Domaine de la Romanee Conti

"Fucking CUNT!" I exclaim louder than I should have.

It's not the phrase a restaurant like this expects to hear towards the end of service.

Thick starched linen tablecloths and napkins, soft lighting, discreet staff. This is the kind of place where conversation tinkles and laughter sounds more like little bursts of colour on a pale canvas.

To be fair, I'm quite certain only one patron heard me, and none of the staff who would most certainly have asked me quietly to leave are in earshot.

Nonetheless I fume. The asshole has got me. Again.

All afternoon the sexting has been perfect.

It had started with a simple text. PING

'Tonight. La Luna Liena. A secluded table. Who knows what else..?'

'Domaine de la Romnee Conti and the duck or GTFO [winky face]', had come my impudent but learned reply.

Early in our tryst, he had introduced me to what is arguably one of the best wines on the planet. With a price tag to match, Domaine de la Romnee Conti sits on the very highest perch of Burgundian wines. Rare, expensive, and utterly beguiling, it is a wine befitting me in every way, and I longed to experience it again.

'A mouth like that will get you in trouble,' shot back instantly.

'Oh yeah? What kind of trouble?!'

'The kind of trouble that has you trying to convince the tables around you that your moans are for the Domaine de la Romanee Conti...'

'...'

'When really the moans are because my fingers are tracing your labia under the table, teasing your pussy until your legs are spreading like a whore...'

That had given me pause. It was not even 2pm, and I still had mountains of work to get through at that point. In fact I should have turned off my phone, ignored the impact his messages were having on me and focused on my productivity. And for five minutes, I did.

Until the phone buzzed again. PING

And because you hear me whisper 'good girl' when I find your clit and you're able to keep from crying out...'

Bastard. He knows how busy I am, and he knows what effect he has on me.

'And because even though you're SOOOO busy right now, you can't stop thinking about it...'

Fuck, FUCK! Focus on work, stop being a needy slut. The phone is obligingly silent. It sits innocently beside my computer, doing nothing.

FUUUUUCK! I pick up my phone.

'What smells better? The Burgundy or my cunt?' I drop the phone like it has burned me.

'How about I slide my fingers out of your cunt and into your mouth and you can tell me???'

I hate his poor use of syntax but I love his words. Don't judge me.

'And you'd suck them too, because you're so horny and needy, wouldn't you..?'

He knows me far too well for this to be a fair battle. I would suck them, because I love how good my beloved pussy tastes when she's aroused. Does she taste better than one of the greatest wines on the planet? Don't listen baby...

'But I wouldn't let you suck for long, I'd want to keep being mean and tease you under the table...'

ASSHOLE!! Don't engage, you have work to do.

'There I'd be, casually eating dessert with one hand while I slid one finger back and forth through your soaking wet lips while the heel of my thumb rhythmically nudges your clit. You'd be trying to keep control as wait staff come by to ask you how the crème brulee is...'

My cheeks are burning, my skin tingling. I stare at the bloody phone screen, wanting it to flash the next filthy thought.

PING 'I wonder if, when the staff come over, they can smell your arousal? They'll certainly notice your shallow breathing, your deep blush. No one likes Crème brulee THAT much...'

My focus is wavering, an email arrives but I ignore it. My gaze is drawn to the screen of my phone, it's like hypnosis.

'But you like the idea of them knowing. You like the idea of them rushing back to the kitchen, breathless and scandalised. "Holy shit, I think the lady on 28 is getting fingered!"'

I want to rebut him, to tell him he's wrong and this is dirty and inappropriate. But he knows as well as I do that I would be lying. I'm hooked, and I don't want him to stop.

'You know you won't be allowed to cum though, right???'

And there it is. He knows the buttons, all of them. He knows when and how to push them, so that my resolve becomes a melting puddle of wetness between my legs.

'Are you going to be a good girl for me?'

I pick up the phone, my hands shaking slightly.

'Yes...'

'Yes... what???'

'Yes Sir...'

