We arrive at the restaurant just as dusk paints the sky in soft pinks fading to violet. The hostess offers us a seat on the patio to catch the last stretch of sunset before moving inside. Your hand settles firmly around my waist as we follow her past two other couples. She leads us to a curved booth at the end of the dock, secluded just enough, and you slide in close beside me.

Drinks are ordered, the waiter disappears, and I’m left trembling with awareness. The weight of the Ben Wa balls inside me creates a constant, pulling ache, every shift in my seat a reminder. I can’t look at you without my body answering in full, desperate ache.

You tilt my chin toward you, eyes locking mine, and whisper how beautiful I look. Before I can breathe, you reach for the glass of water and pluck out an ice cube. The frozen shard glides behind my ear, coaxing my head to arch, exposing more of my throat for you. You trail it down my neck, across my collarbone, and lower still - slipping beneath my breasts as it melts into my skin. My lips part, a soft moan escaping before I can stop it.

Your hand traces the hem of my dress and then slowly drifting over, grazing the swell of my breasts beneath the thin black silk. You see the hard peaks pressing against the sheer navy lace underneath, and the corner of your mouth curves in approval.

In the same moment, I feel your fingers tracing over my panties in the faintest of touches.

You slide one of the balls out of me, holding it up as though you might slip it between my lips. Instead, you bring it to your own, your tongue circling before it disappears past your teeth. When you pull it back out, your eyes lock on mine. “My favorite flavor,” you murmur, “like buttery popcorn.” Buttercup. The name you’ve always called me suddenly clicks into place, and the meaning makes my chest swell with heat. You press the ball gently back inside me, and I clutch your thigh with a desperate grip.

Your fingers are still teasing me when the hostess reappears to guide us inside. For a split second, I see it—you caught off guard. It makes me giggle, watching Mr. Control nearly lose his composure. You recover instantly, calm and collected, but your hand punishes me with a sharp pinch to my clit. My giggle turns into a strangled moan, smothered quickly as I struggle to keep my face neutral while she stands directly in front of us.

I trail behind as she leads us to a new table, my body humming from your torment. But I need some control, just a little. As we walk, I slip my panties off, garters still attached, bunching the silk discreetly into my fist.

Once we’re seated, I cross my legs smoothly, sliding one foot from my slingback. My toes travel upward until they press into your groin beneath the tablecloth. Your eyes flicker—sharpening, then softening in the same breath. I hear the low growl escape you, “Fuuuuuuck.” I press harder, circling slowly, deliberately. The outline of you swells firm beneath my foot—head, shaft, and heavy balls all distinct beneath the fabric.

Her toes press into me beneath the table, slow circles that make it impossible to think about anything else. My jaw tightens as I lift the wine glass, pretending to study the menu. She knows exactly what she’s doing—testing the limits I set, daring me to slip.

I catch her eyes across the table. She’s smiling—sweet, innocent for anyone watching, but I know that smile. It’s the smile of a woman who thinks she’s in control. I lean closer, close enough that only she can hear me. “You’re playing a dangerous game.” My hand brushes down the side of her thigh under the table, nails dragging lightly over her skin. She shivers, but she doesn’t stop.

I force myself to take a sip of wine, slow and deliberate, even as her toes trace the outline of my cock. The pressure builds, my patience thinning. She thinks she’s clever, slipping out of those panties, hiding them in her fist. She forgets that I always notice everything.

I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine as if it’s nothing more than affection. My thumb brushes her palm—and there it is, the balled-up silk. I smirk, pocketing it in one fluid motion. She blinks, startled, but I don’t break eye contact. I want her to know she’s never really in control.

“Keep this up,” I murmur, my voice low and calm, “and I’ll take you on this table before dessert ever arrives.”

I slip a hand into my pocket, curling my fingers around the last cold sphere. Instead of hiding it, I place it casually on the white linen between us. The polished silver gleams under the candlelight, small but unmistakable.

Her eyes go wide. Her breath catches. For anyone else in the restaurant, it could be a trinket, a coin, something innocuous. But we both know better. That’s what makes her cheeks flush so beautifully—the razor’s edge between secrecy and exposure.

I lean back, letting the silence stretch. My thumb traces the rim of my wine glass as if I’ve simply placed a spare cufflink on the table. But my voice cuts through the hum of the restaurant, low and absolute.

“Put it in.”

She swallows hard, her hands curling in her lap. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat, the way her body fights between panic and thrill. She loves the risk—lives for it—but I love watching her tremble before surrendering.

At last, her fingers slide forward, quick but shaky, and the ball disappears beneath the tablecloth. A subtle shift of her body confirms it’s nestled where I want it—where she’ll feel it with every breath.

