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Under the Restaurant Table (public footjob fetish)

Ratings:
27 pages22 minutes

Summary

Carol's been crushing on Jimmy for months, but he's both out of her league and out of her tax bracket.  When he finally notices her and sets their first date in an expensive restaurant, she sees her chance to show him how much she loves him; by giving him a footjob right there in the restaurant!  Will he be enough of a gentleman to reciprocate?

Warning: This adults-only story is 5,000 words long, containing love long held back, sex acts in public, footjobs, waiters, and the promise of more to come...

Excerpt:

And then I look around, and I realize that I'm sitting facing the aisle.  I can see if any diners or staff are coming down it long before Jimmy knows they're there.  The tablecloth will provide cover until they're almost on top of us.  I shudder again, my panties dampening with the thought of it, with the thought of teasing Jimmy here, in public.

And doesn't he deserve a little payback, after all, for keeping me pining after him for so long without making a move?  Sure he does, I tell myself.

So I slip my feet out of my shoes, feeling the cool, conditioned air licking gently against my soles,  flexing my toes experimentally, imagining his unsuspecting skin beneath them.

Our wine arrives, and I know exactly what I'm going to do.  It takes an eternity for Jimmy to go through the ritual with the waiter; but at last we're left alone.

“What are we going to drink to?” I ask him.

“I'm not sure”, he says, inspecting his wine closely, then sniffing it.  “Mmm, that's good.  How about, to us?  Just keep it simple.”

I raise my glass.  “To us, then!”

“To us”, he says.  And as we bring our glasses together and clink, I have something to add.

“And, to clear, unambiguous communication!”

He's surprised for a moment, and then he laughs, and so do I.

“Indeed, indeed”, he says, raising his glass to his lips, and that's when I make my move.  No subtlety, no foreplay, no teasing, no hint of what's to come.

I simply raise my foot from the ground, rest it on his chair for a moment, wriggle forwards in my own, and then before I know it, my foot is nudging firmly up against his crotch.

The effect is instantaneous.  He sits bolt upright, his eyes flying wide, nearly choking on his wine, which he sets down with some difficulty.  He looks down for a moment, and then across at me, and then down again, and then at me again.  I can tell he has absolutely no idea how to react.

Well, his brain has no idea how to react, anyway.  I wiggle my toes against the fabric of his pants, and before very long, I can feel something stirring deep down there.

“What are you doing?” he says at last, every bit of his voice twisted in disbelief.  “Carol?”

“Relax”, I say, the corners of my mouth twitching.  “I'm communicating.”

He looks down at his lap again.  “What...what are you communicating?” he stutters.

“Isn't it obvious?” I say.  “I'm communicating how I feel about you.”  And I accentuate this by digging into him slightly, and I'm satisfied when I see his hand on the table clutching into a fist, then opening wide, then clutching again.

“But...” he says, scrambling for words.  I cut him off.

“Relax!” I say again.  “I've decided to be more impulsive.”  I can feel his cock inside his pants hardening, pushing itself against me, desperate for more stimulation.  “And I want you to be happy.”

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