He hooked one finger in under my panties, stroked my clit three times, then angled his hand around and plunged one thick finger into my opening. I thrust against his hand and sighed. He fingered me some more, and his thumb flicked over my clit, setting it ablaze.
Something clinked, and I realized he was using his other hand to locate either his wine or his water glass, which made me giggle. “Don't spill any wine on yourself,” I said.
He swallowed audibly, and his hand got aggressive, diving in and out of me with more energy, his thumb bearing down on my clit, pulsing out pleasurable waves, pushing me up that mountain.
“Ohmygod, you're going to make me come,” I said.
“Moan for me.”
I did moan, softly, and I started to get up from my chair, but he forced me back down again, saying, “Sit. Lexie, sit.”
“Woof!”
He chuckled. “Good girl.”
“I wish I could see you,” I said. “I wonder if you have a tent in your pants.”
“Oh, I do. Whimper for me. I enjoy hearing your satisfaction.”
He rubbed me some more, waves of bliss pulsing out from those moving fingers, buried in a pool of wetness, merging with me. I cried out in pleasure, and he rewarded me with more pressure.
“Let me touch it,” I said. “Let me touch your cock.”
I leaned forward and found his knees under the table, nearly touching mine. I had to turn my body sideways, because the table was in the way, but I could reach with one hand, all the way up the fabric of his trousers.
The bulge was there, unmistakable. I traced my fingers up and down the shaft, through the fabric, finding the outline of the head. Even though the room was pitch black, and I saw nothing, I could imagine it in perfect detail, that perfect, stiff cock of his.
“That's enough,” he said, and he pulled his bulge just out of reach. “Save it for dessert.”
I leaned back and focused just on the sensations he was giving me with his fingers. The room smelled pleasant, like vanilla, but not the cheap air freshener stuff. I also smelled flowers, fresh flowers, plus my own sweat, my personal scent, coming off my soaked panties.
I ached for him, and even though he was giving me pleasure, touching me, I wanted more. I wanted him in my mouth. His cock, or his lips, or any nice bit of skin I could get my hands on.
“Kiss me,” I said.
“I will. Just wait. Be a good girl, Lexie. Are you a good girl?”
“Woof!”
He laughed again, and then he was quiet, focusing. He was feeling around carefully, running his fingers skilfully up and down my folds. By now, my panties, a better pair selected special for the occasion, were pulled off to the side. The back had ridden up the crack of my buttocks, and even that felt good. Everything felt so good. In the dark, in the quiet room, with only the scent of flowers and vanilla, I thought I might die from pleasure. There was soft music, too, the kind you don't notice.
“You like that,” he said. “Tell me you like it when I touch you.”
“I like it when you touch me.”
“Tell me to finger fuck you.”
“I don't like those dirty words.”
He eased back his pressure. “Say it.”
“Finger fuck me.” As I said the word fuck, a little tremor passed through me. It felt good to say that word. So I said it again. I said it over and over again. “Finger fuck me. Harder. Faster.”
“Uhh,” he groaned, his voice sounding urgent. I wasn't touching it, but I could sense his need, sense the stiffness of his cock.
He kept going with that skilled thumb and those fingers, pulsing over my nub, sliding in and out of me. I wondered about the waiter and our dinner, and then I forgot about everything. In the darkness, I slid my hands up to my breasts and squeezed my stiff nipples.
“Fuck me,” I said.
Pleasure ripped through me, so sudden and unexpected I gasped.
I continued, “Oh, fuck me. Oh, it's so good. Just like that. Yes. Good. Yes.”
He moaned again, barely audible. “You like that. I can feel you, gripping my fingers while I fuck you with my hand.”
I rocked my hips, helping the hand movements, the hand that was inside my panties, rubbing away at my swollen pussy.
“Come for me, Lexie.”
I pinched my nipples again.
“Come for me.”
Desperation flooded me. I imagined his big, fat cock, yearning to plunge into me, and I pinched my nipples yet again. The waves crested over me and I climaxed, rising up out of my chair, arching back on the backrest, ready to take all the fingers, his whole arm if he wanted.
“Good girl.”
I heard myself moaning and clamped my mouth shut.
“Oh, baby, don't stop,” he said, digging deeper with those fingers and smoothing over my pulsating nub with his thumb, amping up the final waves to ecstasy.