Dinner With Sir:
You walk into the restaurant on trembling heels.
It's upscale—dim lights, soft jazz, candlelit tables. Classy enough to draw attention, but quiet enough for him to whisper orders only you can hear.
He's already seated, one arm stretched casually across the back of the booth, dark shirt rolled up to his forearms—watching you like a secret only he gets to keep.
You approach, and the moment your eyes meet, you remember everything.
The collar may not be visible, but the invisible leash is tight around your throat.
"Sit."
You slide into the booth beside him, thighs brushing his. He leans in to press a kiss just beneath your ear—nothing overt. Nothing a stranger would question.
But you know what it means.
"No panties?"he murmurs softly.
You nod. Tiny. Barely a movement.
"Good girl."
Your skin prickles. You cross your legs and shift subtly in your seat—but he notices everything.
"Keep them open," he whispers, voice like velvet and danger."Don't make me say it again."
You do as you're told.
⸻
The server arrives. Wine is poured. Menus exchanged.
He chats casually, one hand resting on your thigh under the table. His voice is calm, polite, charming—
And his fingers slide higher.
"Order something light,"he tells you. "You'll need energy later."
You barely glance at the menu. You can't think. Can't breathe.
His touch disappears when the waiter returns—but returns the second you're alone.
You feel it again—firm pressure between your thighs. Just two fingers. Still. Still.
"Don't squirm," he warns under his breath. "You come in this restaurant, and we leave. No dessert. No second round."
You nod. Trying to breathe. Trying to smile. You thank the waiter when your food arrives, voice trembling.
"Keep your hands on the table,"he says."Let me take care of everything beneath it."
And he does.
He strokes. He teases. He presses, just enough to make your teeth sink into your lip.
You're moaning softly behind a sip of wine—his fingers never dipping inside, just dancing around the edge of your sanity.
You glance around. No one knows.
But you're dripping.
"Now,"he whispers, voice low in your ear."You're going to finish your meal. You're going to thank the server. You're going to walk out of here on shaking legs—and not a drop better land on that dress."
You swallow.
"Yes, Sir."
"Because if it does?"
"You'll ride home with your knees spread and my belt in your mouth."
The streets roll by in a blur of reds and golds.
You're not even sure what part of town you're in anymore.
Because all you can feel is him.
He's completely relaxed behind the wheel—one hand steering with ease, the other draped over your thigh like a brand.
Possessive. Lazy. Dangerous.
And then... the light turns red.
He turns to you, still calm.
"Spread them."
Your heart stops.
"Sir—"
"Now."
You do. Right there. In the passenger seat.
The streetlights painting gold over your thighs, your slick heat exposed to the empty night.
He doesn't even look directly. Just nods.
"Keep them open until we're home."
"Every red light, you stay just like that."
"If you close them, I turn the car around and we start over."
You gasp softly, the humiliation beautiful. The power of it all wrapping around your chest like a ribbon—tight, inescapable, delicious.
⸻
Another stoplight.
Another test.
His fingers trace just to the edge of you, circling but never dipping.
Your nails dig into the leather seat. You glance around—no one can see. No one knows.
But your body does.
And he does.
"Look at you,"he says. "Still obeying. Even when it hurts."
"You were made for this."
Your legs tremble, but you don't close them.
Not once.
Even when his fingers suddenly—just barely—slip inside.
You sob.
"Oh? You're close already?"
"You're so easy for me, BabyGirl."
"But I said—"
"—not yet."
He pulls away. Leaves you aching. Whimpering into your hand.
⸻
When the car pulls into the driveway, your legs are numb, your panties still nonexistent, and your thighs glisten in the moonlight.
He parks.
Turns off the engine.
Unbuckles your seatbelt slowly.
And then leans in.
"Kiss my cheek."
You do.
"Now get out. Walk to the door. Slowly."
"Don't say a word until you're kneeling in front of me."
"And make sure that dress doesn't ride down. I want the neighbors guessing."
He smiles.
Soft. Dark. Dangerous.
"Because inside?They'll have no doubt who you belong to."