Scenes From an Italian Restaurant

Our table at this hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant is so humbly intimate, it’s a wonder our two dinner plates don’t hang off the side for lack of space. You stare at me over your wine glass, eyes sharp and playful. The hand that holds the glass is tensed ever so slightly, solid, strong, the glass stem shooting up between your fingers to disappear behind your palm. I bite my lower lip and lean forward, wishing that slightly rugged hand - strong, inviting, like wrought iron wrapped in velvet - was cupping my breast with as much gentle determination as it was cupping that cup of crystal.

“You’re quiet this evening,” you say, your voice rolling across the table like far off thunder. My mind snaps to attention.

“Sorry,” I say, smiling, looking at you from deep under my lashes, a look I know you love. “Just thinking about something…”

You look intrigued, that left eyebrow of yours raising ever so slightly above the cobalt orb of your eye.

“About?”

I shrug my shoulders, the thin straps of my black dress slackening and falling off my shoulders just enough to catch your eye. I place the top of my left foot against the strap crossing the heel of my right, and slip my foot out of its high heel. I raise it to reach the front of your chair, brushing against your inner thigh. Your eyes jump in surprise, but your posture remains collected and unchanged, except for a distinguished flicker of a smile across your lips.

“Ohh…” you say, softly, and drop a discrete hand down, fingers wrapping around my ankle, palm pressed against that delicate place above my heel. You keep your clasp, and move your hand up my leg. I shiver, and lick the corner of my mouth. I watch your own lips part slightly as I do, and I can tell you’re aching for something.

Having just ordered, our food isn’t due for a while now, and I slip my leg out of your grasp, inspired. You look puzzled as I slip on my shoe and push back from the table. Standing, my eyes scan the room for that tell-tale sign, alcove, door - and there it is, scrawled in thin red script over the doorframe with an arrow pointing down: “

Signore

” - “

Ladies

”.

I turn and grin at you, tilting my head ever so slightly in that direction. A incredulous smirk breaks out across your face so quickly that I can’t help but be reminded of firework explosions. I make my way across the darkened, tiny restaurant, and you follow perhaps six feet behind, as to discourage attention. As I walk, I can feel your eyes staring at the silky black fabric across my ass, pulling taunt and then loosening, only to pull taunt again with my next step. I can feel my nipples harden at the thought.

Reaching the woman’s restroom, I scan down the hall it’s set back in - empty. With a small wisp of pleading, I push the door open to find the same scene: the restroom, like the rest of the restaurant, is miniature, single, barely three feet of space between the sink and the opposite wall. Perfect, I think, and gasp as your body gently runs into the back of me, pushing me into the room. I turn around to face you in time to see you ease the door back into it’s hinges, closed, and slide the delicate little deadbolt that accompanies most bathroom doors. Then you turn and face me, something primal, predatory, flickering across your face.

You take a step towards me, backing me into the counter playfully, your hips and shoulders moving in the stalking rhythm of a large cat about to take down its prey.

“Come here, you little tease,” you say, low and rich, another rumble of thunder. Your hands, which just moments ago were seemingly satisfied with a wine goblet, grasp my hips almost savagely, and shove the hem of my dress up to my waist as you set me on the counter. Glancing down, your eyes are wide, pleased, as you realize I’ve refrained from wearing panties.

I shiver, the cheeks of my ass pressed flush against the cold, imitation marble counter. I’m immediately warmed, however, as your thick hands press against the dress straps resting on my shoulder, and slide them down, palms flat against my arms, sending a bolt of hot electricity across my spine.

My hands fly to the collar of your shirt, and eagerly begin popping the buttons open, one by one., until I reach the waist of your pants seconds later, pulling, a bit frustrated, a bit burning, at your belt. It comes undone, and I look up at you, flashing a triumphant grin. You reply with another knowing smirk, and then bury your face in the tender curve of my neck and shoulder, licking and sucking wildly, sending more hot flashes down between my legs, directly towards my already swollen and pouting lips.

