Some choices lead down avenues one simply does not expect. Andrew is a prime example.

He sits across the restaurant table in that not-quite beard, dark Polyester suit, and skew-whiff burgundy tie, smiling—actually smiling—at my discomfort. It is the sort of maddening smile that I would ordinarily challenge, had my focus been anywhere other than gripping the table edge and trying not to cum.

He observes. Tilts his head. “Something the matter, Jacqueline?”

The inexplicable tummy flutters in response to his use of my Sunday name take me by surprise. It's Thursday. He is definitely enjoying this, as he has done ever since he tongued me to the brink of climax on the bed and then inserted the toy. He teased me before we left. And on the walk over. And now at the table.

I gnash my teeth. “You know precisely what the matter is, young man.” I know ‘young’ is maybe a stretch, but I have a good few decades on him, and he likes the reminders.

He reaches for his phone lying face up on the linen tablecloth and dials the fader back a little. The vibrations between my legs slow slightly. Enough that I can take a regular breath and stare at him watching me over the rim of his glasses. “And what would that be?”

I take the momentary reprieve to adjust the strap of my silver scoop-neck dress where it has slipped. “Oh gosh, perhaps this demonic toy you made me wear.”

He smiles again. “Made you?” and pushes the fader higher than before. My legs clap closed of their own accord beneath the table to contain the pleasure, fingertips whitening where nails dig the edge. “If I recall, it was you who came to me, hmm? 'I want to feel desired,' wasn't it?”

Annoyingly, there is nothing wrong with his memory. For reasons I still cannot fathom, I said that. Was I in a vulnerable state after Trevor’s heart attack, or had he piled on the charm when I needed it most? Bah. Water under the bridge.

Stifling a gasp, I flick my gaze to the various customers around us enjoying their meals. Then to the maître d’ at the entrance. The waiter hovering by the hotplates. Nobody has raised any alarm. But I do not know how much more I can take before someone notices.

The vibrations slow. I meet his gaze. Wipe a bead of perspiration from my brow. My nether regions still tingle with the aftershock, and I am genuinely unsure if he has turned the toy to zero or just a low rumble.

He smooths the napkin by his charger plate. “How's your pussy?”

I scowl at his vulgarity. “My tuppence is fine, thank you very much.”

Reaching into his pocket, he produces my lacy black underwear. Places the garment on his plate.

Panicking, I scan the surroundings again. Return to see him rearranging my panties so the damp gusset is up, glistening in the artificial light.

“Put those away,” I hiss.

He stares me down. “How's your pussy?”

“I told you. Fine.”

“Sure about that?” He nudges the slider all the way north, and I barely catch the squeak, slapping the table and making the cutlery jump. The couple a few tables over glance our way, then return to their main courses, tutting.

The buzz dies away, and he smooths the tablecloth that does not need smoothing. “What does it take to make you cuss? Even in bed, you're always so… proper.”

“Is that not to your liking? The older lady persona.”

“Of course. But you are such an enigma, Jax. You never tell me to fuck you. Never tell me how..." He runs a fingertip through my exposed underwear. Lifts the digit to his face. Inhales. Licks. “How wet your pussy gets.”

At his brazen display, my cheeks colour even more. I swear a droplet of juice trickles to stain the back of my dress. “Such a crass term.”

“Would you prefer your bush?”

“Not much better.”

“Your beaver? Your slit? Your…” his eyes lock on mine. “Your cunt.”

I wince. “Now you are baiting me. Put those away.”

“These?” He scrunches them up in his palm. Smiles that maddening smile that makes me melt, and follows it up with more vibrations. I tense just in time. Clench around the toy buried between my thighs and stifle a moan.

He sets it looping in a steady rhythm. A gentle ramp from nothing, a blip up to full power that I swear is audible over the piped Best Of Richard Clayderman piano music, and a slow descent to zero. Over and over and over.

It is frustrating. I am desperate to cum. But in some ways, the predictability is a welcome relief: I can at least prepare for each pulse of intensity. This behaviour represents a stark contrast to his usual tactics. He is masterful at keeping me off-guard; a large percentage of his allure. It is the polar opposite of Trevor, to whom I dedicated over thirty years of my life. Loved him to bits, but his idea of living on the edge was paying the water bill a day before it was due.

All too soon, Andrew shuts the device off. Eyes me. “Enough?”

A sane woman would say yes. A sane woman would put a stop to it. Engage in proper conversation. Something meaningful. Learn more about the man before me. More than being merely the estate agent who helped me find the house after I had to vacate the vicarage. More than the man who consoled me. Complimented me. Courted me. Completed me, somehow. Made me feel alive again after a lifetime of housewifery and occasional, functional sex.

