A Restrained Night Out Ch. 03

The walk back from the ladies rest room is a long one, my body is throbbing in need and the control you have over my being is tightening like an elastic band.

My arms bang against my lacerated back, the cuffs digging into red, raw flesh which serves to elicit a muffled gasp through my gagged lips.

Damn you. Whipped, cuffed, gagged and the evening has barely begun.

Gingerly I return to my resting spot beside you, landing rather more heavily on one's derriere than one would like. Those wrists behind my back have destroyed all semblance of balance and grace.

'Look at me,' you murmur, your hand is once more creeping inside my dress. My body ripples in excitement.

'Open that pretty little mouth for your Master slave,' a wicked grin crosses your features.

My eyes focus on yours, knowing you can see the soft dilation of those pupils, can read that glazed with lust look all too easily. You know always know exactly how much your slave can take and which buttons to press to force her that little bit further and bend her that tiny bit closer to your whim.

Those fingertips once more begin to walk in sensuously softly up the silk of my stockings, teasing and tormenting until they find bare flesh. Finally they slide without warning right into the boiling hot core of my body, taking advantage of my lack of panties.

'Open,' you command.

It is a rhetorical question as my mouth is already opening in a throaty gasp of pleasure. My lips clamp tightly closed on a groan, as a fragment of dark lace from the panties filling my throat threatens to escape.

'Beautiful,' you whisper.

The Maitre D' is slowly heading our way, to inform us our table is ready I suspect.

Sadist that you are, you chose that moment to thrust three fingers up into my slick wet heat. I manage to hold onto my gasp of pleasure by the skin of my teeth, having to grit them tightly to make sure those lips stay firmly closed. How I wish I could glare at you for that, but this body would pay for it later under the wicked stroke of your whip.

You thread your arm through mine and lead me forward. The Maitre D' gives me a slightly 'hmm there's something not quite right here look' but quickly schools his expression to one of efficient professionalism. I am glad of that arm of support as you help me into my chair. I can feel my cheeks burning now, knowing that those hands of mine are conspicuous in their absence. Then the real embarrassment begins.

Our waiter comes over with the menus. I look to you, panicked as the menu is proffered my way. The waiter looks at me. I swallow rather tightly and manage a pained smile. Precious seconds tick by. Aren't my hands tied? I can't even offer a word of excuse. SAY SOMETHING, my eyes plead, begging yours for help.

'I believe I'll order for the both of us,' you finally say to both the waiter's and my relief.

'Would you like a drink Madame?' he turns to ask me.

YES AND A RATHER STIFF ONE ELSE I MIGHT NOT MAKE IT THROUGH THE EVENING! Alas... that mouth of mine remains firmly closed and I shake my head, smiling politely. This test of obedience is a damn site harder than anything that has ever been required of me before.

So your adoring servant sits back to wait helplessly... as you chose the wine and order my meal. I cannot fault your choice, but that is not to say I didn't wish whole heartedly for the use of my voice to return. You must hear my thoughts for the next words comfort me somewhat.

'Open,' a soft smile from those dark eyes.

My lips open obediently. The wondrous thought of those panties disappearing is too great for the humiliation of having them pulled out in public to bother me. Slowly, horribly slowly, you drag them from me. Wet, black lace drips from my mouth...slowly slipping from my lips. Soft blue eyes watch as you roll them into a little ball in your fingertips.

'Thus far, my precious, I am pleased with you,' you intone.

That drags a smile from me, for I adore pleasing you and you know it.

'Spread your legs,' a soft whisper now.

My eyes dart around the restaurant. Thankfully a long table cloth is not going to ruin my modesty but my expression will give everything away. My eyes war with yours, but my legs part, stretching the fabric of the velvet dress to its limit. I can feel my pulse rocket and my body begins to ooze soft, liquid heat. AAhhhh God! How you arouse me.

'We can't have my darling leaking onto her new dress now, can we?' you ask. I'd love to know how you do that, can tell just when lust overtakes me... and just what my body is doing to itself at any given time. The sodden panties begin to roll up my thigh, teasing at the entrance to those nether lips softly. Gently they press for entrance and you push them slowly up inside me, plugging that dripping wet sheath. My face turns bright crimson. You delight in making me blush I swear.

The first course arrives at our table swiftly and the pleasure it gives me to be able to thank our waiter is quite something. My Master knows well how I hate to be gagged. The meal does prove something of a problem however. How will it be possible to eat it with my hands behind my back? As if to solve that problem, you pick up my knife and fork and begin cutting my food up for me.

'Noooo,' I whisper, horrified. Oh God, you can't do this to me, you can't feed me an entire three courses in a restaurant with people watching.

'Relax precious,' you say, with an evil grin suffusing those features. Present your back to me and I'll fasten those cuffs of yours in front.

