The Dinner 3

"Melissa," I said calmly as the waiter leaned over me to refill my water glass. "Could I have your panties, please?"

Melissa was sitting across from me looking intently at her menu, the light from the streetlamp outside casting a slight yellowish tint to one side of her face. She didn't react at first, and I thought that maybe she hadn't heard me. The waiter, on the other hand, clearly had: he made a noise that sounded sort of like a strangled hiccup, the water he'd been pouring splashing over onto the expensive white tablecloth. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the people at the next table -- a respectable, well-dressed elderly couple -- turn startled faces towards us.

Melissa glanced up at that moment. So she had heard me after all. She just looked at me for a long moment, incredulous, not sure she had heard me right. Finally, as if with great effort, she whispered, "What did you say?"

"Hand me your panties," I repeated.

Melissa sat silent, still, like a rock. Her face had gone very white, the ruby red of her slightly-parted lips a stark contrast to her pallor. Her menu slowly slipped out of her grasp and slid down to her lap. The waiter stood by the table gaping, frozen in mid-movement. The noise of conversation around us seemed to fade away, the patter of raindrops on the window beside me loud in the sudden silence.

"Melissa," I finally said, in a voice that was quiet but demanded obedience. "I don't want to have to repeat myself again. Give me your panties."

She dropped her gaze, her eyes looking down at the table, her face slowly flushing red. Everyone was looking at her now, like vultures almost, watching, waiting for her to do something. For a long moment, nobody moved. I was almost sure, then, that I had lost her, that she wouldn't obey after all. All of a sudden, Melissa took a deep breath. Then, biting down on her lower lip, still looking down at the table in front of her, she raised her ass slightly off her chair and began hiking her dress up.

I heard the people at nearby tables release their breath in a collective sigh. The waiter had stepped back, his eyes bugging out as Melissa pulled her long black evening dress higher and higher, baring those lovely legs, until it was almost all the way up to her crotch. She reached underneath and pulled down her little black panties, slid them down to her ankles and daintily, casually, over her sexy high-heeled sandals. She stood up, then, her face expressionless, wadded the flimsy transparent material into a little ball, threw it in my face, and walked out of the restaurant. I have to hand it to the girl: she walked out with her head high.

I scrambled to my feet and went after her as soon as I'd recovered my wits, leaving behind me a loud buzz of sudden shocked conversation. The waiter was still standing transfixed, his mouth hanging open. I almost knocked him down in my haste. By the time I got out of the front door, she was gone. It was raining hard now, cold fat heavy drops streaming through the weak cones of yellow light from the street lamps, splattering into the puddles on the sidewalk, stinging where they hit bare skin. The narrow street was deserted. Faint in the distance, barely audible over the noise of the rain on the rooftops, I could hear the clicking of high heels on concrete. I broke into a run after that sound, ignoring the cold rain, ignoring the

maitre d

's shouts behind me.

I caught up with her soon enough, grabbed her arm, spun her around to face me. She was drenched, her wet hair plastered around her face; I don't think I looked much better myself. A little droplet of rain dangling off the tip of her nose made her look strangely vulnerable. Yet in her eyes I saw only anger, a white-hot fury at the humiliation I had thrust upon her.

She drew back her arm to slap me. I saw it coming, but made no attempt to dodge: this much I owed her for what she had done for me. It staggered me when it landed, pain flashing where her ring mashed against my lip. I felt a salty warmth at the edge of my tongue.

"You bastard," she hissed at me. "You fucking bastard!"

I grabbed her then, kissed her hard, her tongue thrusting hungrily into my mouth in response. I pulled her into a dark alley off to the side, pushed her roughly up against a wall, jerked her sodden dress up to her waist and shoved a finger into her pussy. I heard her moan. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her pussy was hot, wet, ready. With trembling fingers I fumbled at the zipper on my pants, pulled out my aching hard cock and thrust savagely into her.

The rain drummed on, unrelenting.

* * * * *

Acknowledgements:

Editorial assistance from

Fauve

and

Weird Harold

is gratefully acknowledged. Any flaws that remain are my responsibility alone.