I bite my lip. “You know the answer to that.”

“I do. Because you're my little slut aren't you?”

“I prefer floozy.”

He seems amused. “Interesting. So tell me. How do you go from being a vicar’s wife to,” he waves his hand in my direction, “sitting in a restaurant with a remote control vibrator inside you, if you're a mere floozy?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps you are just a terrible influence on me.”

“Careful,” he threatens, finger hovering the phone display. “I haven't even started on the clit motor yet.”

I shudder at the thought as the cycle builds, peaks, and tails off again.

“Do you want me to combust?”

“I'm counting on it.”

The waiter approaches with our bottle of wine. Andrew does not even have the decency to stop the endless rumbling. Just flips his napkin over the phone to hide our antics while I try to keep my hand steady, sampling the slug of red in the crystal glass. Clamping my thighs definitely muffles the toy a fraction, but at the expense of increasing its intensity. I nod, and the waiter, Markus, I note from his name tag, pours half a glass each and places the bottle between us. 

As soon as he turns away, I relax my legs and the throb returns to a manageable level.

Andrew lifts his glass by the stem. Studies the burgundy liquid this way and that in the light. Swirls. Sticks his nose in the glass and breathes deeply. Takes a swig. Savours it.

He unfurls my underwear so the gusset is outward and dips it in his drink. Lifts and sucks the combination clean as I gawp.

“Andrew!”

“Mmm, that's better. Needed a little more… zing. You have such a tasty cunt.” He sucks more of the juice and wine mixture than thankfully pockets my panties. But then adjusts the maddening vibration pattern to increase the frequency slightly. I sigh. Moan. It is not enough to cum but maintains the edge.

I squirm on the chair. Whisper, “This is not helping.”

His smile widens fractionally. “Does this help?”

The fingertip hovering the display lands on the pink circle and creeps it upward. My clit throbs and I grab for the table, digging in as I let out an involuntary, throaty growl. Then just the internal rumble returns and he eyes my reaction.

“I love you like this. Teetering on the cusp.”

I raise an eyebrow, about the only response I can muster. Certainly, my power of speech has evaporated.

“You see, if I were kneeling with my face an inch from your dripping pussy, I would dart my tongue out like this.” He dabs the screen every couple of seconds, and the clit motor mimics. “Until you pledge you’ll do anything to cum.”

“What w…” I gasp. “What would you have me do?”

He takes a sip of wine. Returns the glass. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe lead that young waiter out back somewhere. The cute one. Markus is it? I'd follow and watch as you unzip him. Get on your knees and suck his cock like a proper little… whore.”

I groan.

“I'd try and just watch, but you know me. If I didn't think you were making a spirited enough effort, I might step in. Put my hand on the back of your head and encourage your progress. We both know you love to choke on cock.”

I whimper. He resumes tapping the clit motor, a little higher, timing the peak with the high point of the incessant throb from the arm buried inside me.

“Remember that guy last month?”

The clarity of the flashback to the leafy alley behind the church causes a shaky breath to escape. “Dijon.”

“Yes. Dijon. He loved how you tried to deepthroat him. That dark rod filling your mouth as you spluttered and gagged.” He lets me swim in the memories as he flutters the clit motor again. “Such a slut.”

“Mmmm.”

“Maybe we should see if he'd like to fuck you. Would you like that?”

I pause. Breathe in. Nod.

“Maybe both of us will. Together. Think about that, Jax. His thick cock ploughing your needy pussy while I bury myself in your arse.”

All I can manage is another whimper.

“Yeah. That's my girl. Do you want to cum?”

My eyes widen. Surely not here. I flick my gaze around the room again. Breathe hard. Shake my head.

Andrew smiles. Lowers the intensity of the rumble inside. I exhale in partial relief, even though all I want is to scream the place down as he makes me lose control. Then he swoops the slider up full. “Sure?”

The panic is only contained by one hand gripping the table and the other dropping to squeeze my bare thigh where the split of the dress has slipped. I shake my head rapidly, the buzz threatening to tear me in two before he shuts the device off.

His chuckle is almost predatory, and I shiver, torn between racing to the ladies’ for relief or waiting it out. He will not stop me leaving the table, but I will pay for it later. I can almost feel the sting of his handprints. 

Why do I want this? That pleasure. That pain. Everything. Is it thirty years of repressed desire spilling over? A phase? A need? He is somehow dangerous, in the best possible way, so maybe that explains why I go from thrill to thrill, always seeking the next high with him. He manages to push me into situations I never would consider on my own, and I love how he plays with me. Toys with my body and mind until I descend into a quivering wreck.

