The hostess glided between the tables of the gleaming Village restaurant, her mid-back length blonde-and-pink tresses glinting as she moved and contrasting sensuously with the dark tan which crept forth from beneath her clothing. She was leading the way to the table we'd indicated, a booth next to windows opening upon the bustling afternoon City sidewalk. Since the place was largely empty at this hour, we'd been able to choose our table rather freely. Reaching the booth, she stood silently facing us in her black halter and black low-rise stretch-slacks, nipple-rings outlined against the accommodatingly thin material of her top and accentuating her small but obviously firm breasts. Patiently, the sun-darkened young woman cradled our menus as I turned to my lover and directed her to slide into the booth, facing the front of the restaurant. With a nod, she slid into place, her tight black miniskirt pulling upward along white thighs as she folded herself into the polished hardwood bench.
I waited, watching, until my slave was settled into place, enjoying the way the movement caused her B-cup breasts to sway within her sheer, loose-fitting but contour-draping black top. I always required her to dress in sheer tops in public, not least because it went so strongly against her natural modesty to be so uncontrollably and consistently exposed. Her bright red areolas were clearly visible through the filmy material, her nipples in that almost constant state of erectness that is a consequence of regular nipple torture and the sensitivity resulting from it. I'd chosen the top because its material was ever-so-slightly itchy, almost subliminally irritating to her nipples, contributing to the maximal extension to which those thick, fleshy garnet peaks were currently standing. The bright sunlight streaming through the window made her blouse virtually disappear, and my petite, expectant slave knew as well as I did the erotic spectacle that she presented. I saw her hazel eyes flick nervously toward the window, its bottom sill at table-level, well below the level of her display.
I slid next to my auburn-haired companion and looked to our hostess, who was uneasily and unsuccessfully trying not to look at the spectacle of my companion as she held out our menus. I took my time taking mine, and I made the hostess hand my lover's menu directly to her so that she would have no choice but to turn her eyes upon my slave's exposed, jutting chest in the process. I smiled as I watched her turn and take her leave of our table in a state of confusion and maybe even more than a little desire.
I turned to my slave, her expectant uneasiness already palpable. She had expected me to sit across from her, not slide in next to her, thereby locking her into the booth with my body. I saw the realization creep across the finely-carven features of her face that this was probably not going to be an uneventful meal. I turned toward her and reached behind her graceful alabaster neck with my left hand, pulling her head to me and kissing her deeply. While I probed the moist, responsive cavern of her mouth with my tongue, my right hand slid the hem of her clinging ebony skirt upwards along her silky thighs, stopping only when the leading edge of my hand made contact with the naked skin atop them. Releasing her neck, I broke the kiss, allowing her to settle back into place. "Don't!" I commanded as her hands drifted towards her lap, the adjustment of her skirt their obvious and almost instinctive purpose. "Place both hands palm down on the table and leave them there."
I relished the anticipation that shimmered upon her face and shivered through her frame as she carried out my command. Her breathing was deep and a bit panicked; its rhythm thrusting her breasts forward deliciously as her tongue darted anxiously forth to moisten nervously parted ruby lips. "Good girl," I said, smirking. "Now, spread your legs until your knees are 12 inches apart, and I don't want to see you look down. It's none of your business what you do or don't look like."
She was well-trained - a very good, promising slave. She hesitated only long enough to draw a deep, shaking breath before complying, only long enough to set her delicate jaw almost imperceptibly and steel herself for the act. As I'd expected, in her attempt to make sure that she achieved the required gap without being able to gauge the distance visually she spread her legs wider than necessary. The movement stretched the hem of her skirt across the top of her smooth, freshly-shaven loins, pulling it taught and rendering the presence of her pale, crimson-slashed nether-region clearly visible. Since we were facing the door of the restaurant, it was always possible that someone, especially another seated diner, with the right angle would be able to see her thus splayed and exposed, a fact which I immediately relayed tauntingly to my companion. I watched with glee as the knowledge embedded itself into her awareness with a gulp. Her eyes drifted closed for a moment as if to hide from the vision of herself - or maybe to see it in her mind's eye - before snapping back, open and wide, gleaming with a heady mixture of fear and arousal.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waiter heading in our direction, dressed in the black jeans and white oxford shirt that is the uniform of Village wait-staff. From his perspective, facing us across the table as he approached, I knew that he couldn't see the condition of my lover's legs and pussy, but her breasts would be facing him without escape. "Sit up straight like a good girl," I ordered. "You know better than to try to hide." As she straightened from the slight-slouch she had unconsciously adopted, her dusk-draped nipple-peaked mounds thrust proudly forward.
The waiter, all teeth, accent, and Eastern-European charm, was much less nervous than our hostess had been - or maybe he was just more visibly appreciative. He looked openly at my companion's breasts, not bothering to hide that he was enjoying the show. Good for him, I thought. He'd enjoy what was yet to come. I ordered a cappuccino for her, an exotic ale for me, and told the waiter to return in a few minutes for our food order. As he retreated, I commented to my slave on the direct, lewd and appreciative gaze which he had let loose upon her chest, ensuring that she would be highly conscious of him and his attention toward her when he next returned. I could see my strategy working, as she glanced sideways toward where he had gone and then lowered her eyes momentarily to the hands that she kept glued to the table before her. I saw the thought flash through her mind that the waiter would know she was a slave by the fact that she was unable to move her hands, that they would still be plastered in position on his next return, and I watched with contentment as a pale pink flush suffused her cheeks.
My eyes glued to her face, my left hand settled between my auburn-haired slave's parted thighs. I made no attempt to be subtle or to hide the placement of my hand from anyone who might care to look as I stroked my middle finger with excruciating slowness along the full length of her already-moist cleft. I saw her eyes dart furtively around the restaurant as I did so, the forlorn hope that no-one would notice what was unfolding shining from her lust-brimming eyes. I, however, wasn't looking ... not only did I not care if anyone saw, I hoped that they would.
