I asked, “Do people ever panic?”
“No, no,” the person assured us, and I thought, yeah right.
After the person left, Mr. Thorne said to me, “Was that a guy or a girl?”
I laughed, loud. “I don't know!”
“And like hell can they guarantee people never panic.”
“I know, right? Like if my mother was here, she'd be hyperventilating right now.”
His spoon clinked against his bowl. The risotto smelled heavenly, all wine and chicken stock and deliciousness. I didn't even care about the next course.
He asked, “Is your mother afraid of the dark? Or claustrophobic? Many people are.”
Him talking about claustrophobia, plus my mother, put my nerves on edge. The black walls of the room seemed very near, and the air hot.
“She knows how to fend for herself,” I said. “She'd whip out her trusty lighter and set something on fire for light.”
Mr. Thorne laughed at this.
“I'm serious! She would. Never take my mother to a place like this.”
“I'll try not to,” he said, then he was silent, presumably eating the risotto.
I pinched my arm and screamed at myself in my head to not mention my mother again.
We ate all of the courses, enjoyed more wine, and tried to figure out the sex of the person serving us. At one point, we had the clever idea to ask the server his/her name, but the server said, “K.”
I asked, “And how do you spell that?”
“You don't,” K said. “It's just one letter, K. We all have one-letter names here.”
Mr. Thorne said, “Of course you do,” and laughed heartily.
I giggled. “Yes, of course. It makes perfect sense. Goodness knows you wouldn't want people to find out your identity. Oh, wait, but we can't see you, so ...”
The room was quiet, and I imaged K rolling his or her eyes.
K said, “Can I get you anything else?”
We'd already been served after-dinner coffee and dessert, so Mr. Thorne dismissed K.
We were alone, and the food had all been eaten. My dessert had been something with poached pears, raspberry sauce, and chocolate. I had a bad feeling I'd be craving it from that point on.
I was grateful the restaurant was fine dining, and therefore light portions. I felt full and satisfied, but not bloated like I would have after a big dinner with family or friends.
“Lexie,” he said, my name sounding like a command.
“Yes, Mr. Thorne?”
“Ooh, I like it when you call me Mr. Thorne.”
“Of course, Mr. Thorne.”
“Do you have your panties off yet?”
My breath stopped and my heart started to hammer. You'd think I'd be more relaxed after a few glasses of wine and a lovely meal and conversation, but I was terrified.
“No,” I said cautiously, wondering if no was the right answer.
“Why don't you slip them off, and bend over this table. I've got something for you.”
My mound throbbed with desire, hungry for what he had for me. “We shouldn't do things in here,” I said. “What if there's a spy camera in the room, like an infa-red camera?”
“There isn't.”
“But you don't know.”
“Take your panties off.”
I took a deep breath, and then said, “I'm not finished my coffee yet.”
He raised his voice, just a little. “Now. Not later. Now.”
I dropped the coffee cup against the platter.
Changing tone to be sweet again, he said, “Good girl. I bet you're all wet for me, aren't you?”
I stood and rolled up my pencil skirt, then rolled down my panties.
Even as I did, the voice in my head screamed at me, No! Don't! Don't give up all the power. You have the upper hand here!
But I didn't want to have the upper hand. I wanted to have him—have him deep inside me. My pulse throbbed in my clit, which had forgotten all about the orgasm I'd just had an hour earlier. My vagina ached, ached as though I hadn't had any pleasure in weeks.
With my panties off, I pushed my skirt back down and shuffled over to stand at the edge of the table. My legs trembled.
I asked, “Shoes on?”
“How tall are you?”
“Five foot eight.”
“Shoes on.”
I heard a belt buckle, and then a zipper running down.
The room was still pitch black, as it had been the entire time, only now it wasn't pleasantly black. Now it was sinister black. Scary black. I felt exposed.
“Lift up your skirt,” he said.
I considered refusing.
“Now,” he said.
I shimmied it up, crumpling it around my waist, exposing my butt to the air.
He put his hand on my bare lower back and pushed me. “Bend over. Over the table.”
I leaned forward, gripping the sides of the table with my hands. I nudged a few of the taller dishes, the wine glasses, out of the way.
“You smell delicious,” he said, one hand still on my lower back, but no other part touching me. His voice seemed to come from all around me in the tiny, dark room. “I could eat you up.”
Feeling brave, I said, “Dessert?”
The hand that had been on my lower back traveled down, over my bare ass. He stroked my butt cheeks gently, his hand moving around each cheek, caressing it. I moaned with pleasure, because it felt so good, especially after sitting on that hard chair, to have him touching me again.
The one hand was joined by another, calmly caressing and massaging. The hands ran down my center line and found my soft lips. A finger parted them and dragged my moisture all the way up my center line.
His voice startled me when he spoke, saying, “Lexie, do you want me to f**k you in the pu**y, or in the ass.”
“Not the ass,” I said.
“The pu**y. Picky girl.”
“Yes, please. Yes, please, sir.”
A finger trailed up and down my slit, so slowly. I pushed back against the finger, but it pulled away.
“I'm going to f**k you right where you want it,” he said.
“Okay.”
The finger on my slit was joined by the head of his cock, nudging in. I ached for it, ached for more, for all of its length.
His hands moved around to my hips, to the outer edges. His fingers sunk in, deep into my flesh. Hard.
Holding my h*ps steady, he plunged into me in one forceful slap.
I gasped in surprise.
Gripping my h*ps so tightly with his hands that it was almost painful, he rammed into me, harder, and harder, and then harder again.
My eyes opened wide and I gasped for air. I'd never felt anything like it.
Underneath my chest, the table rattled, and dishes crashed to the floor.