with him.
I couldnât care less. I felt happy, and the fine wine my man had chosen was already going to my head.
âItâs delicious,â I exclaimed after Iâd taken my first bite. The flavors and textures were divine.
âYour mother doesnât mind that Iâve stolen you this evening?â
He put his hand over mine on the table. I liked feeling his weight on me. It foretold another configuration, another weight, the weight of his body crushing mine. I shivered in pleasure at the thought. But I wasnât brave enough to take the initiative and tear him from the dinner weâd just begun.
Â
I wish he would have led me to the restroom and taken me there. My panties on his ankles. His impatient member pressing into my behind. No formalities. Just the urgency of our desire.
Iâve never been taken by a man in a public restroom before. Usually I inspire in them feelings of love and other noble sentiments. I want these things, too. But for once I would like it if one of them took me in haste and ravaged me. I want to be made an object for his desire. I want to feed his raging hunger. I would go down on my knees before him, on the defiled tiles. His engorged tip would open my lips and enter. He would fist my hair and push his hard member deep into my throat, fucking my mouth like a whore, faster, faster, hurrying to finish before the next guest arrived in the bathroom. He would come quickly in several spurts, and heâd let out a muffled cry. I would have just enough time to rinse my mouth and wipe off the traces of semen. But the smell of his cock would still linger on my lips. I would be able to taste it with every bite of my dinner.
Â
Anonymous handwritten note, 6/5/2009âWould I really find that exciting? I guess so . . .
Â
I HAD NOTICED THE COINCIDENCE early on, and over time it was becoming increasingly apparent: my harasserâs licentious missives reflected events in my life. They tried to integrate themselves into my thinking, to give a detailed and realistic account of the kinds of ideas that crossed my mind. Where was this stranger? Was he in the restaurant now? Was he watching me?
Just as I could not bring myself to admit to David what I did at Belles de Nuit, I did not have the courage to tell him about my guilty relationship with the crazy poet who had plumbed my innermost depths. In a way, the poet had already won; I had let him penetrate my whole being.
Â
âYOUR MOM . . . YOU DIDNâT want to stay with her?â David asked again.
âNo . . . No, not at all,â I lied, my mouth full.
I was the queen of compartmentalization. With Maude, I had barely mentioned the marvelous irruption of David into my life. I had been especially careful not to mention his last name, for fear she would make the connection with the glittering businessman she sometimes saw on the eight oâclock news. For now, she only knew the bare minimum: some rich and charming guy named David had taken Fredâs place. And sheâd never really liked Fred much. It was enough to satisfy her maternal instincts, and had kept my two worlds from clashing. I knew they would eventually meet. It was inevitable, considering how things were developing with the man on the other side of that forkful of lobster.
âYouâre right; itâs excellent,â he agreed, his eyes half closed in pleasure as he sunk his teeth into a beet fry.
. . . Mmm, how to rehabilitate such a lowly vegetable.
Money wasnât everything. David wasnât just a living bank account with enough to pay for this kind of banquet every night of the week if we wanted. He had something that no winning lottery ticket or profitable financial scheme could offer: he was cultivated. It was the only ingredient that Fredâs pizzas would never have, though they represented so much love and sacrifice.
The following courses did not disappoint: lobster cassolette with black
I couldnât care less. I felt happy, and the fine wine my man had chosen was already going to my head.
âItâs delicious,â I exclaimed after Iâd taken my first bite. The flavors and textures were divine.
âYour mother doesnât mind that Iâve stolen you this evening?â
He put his hand over mine on the table. I liked feeling his weight on me. It foretold another configuration, another weight, the weight of his body crushing mine. I shivered in pleasure at the thought. But I wasnât brave enough to take the initiative and tear him from the dinner weâd just begun.
Â
I wish he would have led me to the restroom and taken me there. My panties on his ankles. His impatient member pressing into my behind. No formalities. Just the urgency of our desire.
Iâve never been taken by a man in a public restroom before. Usually I inspire in them feelings of love and other noble sentiments. I want these things, too. But for once I would like it if one of them took me in haste and ravaged me. I want to be made an object for his desire. I want to feed his raging hunger. I would go down on my knees before him, on the defiled tiles. His engorged tip would open my lips and enter. He would fist my hair and push his hard member deep into my throat, fucking my mouth like a whore, faster, faster, hurrying to finish before the next guest arrived in the bathroom. He would come quickly in several spurts, and heâd let out a muffled cry. I would have just enough time to rinse my mouth and wipe off the traces of semen. But the smell of his cock would still linger on my lips. I would be able to taste it with every bite of my dinner.
Â
Anonymous handwritten note, 6/5/2009âWould I really find that exciting? I guess so . . .
Â
I HAD NOTICED THE COINCIDENCE early on, and over time it was becoming increasingly apparent: my harasserâs licentious missives reflected events in my life. They tried to integrate themselves into my thinking, to give a detailed and realistic account of the kinds of ideas that crossed my mind. Where was this stranger? Was he in the restaurant now? Was he watching me?
Just as I could not bring myself to admit to David what I did at Belles de Nuit, I did not have the courage to tell him about my guilty relationship with the crazy poet who had plumbed my innermost depths. In a way, the poet had already won; I had let him penetrate my whole being.
Â
âYOUR MOM . . . YOU DIDNâT want to stay with her?â David asked again.
âNo . . . No, not at all,â I lied, my mouth full.
I was the queen of compartmentalization. With Maude, I had barely mentioned the marvelous irruption of David into my life. I had been especially careful not to mention his last name, for fear she would make the connection with the glittering businessman she sometimes saw on the eight oâclock news. For now, she only knew the bare minimum: some rich and charming guy named David had taken Fredâs place. And sheâd never really liked Fred much. It was enough to satisfy her maternal instincts, and had kept my two worlds from clashing. I knew they would eventually meet. It was inevitable, considering how things were developing with the man on the other side of that forkful of lobster.
âYouâre right; itâs excellent,â he agreed, his eyes half closed in pleasure as he sunk his teeth into a beet fry.
. . . Mmm, how to rehabilitate such a lowly vegetable.
Money wasnât everything. David wasnât just a living bank account with enough to pay for this kind of banquet every night of the week if we wanted. He had something that no winning lottery ticket or profitable financial scheme could offer: he was cultivated. It was the only ingredient that Fredâs pizzas would never have, though they represented so much love and sacrifice.
The following courses did not disappoint: lobster cassolette with black
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