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A love story.

As the waiter returns to clear our empty plates, I feel your hand on my thigh once more. This time, it continues to move upwards and I feel your finger pushing inside me. Although I know that the table cloth hides the position of your hand, I blush and concentrate on trying not to react. "Your pussy is soaked," you whisper to me as the waiter walks away. "I hope you're not making a wet patch at the back of your dress..."

After dessert, you whisper to me, "I want you to rub your clit. Don't stop until I give you permission. And don't cum."

"Sir, I can't..." I begin, pleading with you to let me off. But I am cut off by your hard stare and I find myself obeying you, your dominance overriding the logical thoughts in my brain. I feel incredibly vulnerable as I reach my hand under the table cloth and begin to lightly stroke my clit. You maintain eye contact with me after a quick glance to check the location of my hand. This only serves to heighten my embarrassment at being forced to play with myself in the middle of a restaurant. You call the waiter over to ask for the bill and engage him in conversation as I focus on making sure that my upper arm doesn't betray my movements and my face doesn't show my humiliation.

"You're beginning to look very flushed," you tell me as the waiter walks away. "We'll get you out into the fresh air soon... Maybe that will help."

The waiter returns with the bill and you again engage him in conversation, enjoying my obvious discomfort as you notice the subtle signs that I am close to orgasm. You finally allow me to stop playing with myself just before we stand up to leave. As we walk out of the restaurant, I feel sure that everyone is staring at me, either noticing the wet patch that I imagine must be showing at the back of my dress, my hard nipples poking through my dress or the flush that has probably spread over my neck and chest. You use a hand on the small of my back to guide me, asserting your claim over me, and I am grateful for the way that this gesture helps me to feel secure and protected despite my feeling of vulnerability and embarrassment. But as soon as we walk out of the door, you heighten my feeling of humiliation by taking my hand and raising it to your lips to suck my finger, tasting my wetness still on it.

You keep hold of my hand and I begin to relax slightly as we walk along the pavement although every step causes the plug to shift in my ass. "It's a lovely warm evening," you say, "so shall we walk through the park?"

"But, Sir, I need you to take me home and make me cum, please, I'm so wet for you..." I reply, hoping that we can get home as quickly as possible so that you can provide me with some relief from my arousal.

"My poor slut," you reply. "Maybe I'll make you wait for your orgasm... Or maybe walking through the park and making you cum aren't mutually exclusive..." My eyes widen as I realise the implications of your suggestion. Although we have sometimes engaged in discreet play in public, like this evening in the restaurant, you have never actually made me cum in a public place. The thought both excites and horrifies me.

We turn off into the park and you lead me towards an area with a few bushes and trees. You stop, positioning me so that my back is against a tree and you have a good view to make sure that there aren't actually any people nearby. Your hand reaches towards one of my nipples, rubbing it through the fabric of my dress and enjoying the way that it instantly hardens underneath your fingers. Then you reach into my dress and pull my breasts upwards, lifting them out of the dress. I gasp as I realise how exposed I am, but you silence me with a deep kiss, rubbing my bare nipples to hardness before pinching them firmly.

Your knee nudges my thighs apart and I can feel your hard cock pressing against me.

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