There is a pause. An infinite, excruciating pause. Bastard!! He'll respond, but not until the anticipation has stretched. My mouth is dry and my fingers itch. And still he leaves me hanging.

PING

'Rub for me, panties on...'

I glance around as though someone else has suddenly materialised in my home office. I even bite my lip involuntarily, like some romance novel damsel. And then, as he knows I will, I do exactly as asked. I feel the lace slip between my swollen lips, the material grazing over my clit. I gasp at how wet I already am, how horny I feel. The phone buzzes again.

'Get them nice and damp for me, there's a good girl.'

My skirt has ridden up so high that when I put my feet up on my desk I don't even possess the decorum to make it awkward or clumsy. I just swing my feet up and spread myself open. I wouldn't even go to this effort if I was having a solo moment, but for him I want to be extra slutty. Plus, I know what will be coming soon.

'Indulge yourself for me...'

I put the phone down and use my fingers in exactly the way that I love. I pull the lace to the side because fuck his instructions. Though even in my rebellion I resist the urge to cum quick and hard like I know I could right now.

The phone buzzes. I know what it says before I read it, but do anyway.

'Take off the panties, put them in your purse, I will expect them to be presented to me when I arrive at the restaurant.'

Of course he does. He'll smell them while he jacks off some time later, moaning while he cums everywhere. Fuck I wish that didn't turn me on as much as it does.

'I want a photo, show me how wet you are...'

I use one hand to spread myself and the other to take the snap and send it. Hold your composure now motherfucker.

'Fuckkkkkkk. Hawt! See you seven kiss kiss'

The phone goes silent, and after a few minutes, I realise that there's no more dirty talk, and I'm not allowed to cum. Thus I am just a horny slut with her heels planted on her desk for, now, no apparent reason. Sighing, I attempt to compose myself and complete something out of the afternoon.

For the rest of the day I can't stop thinking about the wicked suggestions and what is likely to happen when I get to La Luna Liena. I resist the urge to touch, knowing that when I'm in this state my commitment to orgasm denial and my execution of orgasm denial sit don't look quite the same.

Finally, the last email leaves my outbox, and while I could probably find more to do, I log out and close my computer. While my physical arousal has returned to a gentle, background simmer, mentally I am still close to the boil, my imagination continuing to conjure one inappropriate thought after another.

I shed clothes as I walk through the bedroom, entering the bathroom naked. I stop and admire myself in the mirror, smirking at the sight of my dusky and still slightly puffy labia.

"Babe," I say to my pussy in the reflection, "I love you but you're always getting me into trouble."

My stare lingers, and I gaze at my reflection through the eyes of someone else. Him, maybe, or just someone drinking in the sight of an incredible, sexy woman. I run my fingertips down my sides, watching the woman in the mirror gasp lightly at my touch. Part of my lewd imagination is still on the evening's revels, but a large part is now weaving a new fantasy, and I watch the hands in the mirror roving my skin, exploring and touching.

The fantasy shifts and molds as I watch the woman in the mirror. Am I her? Is she someone else, someone I am seducing with my touch? Is she seducing me? Really, it doesn't matter as it's all incredibly arousing in this moment.

I place one hand on the vanity, parting my legs into a wide stance. I moan at the slut in the mirror as fingers sharply pinch my nipples. Fingers move back and forth between nipples, pinching and rolling. I keep eye contact with the woman in the mirror, watching her arousal growing. Fingers trace cheeks, hairline, lips, neck. Her moans are so wanton, and she is flushed and panting already.

I lean forward until my nipples contact the cool porcelain. Fingers, hers, mine, who cares at this point, trace the small of my back, seeking and questing. I touch my lips from the back, feeling along the outer labia. It's not the easiest of angles, but plays into the fantasy of being touched by another, and so works beautifully.

Fingers quest a little further, parting lips and feeling the pooling wetness there. The woman in the mirror moans louder and I love the sound of it. For a moment longer fingers tease at the opening, one drifting between my cunt and asshole, again, fueling the idea of being stimulated by another.