The unpredictability is delicious. Addictive. Even now, I have no idea if he will let me cum here at the table. In the bathroom. In the park on the way home, perhaps in front of a stranger. On the stairs to my bedroom. Tied to the bed. Or, I shudder, maybe not today. He has been known to deny me at night and wake me with just a vibrator and his tongue in the morning. Then I really shriek the place down.

Markus arriving with the starters interrupts my thought stream. Except now, all the while he is alongside me at the table, his package fills my imagination. Thoughts of how hard I could make it. I swear it brushes my arm, and shivers ripple through me.

Of course, it is just my mind playing tricks on me. But what a fantasy. His meat thickening between my lips. Breath tightening in his throat as he grows to full hardness. Andrew pressing my head against his groin, encouraging me to go deeper. To swallow more. Gag and cough and have him use me. Like a proper little… one of those.

I glance up to thank him for the plate. Was he looking down my top? He averts his gaze and retreats, wishing us, “Bon appetit.”

The attention has me tingling as I pick up my fork and promptly drop it, clattering to the plate when Andrew pushes both motors to max. Just for a few seconds, but it is enough. The gasp escapes before I can catch it. Our table neighbours tut again, and I fight the rising tide of orgasm.

When I level my stare at Andrew, he smiles. “What is it? Salmon not to your satisfaction?”

I train my gaze. Pick up the cutlery. Eat, flicking attention to his phone every so often for clues over whether he is going to torment me further.

He does, of course. At random intervals during the starter, I have to grip the table or myself, or both, to keep the climax at bay. I know he is waiting for me to beg. It will be soon. The constant eddying spreads from the vibrations outward, past the hem of what must be my soaked dress. Down my thighs to make my toes fizz, and up through my abdomen, nipples poking at the sheer fabric. Their state does not go unnoticed.

“Show me your tits.”

“What? No!”

The buzz bites. Longer, and I crush my thighs together until he releases me.

“Show me your tits.”

I dab the sheen of sweat from my brow with the napkin he passes me. “This is torture.”

“Then end it. Sometimes you need to just let go, Jax. Beg, cum, or submit and take the consequences. Or,” he nudges the display and my mouth falls open, “be a good girl and do as I ask.”

Ah, the consequences. He was very clear about those. The prospect of feeling the marks on my bottom for a week, every time I sit down, hangs over me. At home. At church on the uncomfortable pews. When driving to the supermarket. Everywhere.

The rumble begins again inside me. I jerk, clit suddenly electrified, breaths shallow. The tablecloth wrinkles under my white fingertips as he ramps up the speed. An unearthly whimper escapes, like a kettle coming off the boil. My eyes dart to his, and I shake my head, losing control, the magma boiling inside.

At the last possible second, when my mouth forms a wide ‘O’, moments before I scream, he shuts off the device. Watches me struggle for composure.

“Show. Me. Your. Tits. I won't ask again.”

After huffing through the other side of the latest ruined orgasm, I cast furtive glances around the room. Sigh and prop my elbow on the table to shield me from our closest neighbours. Reach for the scoop neckline. As nonchalantly as I can muster under the circumstances, I tug downward, cheeks flushing as one breast directly kisses the air conditioning. 

His dirty smirk is worth every ounce of embarrassment. Within a few seconds or a lifetime, I snap the dress back up and tilt my head. “I cannot believe you made me do that.”

He holds his fingertip up, pad facing me, and dives it theatrically to the phone. The vibrations recommence, and my eyes widen as the orgasm crests again. Then he lifts his finger off.

“I said tits. Plural.”

The colour drains from my face. “How can… but…” His gaze is unwavering. With a shake of my head, I push back from the table. “I need a few minutes.”

On unsteady legs, made more unsteady by Andrew occasionally buzzing the toy as I cross the restaurant, I head for the bathroom. The carpet in the corridor off the main room is springy under my heels, and I bang the black wooden door open with more force than anticipated.

The bathroom is deserted. I grip the sink and stare at my reflection as Andrew randomly toys with the pattern tucked between my legs. Why do I do this to myself? What is missing in my life that I need to give this man the keys to my excitement? My very soul.

Shucking the straps, I free my boobs; still a good handful, even at my age. I whip out my phone, hold it up, and snap a photo, tucking myself away before sending it to him. A few moments and varying buzzes later, he replies:

“Very nice. Inventive interpretation of the rules. Now your cunt.”

As if to reinforce the point, he issues a deep vibration pattern that has me slapping the marble-effect sink surround. When the calm arrives, I part my feet a fraction. My inner thighs are drenched, some rivulets even reaching my knees. I drop my hand in front of me, angle the lens up, and press the side button a few times.

