It's a romantic evening out on the town, just the two of us. We come to an exclusive restaurant, one that you know requires well over a year to make an appointment, and you gasp as we walk in without even being asked for an invitation. Inside the atmosphere is sensual, relaxing, candlelit, with couples going about their own conversations, though more than a few gaze your way at the opulent dress that displays your curves but leaves much to the imagination.
We're seated immediately in a section somewhat secluded from the rest of the restaurant, but so are all places within. From here you can see everyone else's table, but just the right amounts of light allows each couple or group enough privacy that their faces are slightly concealed. Here and there small pins of red light show the smokers, but the smell in the air signifies that they are very likely not smoking anything as petty as cigarettes.
The music, played by a master violinist, lulls you into relaxation. The background chatter is a lullaby. Soon you are feeling relaxed and, as you drink your wine and gaze over at me, you feel yourself becoming aroused, though it seems nothing has triggered it, yet it is all around you.
You squirm in your seat, your pussy juices slipping past your warm folds and you feel that you would have it no other way. My hand glides across your leg beneath the table and pulls you to the edge of the booth so you are facing toward the center of the room. Fingers push aside the fabric, exposing your pantyline. You don't care, the world around you is focused on just you and nowhere else. My fingers play at the delicate lace that is already wet as you spread your legs voluntarily, eager to allow me full access.