My relief is audible.

'Thank you,' I get out rather throatily, thinking what a nasty tease you are.

Eating with cuffed hands seems rather wonderful in comparison to being fed, so I am content to begin my meal. If the odd glint of bright lamp light on metal flashes across the room, so be it.

Eating with cuffed hands is not quite as wonderful as I'd thought however, 2 minutes into the meal. Both hands have to be raised at once and there is limited manoeuvrability, but I continue as best I can quietly and without complaint. My meal takes considerably longer to eat than yours, but your slave catches up with you eventually.

'Those panties now need to return darling,' you bend forward to whisper in my ear.

A soft groan greets that.

'Here?' I question softly.

'Here,' you confirm.

With not a little bit of squirming and wriggling my panties find their way back into my mouth, letting me taste my lust for you as they are soaked with the evidence of it. I have a suspiciously bad feeling about dessert.

The waiter doesn't even bother to look at me as he asks you what we would like and that enrages me no end, but I remain smiling. The evening will have an end, I will get through this, it cannot be that difficult.

One crème brulee for you and one... caramelised banana and ice cream for me. Oh no. Oh no no no. The waiter whistles on his way back to the kitchen, having eyed my cuffs and given me giant grin. I swear this face will never recover from these blushes this evening.

'I have to inform you sweetheart, that you will not actually be eating dessert tonight. Your Master is going to be greedy and have two.'

My body is shuddering now, my eyes close weakly and I utter a long, heated groan... watching as your head dips to mine... so that you may growl in my ear softly.

'Your dessert you will feed into those tight wet nether lips of yours, ice cream included precious. Yes my dear, every last drop. You will have to be careful not to spill a drop, else you will be wearing it on your departure.

I daresay that Master will be generous enough to let you have one spoonful of it, which I will feed you before we leave. Then you will have to keep it tightly inside you until I chose to avail myself of it later... after a cup of coffee perhaps. I suggest you clench those pelvic floor muscles tightly when we take our leave, because it would be a touch embarrassing to lose any on the nice polished oak floor. Any accident will also be addressed by a generous whipping later slave.'

That hard, dark menacing glance leaves me no doubt to the fact that you are indeed not joking. My body is now taken over by tremors and I can feel a sodden spot of material under my throbbingly flayed arsecheeks.

Is there no end to this slave's torment? I begin to wonder hopelessly.

No... because dessert can now been seen whisking its way to me. A tight yellllll erupts from lips as I look to you. ARGGHHHHHHHHHHH.

Dessert settles itself in front of me rather ominously. All I can see is polished white china ware as the food blurs before my eyes.

I can feel your hand caressing my cheek, trying to soothe your slave.

'Look at me,' you quietly demand.

Soft blue eyes obey automatically and then drown, hopelessly out of their depth. Your finger comes to rest under my chin, making sure my gaze is on yours.

'What are you precious?' you ask.

Damn. Those panties still rest inside my mouth and I know that it bothers you not. You wish to hear my lips, gagged or no, utter that word you so adore. A slight pause on my part now, as I begin to gather the courage to speak.

That gaze on me darkens, warning me not to test your patience.

Slowly my mouth opens and I try to pronounce the word you seek through the wisps of sodden black lace filling me.

'Your shhave,' I mumble, trying my hardest to make the word legible.

'Yes, My slave,' you concur. 'And as my slave, what is it your duty at all time to try and do?' A penetrating look from those deep brown eyes then, as you assess how far you have pushed me and how much more I can be made to bear.

A low groan as my tongue works inside my mouth to reply once more, dessert floating before my eyes with creamy rich ice-cream melting on my plate.

'To phhleass you,' I mumble again with a rather pained expression.

An incline of your head then as you smile at me. 'Tonight you have pleased me very much,' you murmur with your hand still stroking my cheek. Oh how those words warm me, my eyes lighting up as they seep through me, leaving a soft glow of pleasure in their wake.

I watch as you pick up your dessert fork and slowly let it slice through my caramelised banana, covering the morsel in a generous helping of ice-cream. My blood is roaring, rushing, pounding through my veins and I can't think for a minute. Deftly you spear the tender, dripping fruit with your fork and proffer it to me.

A tight groan escapes my gagged lips, even as this slaves manacled hands reach for the sticky treat; prising it from your cutlery. My eyes seek yours for support. They see only you, the rest of the world now firmly shut out and for that I am thankful. The waiter sidles over to refill our wine glasses and I am oblivious to all but the intensity of your spell upon me.

Fingers begin to tease the hem of my dress upwards and I have reason to be thankful of the long, sweeping linen tablecloth before me. Lazily, those fingers trace a slow and deliberate path up my inner thighs.