The feeling is nice, but my clit is demanding, so again looking the woman in the eye I move between my legs and graze my pulsing button. She hisses as four fingers slowly circle, working the entire area with languid motion.

She looks amazing, this gorgeous creature in the mirror. I can see her arousal and she is a vision, expertly masturbating, finding what feels good over and over. She knows how to make herself feel good and has not a shred of judgement about this perfect fact.

Two fingers now slide either side of my clit, stretching the length my labia either side of my opening, which is generously providing lubricant to ensure silky luxury. Where the fingers meet, the direct pressure ramps things quickly.

He is lucky, this man who will share Domaine de la Romani Conti and duck with me, because this feels so fucking incredible, the fantasy adding so many delectable layers to the pleasure. He is lucky that I am here for the game and the challenge, and that there is a competitive part of me that would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that I couldn't control myself. He is lucky that edging myself quite mercilessly is something I thoroughly enjoy -- provided the ending is worth the denial.

If he was not so lucky, I would cum right here, screaming my orgasm while the sensations rolled up my spine and my legs gave out. So it is with great effort I stop, tingles crackling up and down my nerves. I straighten, winking at the beautiful slut in the mirror, blowing her a kiss of thanks for sharing my naughty fantasy.

I run the shower and resist the urge to further torment myself with my beloved shower head, carefully avoiding any erogenous zones as I begin preparation for my evening out, lest I be late. Thus, I leave space and time to do the things that make me feel more spectacular than usual. The Uber collects me, and the driver shares a genuinely interesting tale about their homeland.

I arrive, am seated discreetly, order La Grande Dame and oysters and settle in to wait for him to arrive. I'm informed that the bill has already been settled, so I order another Dame and watch 7pm come and go. I ask that the DRC be decanted and order the duck. And I wait.

At 7:40, the waiter asks, with professional care and patience if I would care to order, but I stall. At 8pm, I order, my frustration growing. The duck is exquisite, the wine other worldly.

Then it is later, and here I am, focused on my crème brulee, alone at my table. The phone had buzzed shortly after my first mouthful of Burgundy and told me that, after all my anticipation and frustration and desperate need to cum, he was standing me up!

I'm looking spectacular, smelling divine, and yes, tasting like heaven -- I know because I couldn't resist sampling while I sent another photo from the bathroom in anticipation -- and wet as a teenager discovering for the first time that the electric toothbrush isn't just for oral hygiene, and I'm going home alone?!

"Cunt!" I breath it this time, because even though I'm mad I have half a bottle of extraordinary Burgundy that I don't care to donate to the staff because of my bad manners.

The only other patron in this part of the restaurant doesn't hear me the second time, but he does stand. As I take a sip from my glass, he carefully dabs his mouth with his napkin, and begins to walk past my table.

As he moves, he takes out his phone, but seems to fumble it, and with a heavy thud it falls to the floor. He bends to retrieve it, disappearing from my view, and my focus returns to my phone, staring at his last message as I will it to say something different.

I'm not really aware that the man has not reappeared until there is a hand that lands lightly on my calf. I let out another curse, and from beneath the table comes a gentle 'shhhh'.

What the actual fucking fuck!? Some guy has just crawled under the tablecloth in an upmarket restaurant and has deigned to touch me. This is an outrage! His warm, gentle hand is just sitting there, lightly touching my calf, resting on the sheer material of my stocking.

I'm going to scream! I'm going to take a knife and shove it under the table, I'm going to... oh shit the other hand on my other calf. Two hands gently resting on the material covering my legs. One of the wait staff is approaching. I'll tell her that some anonymous patron has slipped under my table and is taking liberties. I'll have him thrown out, I'll have him arrest... fuck he's caressing. He's caressing my calves, sliding smoothly up and down. And it feels... really nice. I manage to close my mouth as my waitress approaches.

"Are you creaming you, craven slut?" the waitress asks.

"Pardon me!?" I start, looking up at her.

