my waist and his right arm resting on the table top.
‘They won’t,’ he murmured. ‘As long as you stop trying to pull them apart.’
My vain efforts to loosen the seemingly simple fastenings meant that my tits were jiggling in the brief cups of the corset. His eyes were on them, and as I followed them I saw that my nipples had hardened in excitement.
Before I could tell myself to stop trying to get free and calm down, Carlos lifted his hand and rubbed my nearest nipple. My eyes closed with excitement and fear of being seen and I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. I sincerely hoped that the other customers were too far away and engrossed in their lunch or their conversation to take any notice, but part of me was melting with the embarrassment. Melting into a sticky pool in my knickers, that is.
He moved to the other nipple and teased it harder. My eyes were in constant movement, darting between the café customers, his face, the movements of the waiter and my now rapidly rising and falling breasts. Shamed and helpless I saw the waiter move towards us but Carlos’s hand was back on the table before two glasses of yellow juice were set before us. Did the waiter’s eyes linger on me with admiration or contempt? Or had I imagined his eyes registering anything other than just another punter?
The juice was delicious; papaya and mango, Carlos told me, as I sucked the nectar through the straw. His hand was, to my relief, around his glass and I relaxed, but not for long. The arm that was thrown caressingly around my waist was withdrawn to lie negligently in my lap and, as Carlos sucked nonchalantly on his juice, his hand snaked up between my silky body-lotioned thighs and rubbed at my knickers.
‘I suppose it’s all about power,’ I said defiantly, almost condescendingly, as his hand slipped easily up and down the wet satin.
He laughed in genuine amusement. ‘Sure it’s about power. But more than that, Bliss. I take part of my pleasure from giving it to you, as well as from seeing you unable to help responding to me.’
‘And why do you take pleasure from humiliating me in public?’
‘No, Bliss. You’re getting pleasure from that. Aren’t you?’
Of course I was. Don’t we all like that element of danger in misbehaving in public, even if it’s only as a teenager, snogging in your bedroom when your mum might burst in at any minute, or being felt up in the back row of the cinema.
‘If what I’m feeling now isn’t a sign that you’re getting pleasure, I can only assume you’ve wet yourself.’
‘Most amusing,’ I retorted, but I had to smile. ‘The thing is, Carlos, where do you stop? I’ve always associated being tied up with being whipped or walloped, neither of which are my thing.’
‘Nor mine,’ he assured me. ‘I don’t need to hurt you. Anyway there’s no point trying domination unless you want to submit: it’s a two-way thing. But don’t tell me you don’t want to be bound. Your reactions so far have spoken for themselves.’
As if to emphasise it his fingers slid inside my knickers and encountered the full spate of my slickness. It was hard to stop myself from moaning as he poised his finger on the tip of my clit and stroked so delicately but rapidly that it was like the buzz of a mild electric shock. He withdrew his finger and put it to his lips, smiling quizzically.
‘I think I’m right.’
The waiter appeared with a large plate of different vegetable dishes, which he placed between us, and two plates and knives and forks. I almost told him not to bother as I wasn’t able to use the knife and fork and in moving the plate he’d put my juice, or rather my straw, out of reach of my mouth.
Once again I submitted to being fed and once again I got a real charge from it. Why there should be a difference between picking up a fork and putting food into my own mouth and taking food from the end of Carlos’s fork I couldn’t say. Maybe it was because I was submitting to him
‘They won’t,’ he murmured. ‘As long as you stop trying to pull them apart.’
My vain efforts to loosen the seemingly simple fastenings meant that my tits were jiggling in the brief cups of the corset. His eyes were on them, and as I followed them I saw that my nipples had hardened in excitement.
Before I could tell myself to stop trying to get free and calm down, Carlos lifted his hand and rubbed my nearest nipple. My eyes closed with excitement and fear of being seen and I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. I sincerely hoped that the other customers were too far away and engrossed in their lunch or their conversation to take any notice, but part of me was melting with the embarrassment. Melting into a sticky pool in my knickers, that is.
He moved to the other nipple and teased it harder. My eyes were in constant movement, darting between the café customers, his face, the movements of the waiter and my now rapidly rising and falling breasts. Shamed and helpless I saw the waiter move towards us but Carlos’s hand was back on the table before two glasses of yellow juice were set before us. Did the waiter’s eyes linger on me with admiration or contempt? Or had I imagined his eyes registering anything other than just another punter?
The juice was delicious; papaya and mango, Carlos told me, as I sucked the nectar through the straw. His hand was, to my relief, around his glass and I relaxed, but not for long. The arm that was thrown caressingly around my waist was withdrawn to lie negligently in my lap and, as Carlos sucked nonchalantly on his juice, his hand snaked up between my silky body-lotioned thighs and rubbed at my knickers.
‘I suppose it’s all about power,’ I said defiantly, almost condescendingly, as his hand slipped easily up and down the wet satin.
He laughed in genuine amusement. ‘Sure it’s about power. But more than that, Bliss. I take part of my pleasure from giving it to you, as well as from seeing you unable to help responding to me.’
‘And why do you take pleasure from humiliating me in public?’
‘No, Bliss. You’re getting pleasure from that. Aren’t you?’
Of course I was. Don’t we all like that element of danger in misbehaving in public, even if it’s only as a teenager, snogging in your bedroom when your mum might burst in at any minute, or being felt up in the back row of the cinema.
‘If what I’m feeling now isn’t a sign that you’re getting pleasure, I can only assume you’ve wet yourself.’
‘Most amusing,’ I retorted, but I had to smile. ‘The thing is, Carlos, where do you stop? I’ve always associated being tied up with being whipped or walloped, neither of which are my thing.’
‘Nor mine,’ he assured me. ‘I don’t need to hurt you. Anyway there’s no point trying domination unless you want to submit: it’s a two-way thing. But don’t tell me you don’t want to be bound. Your reactions so far have spoken for themselves.’
As if to emphasise it his fingers slid inside my knickers and encountered the full spate of my slickness. It was hard to stop myself from moaning as he poised his finger on the tip of my clit and stroked so delicately but rapidly that it was like the buzz of a mild electric shock. He withdrew his finger and put it to his lips, smiling quizzically.
‘I think I’m right.’
The waiter appeared with a large plate of different vegetable dishes, which he placed between us, and two plates and knives and forks. I almost told him not to bother as I wasn’t able to use the knife and fork and in moving the plate he’d put my juice, or rather my straw, out of reach of my mouth.
Once again I submitted to being fed and once again I got a real charge from it. Why there should be a difference between picking up a fork and putting food into my own mouth and taking food from the end of Carlos’s fork I couldn’t say. Maybe it was because I was submitting to him
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