This restaurant must have gained 10 degrees in 10 seconds, for hot and flustered does not begin to describe me. I am aroused to an almost painful fever breaking pitch of frustration. This body throbs, hums, burns, prickles and drips in sheer unadulterated lust.

Finally, to torment me your fingers reach their destination testing the copious honeyed moisture I am beginning to leak and they seek to find the source of the torrent. They plunge in deep. A strangled moan leaves my lips. Maddeningly though, no sooner have they entered, than they break a swift retreat.

Your eyes pointedly gaze at the dripping wet piece of banana I am holding. There is no escape. The sheer force of that look is enough to have my fingers moving downwards, placing the soft fruit at your fingertips which still rest at my dripping wet entrance. Those fingers help mine to slowly feed my dessert inside me.

You take your horribly sweet time, in which I imagine that every single pair of eyes in the restaurant are upon me and my cheeks burst into fiery flame yet again.

I begin to tremble helplessly and watch as my hands become useless. Thankfully you take pity on me, cutting another slice of the gooey mess my dessert has become and filling me gently with it. The ice-cream is horribly cold, the fruit warm which makes for an interesting combination. This body of mine is getting rather full and I know you'll struggle with the last lonely piece resting on my plate. You are determined however.

The last piece presses for entry and meets tight resistance. A convulsive swallow and a moan of protest as you push harder, relentlessly forward until you are virtually mashing the banana into a pulp. I can do little except squirm mindlessly, in a frenzied veil of lust. Eventually satisfied that you have every last drop of dessert inside me, you retire in your efforts.

'Open,' a growl in my ear.

No hesitation this time as glossy red lips open, displaying the soaked black panties. Fingers curl around a whisp of lace and slowly drag them out, teasing the corners of my mouth with the soft material. As the last slither escapes and I am about to close my mouth your head bends forward to whisper again.

'Keep those lips open my slave and taste yourself.'

Sticky fingers begin to smear and coat my lips with caramel, slimy slithers of banana and my own cum. A loud groan of need now escapes me.

'Oh God PLEASE,' I beg.

'Please can I cum Master?' you confirm.

'PLEASE can your slave cum,' I plead, desperate need evident in the way I hold my body stiffly erect and rigid.

Your fingers slide into my mouth and I happily endeavour to suck them clean, my tongue gently lapping at them and moaning softly when you withdraw from the wet heat.

'If my slave wants to cum, she may,' you agree benevolently, looking straight at me. 'To please me, you will hitch that skirt tight around your waist and you will use your fingers to bring yourself to a nice, hard, shattering climax while I watch.'

You see me hesitate uncertainly.

'My slave doesn't want to cum this evening then?' you enquire. 'If that is indeed the case, maybe we should make it a full week for good measure.'

There is no hint of humour in those unsettling eyes and I know full well you mean every word.

'No, I want to cum, please Master,' I implore quickly... my cuffed hands already working my dress upwards in a rather awkward manner; leaving me exposed to your gaze.

Your hand covers mine then, dragging my fingertips up to the dessert plate, coating them in sticky wet, melted ice-cream.

'You may begin rubbing precious,' you encourage me.

My eyes close in horror and my fingers move with a will of their own to obey. Smearing myself in ice-cream and rubbing softly... feeling the soft sticky goo dribbling everywhere. I am so aroused, filled with so much heat... that the humiliation of making myself cum for you here quickly disappears.

Yes, your slave is in heat, desperate and uncaring of who is now watching. My fingers move faster, circling that little nub of pleasure that is bursting with need. Soft whimpers, soft mewling whimpers escape from me and my neck arches, body shifting as my legs widen. Ahhh God I feel uncomfortably full and my dessert is shifting rather dangerously forward.

Fingers move faster and faster and I can't help a loud groan, damn whoever hears it. I am nearly there; my body tightening dangerously, pleasure spiralling all through me and as I start to explode my eyes rest on yours, letting you see what it is that you do to me. I nearly scream, but grit my teeth just in time, releasing a hiss of breath and a tortured moan; feeling my body convulsing and my senses crashing all around me. It is made all the more difficult as I have to clench my muscles tightly to hold your dessert inside me... a desperate war which I may or may not win.

Eventually the ripples of pleasure die down and I awaken from my post orgasmic state of dreamy bliss to find you waving a spoon in front of me and swiftly slipping the cold metal inside me. Not even a squeak of protest leaves me, nothing is quite functioning as it should for the moment, all I can feel is the delicate scooping motion of the spoon as you fill it full. It is carefully removed and with a steady hand you place it to my lips, not even waiting for them to open as you almost force entry.

'What do you think of your dessert?' you ask me as the spoon plunges forward and my tongue is assaulted with the creamy, runny and deliciously sweet mess that my dessert has become.

A soft swallow and a sigh are all the response you receive for the moment as my blood pressure tries to recover itself.