I smirk, swirling the wine in my glass. “Careful, Buttercup. If you drop it on the floor, you’ll have to crawl under the table and fetch it.”

I try to stand from the table to leave, but the weight of the three balls deep inside of me, mixed with the buzz I am feeling, makes me fall back into my chair. I take a deep breath trying to regain my composure. I can see him from the corner of my eyes with that smile- he knows I’m struggling. I have to tighten every muscle I have to keep them in place while I get up and move past the others in the restaurant. My legs feel unsteady and in that same moment, your hand rests at the small of my back, guiding me, steady and firm. It feels protective to anyone watching—but I know it’s possession. Your touch reminds me that this isn’t a casual stroll out of a restaurant. This is an exit on your terms.

By the time we reach the car, my pulse is racing. The drive feels endless, every bump in the road teasing me closer to the edge. I keep my thighs pressed tight, shifting just enough to hold everything inside, while you sit beside me, composed and silent. The only betrayal of your calm is the way your hand rests on my thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns that make me squirm in my seat.

I come around to help her out of the car, then scoop her into my arms. She curls against me, and I lean down to steal a kiss—soft lips flavored with red wine, strawberries, and the faint trace of her coconut body lotion. The mix is intoxicating, stirring heat low in my gut.

I carry her straight to the bedroom and set her down against the wall, her body pinned beneath my frame. Her eyes blaze with hunger, anticipation sparking as she bites her lip—knowing exactly how much that look unravels me.

My mouth crashes onto hers, urgent, taking everything she’s been holding back since the first touch of ice at the restaurant. My hand finds its way between her thighs, and the strain there tells me everything—the battle she’s fought to hold my control inside her, the trembling tension barely contained.

She’s dripping. My fingers come away slick, proof of just how far gone she is. She’s always been self-conscious about how wet she gets, as though it’s something to hide. I press harder, growling against her lips, “Don’t you dare ever think that’s a flaw. I fucking love how wet you are for me.”

Her thighs tremble, pressing against my hand as though she can trap me there. But she forgets—I decide when and how she gets touched. I press my palm harder against her, grinding the silver balls deeper, forcing her body to hold them while I toy with her clit.

She gasps, arching into me, and the sound makes my cock twitch with need. I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, savoring her helplessness, while the other teases her mercilessly. Every moan she chokes back, every shiver that wracks her frame—it all belongs to me.

I lean close to her ear, my voice rough and low. “All night you’ve tested me. Teased me. Tormented me with those pretty little games under the table. But here…” My fingers circle harder, faster, until her knees start to buckle. “…here you don’t get to play. You get to obey.”

Her body clenches around the balls, straining to hold them in place as the pressure builds. I can feel how close she is, teetering on the edge, fighting to hold everything together. And I’m going to decide exactly when she falls apart.

I slide one hand up, wrapping it firmly but gently around her throat. Her breath hitches, pupils blowing wide. I squeeze just enough to remind her who she belongs to. My other hand pulls back, sliding the hem of her dress higher until I can see how swollen and wet she is.

I drop to my knees, my fingers slipping inside her. She gasps, trembling as I hook the first ball and pull it free. Slick and shining, it drops heavy into my palm before I place it neatly on the floor beside me. The second comes just as easily, her walls fluttering helplessly as I draw it out. She whimpers, unsteady, already fighting to stay upright against the wall.

Finally, I curl my fingers for the third one. She gasps when it slips free, her thighs shaking as I hold it up between us. My eyes lock with hers as I press the ball into her hand.

I crowd her against the wall, my cock already hard against her. “I’ve teased you long enough,” I growl. “Now I’m going to fuck you.”

Then I take her—one brutal thrust, burying myself deep. She cries out, the sound breaking against my shoulder as her walls clamp down around me, hot and pulsing.

I grip her throat, steady but firm, pinning her while my hips drive harder, deeper. Each stroke drags raw, desperate sounds from her until she’s shaking, clutching at me as though she might fall apart.

“You’re mine,” I moan into her ear, every word punctuated by a thrust. “Every part of you.”

Her body strangles my cock, trembling on the edge, ready to break. I tighten my hand at her throat, force her eyes on me, and command, “Cum for me.”

She shatters instantly, convulsing around me, her cries muffled against my lips. The moment her body seizes around me, I let go. A guttural growl rips from my chest as I drive deep and spill inside her, hot and thick, until I feel it leak down her thighs.

I hold her pinned, still inside her, both of us trembling, undone. When the last waves fade, I press my forehead to hers, my breath ragged, my voice rough but certain.

“Perfect. You’re perfect. And you’re mine.”