I gasp, a ragged, desperate inhalation of breath, and tightly grasp all the fabric of your pants and boxers that my slender fingers can muster, shoving downward, temporarily ridding you of clothing in a half-assed way. Your manhood stands rock-hard, unyielding, commanding.

You respond, not by removing your full, searing lips from my neck, but instead by pressing one strong, flat hand under my ass, and the other against the small of my back as you lift me up with complete disregard to my weight. It happens in a flash, and I have the foresight to wrap my fingers around your shaft and guide it between my thighs, perfect, and then the moment is whole as you shift me off the counter and against your hips, dropping me down on you, your burning head pressing between my lips, your shaft all the way into my wetness in an instant, and we both half-moan, half-gasp at the exquisite feeling of fullness.

You pause for a moment, and together, we take it in, your almost cruelly rigid cock filling to the brim, soft head kissing my cervix, my firm and feverish nipples pressed into your chest, arms wrapped around your neck and shoulders to hold myself. And then, the first stroke so pleasingly tender I feel as if I might collapse entirely, you begin to lift and lower me by the hips, on and off your throbbing shaft, and I moan, terribly loud, startlingly loud, so loud it bounces off the walls, and I can feel your rod jump slightly inside me as you press a hand against my mouth to quiet my moans.

And suddenly, almost as if you’re challenging me to hold my tongue, you bend your knees and thrust your hips upward so hard that my eyes water, and I claw at your shoulders, pulling myself further up on you, so I can press my lips against your ear.

“More…” I whisper, so sultry and secretive that it sounds like I imagine smoke looks.

I hear you groan, feel it reverberate through your chest and into mine, pleased that you’ve also broken the silence, and then I’m being leaned back, your hands spread wide and holding me, and I press my own palms against the mirror for leverage, tilting my head back to make my breasts taunt in the way I know drives you crazy.

Our breathing becomes shallow as you pump away inside me; wet, sexy noises come from deep inside my cunt. My thighs are quivering, there’s a scream inside my lungs that wants to tear up through my throat like an animal, but I bite my lip and force it back down inside. Your face is set and determined now, your eyes fastened to my pert, bouncing breasts.

“My god…you’re…so beautiful….” you pant, and I can see the stunning muscles underneath your shoulders and chest undulate like so much blistering liquid steel. I feel your fingertips tense and scrape underneath my back, a signal that you’re so close, all this frenzied energy gathering in your loins, building upon itself, urgently seeking somewhere to go. I can feel you begin tremble deep inside me, and then my own thighs quivering against the bare sides of your waist, my legs crossed tightly over your back.

And suddenly, it sweeps over me, a huge merciless wave of pleasure, and I can feel the very depths of my soul contract, wrap around you, tighten as if you’re my anchor that stays me fastened to this very earth. You’re coming as well, I can see, from the reflection in the mirror - your jaw slack, your eyes glazed with a generous, glassy layer of ecstasy. And then I can sense it, hot and wet, unmistakable, your come being pumped into the darkest recesses of my cunt, mixing with my own juices, and suddenly, I know I’m complete.

Gently, you ease me onto the counter, grimacing slightly at the inevitable ache in your knees and back. I lean against the mirror, panting, feeling the prickle of sweat beads running down my hair line. You stare at me, slanted against the other wall, face flushed and hair askew as well. After a few deep breaths, I launch myself off the counter, and into a stall, looking for something to wipe the excess come off my thighs - the still warm seed slides down my legs a few more inches with every ‘click!’ of my high heels on the tile floor.

When I emerge from the stall, you’re already dressed, straightening your shirt. I run a hand through my hair, palms down the front of my dress. You wink at my reflection, and open the door for me. I give the mirror one last longing glance, for it has seen

all

this evening’s events, and smile as a dull spot catches my eye - it’s my smudged handprints standing out prominently on the otherwise spotless glass, the story of our vigorous fucking inscribed between the fingerprints.