"Are your crème brulee cravings past? You mentioned you were craving crème brulee earlier," she smiles.

"Oh, oh yes, thank you, you can take that for me. It's a sin to have ordered it with Burgundy still in my glass..." I stammer.

"Take as much time as you need to finish, enjoy every drop," she says as she turns to leave.

I'm slightly dizzy and the room shifts, so I close my eyes and take another sip of wine. As the waitress retreats, the hands move. They scout upwards, sliding until they reach the lace top of my stockings. They linger there, skirting back and forth between lace and skin, and I shudder. I have to stop this now. This has already gone far enough. This is just a big misunderstanding, and I'm not the sort of person to just let some stranger fondle me. Then the fingers creep further up to the inside of my thighs and my assuredness about that self-identity wavers.

They glide back and forth from the lace and up, each time edging slightly higher. And yet even as my desire for them to move somewhere forbidden grows, the progress of the upstroke is maddeningly measured.

The fingers reach another zenith, mere millimeters from my exposed, wet labia, and pause. I try to stifle a moan into a cough and one of the wait staff turns their head from across the dining room. I smile weakly and wave that I'm ok as the warmth in the fingers suffuses my inner thighs.

Then the fingers begin to creep, ever so slowly, and I have to stuff the heel of my palm into my mouth. I take another sip of my wine and try to look introspective and philosophical. Part of me, however, is quite sure that what I look like is a horny slut about to get fingered by a stranger. Oh well. If I wasn't going to stop him when the waiter came over, then I'm not going to stop when I feel his fingertips reach my labia majora.

My skirt is leather and zips down the front, hem to waist. I reach under the table, and I feel his touch stiffen and pause. I grab the loop of the zip, and very carefully drag it up, parting the soft black material as I spread my legs. The fingers relax, and before I scootch forward slightly to hide my lower half under the tablecloth, I catch the sight of my bald pussy, puffy and wet, with the strong fingers of a complete stranger massaging my crurer.

I clear my throat again to cover a moan, trying not to sound like a B-grade porn actor. He's massaging me now, manipulating the engorged flesh gently up and down, up and down. This is, of course, pressuring my clit, and while some folks use words like 'indirect stimulation', there is nothing indirect about the reaction from my body. For my part, I guess it does have the effect of making me want to whimper and beg for him to rub my clit. Again, I use my incredible Burgundy to manage my wanton urges.

When I feel his lips on the inside of my knee, I know I'm all in. This is not ending until this very forward young man's face is covered in my cum and I reach down to hand him a napkin. His tongue joins in, and while he continues to massage me with infuriating patience, his mouth is taking its own leisurely journey over my black stocking, leaving trails of alternating warmth and cool as he kisses first one side then the other.

My head drops forward and I whisper a very unladylike curse when he drags a finger over my opening, collecting lubricant there. He has the temerity to 'hmmmmm' as he rubs my opening, as though it should come as a surprise that I'm utterly soaked at this point. He uses my ample moisture to start touching my clit directly, though like all his other movements there is no urgency about his touch. As though we are in a hotel room and have all night, not, as the truth of it is, in a high-end restaurant where more tables than not have begun to ask for the bill.

His kisses have briefly ceased, somewhere mid-thigh, and again I'm nearly taken by the urge to beg. But then I realise that he's shifting his attack, preparing to come at me from a different angle. Now it's his thumb that's working my clit with maddening care, and then I feel the warmth of his mouth envelope my opening. My eyelids flutter and it's all I can do not to cry out. His tongue is flat, and soft and already he's not committing the sin of every wannabe lothario out there who assumes that a woman wants a smaller, stranger penis stabbing into her. No, he seems to understand the exquisite delight of a soft, flat tongue that covers the maximum amount of pussy real estate in one go.

He drags it slowly from my twitching asshole slowly up and over his thumb, momentarily confusing my senses in the most delicious way. My eyes are rolling in my head at this point and it's an each way bet as to whether I suddenly look on the verge of sleep or a minor demonic possession.

