.

—What?

—Tell me how your day went. In detail.

He started talking. At first he stumbled over the words, but little by little he managed to form sentences. He talked about a meeting with a difficult client, about a design that still wasn’t quite right, about a conversation with his boss. While he spoke, my feet kept working under the table, up and down, pausing for a second just when it seemed he was about to lose the thread, forcing him to focus on two things at once.

—And then… then Sebastián asked me… asked me to… —he kept cutting off.

—Keep going.

—To have the proposal ready… by Friday.

—Very good. You were brilliant.

I squeezed. Both feet closed around his cock, moving in opposite directions, twisting the skin as if I were giving him a double handjob. Another drop escaped and slid down the side, soaking my stocking to the ankle. I noticed the sweat starting on his forehead, his hair sticking to his temples. I was pushing him to the limit little by little, like someone tuning the string of an instrument. Every time I felt him tense up completely and start throbbing faster, I eased off, let him breathe, and began again from zero. My cunt was getting wet watching him hold out. I could feel my own wetness running down the inside of my thigh, soaking the stocking from within.

***

The waitress appeared at his side with her notebook in hand.

—Would you like to see the dessert menu?

I didn’t stop a thing. I kept moving with a slower, more discreet rhythm, but without interrupting for even a second. On the contrary: I closed the toes of my right foot around the fat head of his cock and squeezed firmly just as the girl was speaking.

—Yes, please —I answered with a natural smile.

Tomás, on the other hand, had to clear his throat twice before speaking.

—F-for me too.

The waitress left the menus and walked away. I increased the pressure for the three seconds it took her to turn her back, moving my feet quickly, up and down, until I saw him clench his fists on the tablecloth.

—You almost gave yourself away —I whispered—. You almost came in front of the poor girl.

—Almost —he admitted, his voice hoarse.

—If you do, I’m leaving without you. And I’ll leave you here with your cock out and your load in your trousers, so the waitress can find out on her own.

A shiver ran through his whole leg and into my foot.

We opened the menus. I chose in ten seconds. He took longer, because he had to concentrate to read. When the waitress came back, we ordered. I realized he hadn’t let go of the napkin with his left hand the entire time.

When the waitress walked away, I didn’t wait even five seconds.

—Look at me —I ordered.

He looked at me.

—I’m going to let you finish. Here, now, silently, without moving your hands. You’re going to come between my feet, like the good boy you are. If I hear you, I stop. If you move them, I stop. Understood?

—Understood.

—And you’re not going to look down. I want to see your eyes when you come.

—Yes.

I accelerated. This was no longer about managing the rhythm. Now it was about breaking it. My feet slid up and down with shorter, harder motions, right in the range I knew worked for him from doing it so many times with my hands, with my mouth. I had it memorized. Now it was just a matter of using the same thing with different tools. I closed my insteps over his cock like they were two hands, milking it from base to tip with firm strokes, twisting slightly on each pass, squeezing the head at the end of every rise and feeling it swell even more.

I felt it get even harder, if that was possible. I felt the blood gather at the tip, the balls tightening against the arch of my other foot. It throbbed between my stockings in an increasingly fast rhythm, and that rhythm climbed up through his belly and made his lip tremble. He breathed through his nose, chest still, hands open on the table as I had asked, eyes fixed on mine. His eyes shone, wet, almost as if he were about to cry from wanting to shout and not being able to.

—Now —I whispered—. Come for me.

It was silent. Just a small tremor in his jaw, his eyelids closing and opening, and the heat I felt explode against the sole of my right foot. The first spurt was powerful, hot, long, and struck me right in the arch. Then came another, and another, each one a pulse of his cock between my feet. It was a lot. More than usual. I felt the warm, thick semen run between my toes, slide into the gaps left by the silk, soak into the stocking fabric, and stream down over my instep to my ankle. A little fell onto his trousers. The rest, all of it, was on my foot. I kept moving slowly, milking him, drawing out the last drop, feeling his cock jerk with every spasm until it began to soften.

I didn’t move.

—Good boy —I said—. How obedient you are when you want to be.

He let his head fall for a moment, breathing. Then he lifted it and looked at me with a new expression, something between exhaustion and adoration.

—Put it away —I whispered—. Carefully, it’s all sticky. Pick up whatever you can with the napkin. And you’re taking that napkin in your pocket. You’re going to clean me up when we get home. With your tongue.

—Yes.

The waitress returned with the desserts. We ate them as best we could. Me, calm, feeling the sticky stocking cling to my foot with every movement. Him, his hands still a little clumsy. We asked for the check. He paid with the same hand that still managed to hold the card.

—Everything all right? —she asked as she returned the receipt.

—Everything perfect —I answered.

We stood up. I put my heels back on as naturally as I could, despite the right one feeling strange, damp, warm inside the stocking, Tomás’s semen sliding between my toes with every step. We left. We walked two blocks to the car under a cool night that couldn’t put out a thing.

In the elevator of his building, I leaned against the back wall. He was still quiet, his eyes still a little lost. I looked at him.

—This isn’t over, you know.

—I know.

—When we get in, you’re going to take my stockings off. Carefully. With your mouth. And then you’re going to lick everything you left on my feet. Every drop. And when you’re done with that, you’re going to put your face between my legs and you won’t come out until I tell you to. Because I’ve been wet through the entire dinner, and now it’s your turn to do the work.

He shivered. He nodded.

—And don’t think that’s enough —I whispered, lifting my dress a little to show him the bare thigh above the stocking—. After that I’m going to ride you. You on your back, hands over your head, not touching me. You’re going to stay still while I use your cock until I feel like getting off.

—Yes —he murmured, his voice trembling as much as it had at the beginning of the night.

When the apartment door closed behind us, he was already on his knees.