A night out
My owner is wearing a dark suit and tie as we walk into the restaurant. I’m in white, a gauzy sundress with no underwear and strappy high heeled sandals. The waiter is impressed with my owner. He’s older and distinguished, with a commanding presence that draws attention from those around us. I feel his hand on the small of my back, guiding me to our table.
As we sit down, his hand moves from the small of my back to my thigh, sliding up under my dress, lifting the skirt so that my bare ass makes contact with the cold wooden seat. I feel myself flush with excitement, knowing I am not allowed to object or resist in any way.
The waiter returns to our table, and my owner orders for me without even consulting me first. He knows what I like.
As the meal progresses, I can sense something different in the air. My owner’s demeanor has shifted. He’s no longer the charming, suave man he was when we first arrived. Instead, he’s become more domineering, more commanding.
As I look down at the tablecloth, I realize why. There’s a puddle forming in the seat of my chair, evidence of my excitement at his touch earlier.
My owner notices too and lets out a deep chuckle.
“Looks like my little pet is enjoying herself,” he says loud enough for nearby patrons to hear.
I feel my face grow hot with shame and embarrassment. Yet at the same time, there’s a part of me that revels in this humiliation, that craves more of it. When my owner leans over and whispers in my ear that I have permission to go to the restroom and clean myself up if I want to avoid further embarrassment, I resist the urge to take him up on his offer.
Instead, I smile meekly and continue to let the puddle grow beneath me.
This is who I am now.
“Good girl,” he says.
As I hear my owner’s words, I squirm in my chair with both pleasure and embarrassment. I know that everyone around us can hear what he said, and the knowledge of that sends shivers down my spine.
Without a word, my owner stands up and moves his chair closer to mine. He leans in close, his warm breath tickling my ear as he whispers.
“Get under the table and clean up your mess,” he commands.
I hesitate for a moment, shocked at the idea of cleaning up my own arousal in such a public place. But then I remember my place as his submissive, and without another thought, I crawl under the table.
My heart beats faster as I realize what I have to do. With a sense of both shame and arousal, I begin to lick my own juices off the seat. Each movement sends a new wave of humiliation through me, but at the same time, it turns me on more than anything else.
As I finish cleaning up the mess, I look up to see my owner watching me with an intense gaze. There’s a wicked glint in his eye that tells me he’s enjoying this just as much as I am.
“Good girl,” he says as he nods his approval. “Now come back up here and finish your meal.”
I crawl out from under the table and return to my seat, feeling a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment that no one else in the restaurant could possibly understand. In that moment, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. All that matters is my connection with my owner, and the intense emotions that flow between us like electricity.
I feel a flush of embarrassment rush over me as I lower my gaze, trying to hide my face behind the curtain of my hair. My body feels hot with shame, but also with a raw and primal desire that I can’t seem to suppress.
My owner continues to watch me with a predatory gleam in his eyes, his hand still resting on my thigh. I can see the bulge of his arousal growing beneath his pants, and a part of me feels pleased to know that I have pleased him in some way.
As the meal goes on, my owner’s demands become more and more explicit. He orders me to lift my skirt higher than is appropriate, revealing more and more of my quivering flesh to anyone who happens to glance our way. He asks me to lick the sauce off of his fingers, moaning in pleasure as I obey.
I feel like a puppet being pulled on strings, controlled completely by his will. But even as my cheeks heat up and my heart pounds in my chest, I can’t deny that there is an exhilarating thrill to it all.
By the time we finish our meal and leave the restaurant, I am drenched with sweat and trembling with exhaustion. But as we walk back to our hotel room, hand in hand, I know without a doubt that I belong to him completely — body, mind, and soul.
I love it when you use the “clap” icon to spank my little butt up to 50 times. It helps motivate me to write more for you. Find more of me at Cailin Daor — Medium and X (twitter.com).