The pretty sommelier approaches, and I try to compose myself and put on a winning smile.

"How is the wine? Is it as good as it smelled when the cork came out?" he asks.

"To be honest I'm having something of a full body experience it's that good," I reply, trying to see straight and hold his gaze.

"Well that's something you can only hope for I guess, that 'knock me for six' experience, hey? Premier Cru Burgundy can do that."

"Hmmmmm mmmmm," I manage.

He smiles and turns to go, then stops and turns back. I nearly cry.

"Sorry to ask a strange question..." he starts.

Oh gods here it comes. He's going to ask if I'm being tongue fucked under the table, which will be mortifying. If only I wasn't edging towards an orgasm that already felt like it was going to be soul rending and a desperate needy whore!

"Hmmm hmmm?" I manage.

"The gentleman at the next table, have you seen him?"

Relief floods me, though this only seems to add to the arousal I'm already experiencing. Under the table his fingers penetrate me, just a little, turning upwards as he sucks my clit into his mouth. I struggle to maintain my focus.

"I... ummmm... I think he went to the bathroom..?" I mumble.

"Oh ok thanks," comes the reply. "I hope he's ok!"

The sommelier chuckles at his clever repartee and I scavenge a smile for him as he turns and leaves. My mystery suitor senses the added urgency, and while a pinky tickles my asshole, his tongue swirls in some elaborate pattern over my clit. His fingers work me ever so slightly; there's no proclivity to treat my pussy like he needs to saw me in half and he's behind on the job. He's hooked onto the front wall, and the movement is mostly just adding sublime pressure to my clit.

I work hard to keep my head up and my eyes from appearing as though I enjoyed a couple of ecstasy pills with my duck, though this is getting harder and harder. He's inching me towards climax, but seems content to let it build agonisingly.

He pushes deeper, and sucks gently again on my clit, and we're entering the final act of this debaucherous performance. I'm going to cum all over a stranger's face in a restaurant, and the thought only drives my arousal on.

He starts to pump into me with a little more vigour, and it's glorious. I'm hovering, but in a moment I will tip into that inevitability space, where it won't matter if the entire wait staff arrive to sing me happy birthday, I will be reaching my orgasm.

He presses on my anus, very lightly, and the world explodes. His tongue and fingers do not change at all, but my entire body spasms around him. I have the tiniest amount of wherewithal to shove the napkin into my mouth to keep from screaming to the gods. He is making me cum so hard that the edges of my vision are turning white.

I watch in horrified slow motion as my hand involuntarily swipes left and knocks my mostly full glass of Burgundy. I can only watch, as it hit's the table and spills my $8,000 a bottle wine onto the starched white cloth.

I don't really care. My whole world is consumed by the waves of pleasure that roll and break and roll and break. I manage to look down and lift the table cloth slightly, but all I can see is a mouth, dripping wet, with a cheeky grin on it.

My head flops back and I close my eyes. There is the gentlest kiss on my lips, but by the time I open my eyes again, the table nearby is occupied again and there is a waiter talking to its occupant. I strain to see past the staff member but as I crane my head, my waitress approaches, stepping between the tables to help correct the mortal sin of wasting of the world's true wonders.

She rights my glass and pours the last of the wine into it. I watch, through hazy, heavy-lidded eyes, still floating on a cloud of bliss. By the time she has finished fussing over me, I look over to the other table, which is now empty.

I try to sit up without exposing my cunt to the restaurant to see where he's gone, but my movements are post-orgasm clumsy and I flop back into my chair without luck.

I manage to zip my skirt, and though it be another grave sin, I gulp the final mouthful of wine. I ask for my coat and attempt to smile at the staff as I leave. I'm not sure if they are aware of what has just occurred, but it's amazing what platinum quality orgasm from a complete stranger in a fine dining restaurant will do to short circuit a need for approval.

I step on to the street as my phone buzzes.

'Hey babe, how was the Burgundy..?'