I knew something was up as soon as I arrived.
We were meeting halfway, or thereabouts, between our cities. A night at a forest inn. You were planning on getting there before me, less traffic from your direction. I was to text you as soon as I’d parked.
“Leave your stuff in the car. Meet me in restaurant.” Came your reply, then shortly a second: “Reservation under “Eros”, text me when you’re seated.”
Once I’d worked out where the restaurant was, I asked the hostess for our reservation. She raised an eyebrow at the name, and then seated me at a private, candle-lit booth. I texted you, and a couple minutes later you made your entrance.
You were wearing a very sexy, very slinky black dress. So low cut that your black bra was half visible. Black nylons underneath. A rare move, I usually see you in more casual wear. Don’t get me wrong, you look great in anything (or nothing), but I love a “teasing” outfit. You’ve certainly out-dressed me, as I’m still in my driving clothes. But you don’t seem to mind.
Something was indeed up.
Even before having seen a menu, the waiter appeared with a bottle of Prosecco and champagne flutes. After a few sips of wine, you excused yourself and returned a few minutes later with something balled up in your hand. You slid back into the booth and opened your purse, letting me see that you were tucking away a black, lacy bra, leaving just a strap hanging to remind me of what you now weren’t wearing.
You leaned across the table to reach the menu, your dress hanging fully open, your breasts fully on display. The waiter had an eyeful as well; his eyes didn’t stray from your breasts the entire time he took our orders.
You made a point of leaning over several times during dinner to give me glances at your breasts. More surprisingly, you made a point of being “revealing” whenever the waiter was around. Although you were clearly paying more attention to my reaction than his during these moments.
After the meal, the waiter stopped by again and, still staring at your breasts, took our order for after-dinner drinks. You excused yourself one more time, and again returned to the table with something balled up in your hand.
This time I could easily guess what it was.This time you sat on my side of the booth next to me. And this time, rather than tucking that “something” into your purse next to your bra, you put them on the edge of the table between us.
Black, lacy panties, laid strategically to show how excitedly wet they were.
You just meant to display them for me, then put them away. But just as you were reaching for them the waiter arrived suddenly with our whiskies. The one break in your measured performance came as a look of panic crossed your face, and you flushed red.
The waiter gave no outward reaction, but he made a point of placing our drinks on either side of your glistening panties.
After the waiter withdrew, you tucked your panties into your purse, again leaving a little strip of fabric visible. Though I hardly needed the reminder because after a sip of whiskey you slowly slid up the hem of your dress to show me that the nylons you wore were thigh-highs.
The thought of your naked wet cunt just inches higher than the hem of your flimsy dress had me instantly hard. I reached for your thigh, but you pushed my hand away.
“Not yet.” You say, and raise your glass, nodding at mine.
We clink glasses and completely fail to make any further conversation. The waiter returned, probably just to “check” on us, but you signal another round. As he leaves you reach for your phone, and moments later mine buzzes on the table.
“Something on your mind?”
I text back quickly, “I’m so hard for you.”
“Good.”
At that you grabbed my hand and brought it up to your thigh, lifting the hem of your dress even further. I thought you would cover up when the waiter returned, but instead you inched your dress up even more. The waiter’s eyes never strayed from the sight of your bare thighs above those stockings as he set our drinks down on the table.
As we sipped our drinks, you continued to ever-so-slowly guide my hand up your thighs. After what seemed like an eternity, my fingers brushed against you. You edged my hand up a little more so that I could slide a finger into your soaked pussy.
You reached across and starting rubbing my rock hard cock through my pants, but as my fingers started working harder you released me and stretched back against the seat, giving yourself to me.
When the waiter brought out bill, your legs were wide open, and your cunt in full view being worked over by my fingers. He just stood and stared at you, hard, until you came.
We left a generous tip, but the show he had of you was worth way more.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/rob7qq/a_show