The images make me gasp when I review them. Strings of webbed juice form a lewd hammock between my thighs that catch the artificial light, my fur a little out of focus beyond.

Choosing the clearest photo, I double-check the recipient and send it with the caption, My see you next Tuesday.

I drum my fingertips on the edge, waiting for the animated dots on the phone screen to finish. His response is to the point:

“Perfect. Do you want to cum?”

“Yes!”

.‧.‧

“If I let you, there's a catch. Bring me some of that on your fingers and feed it to me at the table.”

“Seriously?!”

The toy maxes out, and I gasp, almost doubling over as the sustained intensity from the first one, then the other, motor tears through my groin. My breathing is laboured, the only sound echoing in the bathroom after the vibrations die and leave an imprint deep within.

“Yes, I'm serious.”

I barely manage to type “Fine. Please, can I cum?”

No doubt smiling to himself, he gradually ramps up the pleasure, and I begin to quake. I am impossibly close. Dying to tumble over the edge, but I grip and clamp and mewl, trying to stave off the impending climax until given permission.

Time hangs. My groans deepen.

My phone rings. I make two attempts at swiping to answer and put him on speaker, chanting, “Gonna cum, gonna cum. Cannot… hold…” when the call connects.

“Jax?”

“Yesss. Ohhhh. Ffff...”

The device hits max, and I jerk like a beached salmon.

“Cuss and you can cum.”

I sob. Grit my teeth. Cry out. "Ohhh ff... FUCK!"

His voice drips with pride. "There's my filthy girl. Cum."

The relief floods. Waves of release batter me as I unclench my core and the orgasm slams into my body, the relentless toy amplifying every gasp, every guttural moan.

I have never cum so hard in my life. One hand claps under me in an attempt to contain the juices, but they freely tumble from around the buzzing invader, through my fingertips, and pool in my palm, even drizzling down my legs into my heels. All I can do is ride it out and bite my lip to try and limit the noises I am making. Pray that nobody comes in.

The sensitivity peaks, and I emit a shrill gasp. “Oh, Go...” I almost blaspheme. “Fu... Stop. Stop. Pleastop. Pleassse.”

If he hears me through the phone, there is a terrifying moment where I worry he will continue the onslaught, the incessant throb of the toy threatening to rip me in two. But then the motors tail off and finally cease.

Their absence triggers an unexpected second orgasmic wave that has me groaning uncontrollably. Fresh wetness seeps through my fingers, and I am immobile for goodness knows how long, just basking in the beautiful release of seemingly endless pleasure.

As the shockwaves fade with my moans, I peel the sticky hand from between my legs, and my jaw drops at the glistening digits. A faint smile forms in my reflection that turns to a giggle. I have that just ravaged glow, and my décolletage is flushed deep pink. Andrew would love the look and not expect me to make myself too presentable.

His voice is tinny. “Better?”

“Much,” I breathe. “Thank you.”

“Good. Remember our arrangement. See you in a minute.”

The call disconnects, and I take a few moments to compose myself before stepping to the exit and using my clean hand to haul the door open.

I stop dead outside.

There is Markus the waiter, wearing a sheepish expression and, I notice, a healthy bulge in his trousers.

I survey him. Step close enough, I can detect his subtle after-shave. Whether it is the endorphins still fizzing inside or I need psychiatric help, I lift my cum-soaked fingers and waft them in front of his nose. “Naughty boy. Listening in?”

His inhalation stutters as the full force of my indiscretion registers. He gulps. Says nothing.

“You know Cambridge Street? Across the river.” His nod is swift. “Number 14. What time do you finish?”

“Eleven.”

“I will be waiting.”

I step away and head back to the table, heart thumping. No doubt Andrew can feel it hammering against his back as I drape myself over his shoulder and whisper, “Thank you,” cupping his stubble with my messy palm. He leans into my stroke, smearing me, and I trace two fingertips across his mouth, then dip them between his lips for him to suck clean.

A growl forms in his throat. “Good girl.”

Standing and rounding the table, I pick up my fork and finish the final mouthful. Wash it down with a glass of red.

We stay quiet, just eyeing one another. Freeing my foot from the heel, my instep finds his calf, and I slither it up a little. “We may have a guest later.”

He arches his eyebrow. As if on cue, Markus approaches to collect the starter plates, and I flick my eyes his way. A glimmer of a smile forms on his face, and a dirty grin spreads across Andrew’s features.

When Markus retreats, Andrew reaches for his phone and swipes the remote app to the front. “We’d better warm you up then.”

The vibrations hum low, and I gasp, gripping the table edge again.

It is going to be a long night.