‘Yes. A bit of an old chestnut, but works like a charm.’
I swallowed.
‘Oh?’
‘Go to the ladies’ and remove your knickers. When you return, give them to me. Not furtively, though – no passing them under the table. You do it blatantly and in full view of the whole restaurant.’
‘In full view?’
‘Yes. People hardly ever register it. They won’t realise it’s your knickers, for the most part. The people that do notice will think it quaint and a bit sexy. It’ll spice up their Saturday night. Perhaps they’ll do it themselves.’
I goggled for a moment, then he raised his eyebrows and made a nod of the head that meant business towards the toilets.
An act of disobedience wouldn’t get us off to a good start. Besides, once the order is given, even implicitly, I find my inner good-doggy and it all becomes easy.
I stood up and took my leave.
The toilets were distractingly fancy and I almost forgot why I was in there, so busy was I admiring the perfume dispensers and dazzling glass and gilt. I frowned, thinking, But I don’t need to go, then I remembered.
I backed into a stall and shut the door, reaching up under my skirt to lower the knickers. Problem. I was wearing stockings and suspenders, and the knickers could only go as far as the stocking tops. Annoyingly, I had to unsnap each suspender, move the knickers down, then refasten them, which was a slow process with my fumbly fingers.
The mere act of pushing the knickers down to my knees made me wet and I squirmed as the little suspender buttons clicked back into their slots, hoping I wouldn’t be in a state of raging arousal for the duration of the meal.
I finished removing the knickers and bunched them up in my fist. Outside the stall I looked at myself in the mirror. How obvious was it that I was carrying a pair of knickers? To me, it seemed glaringly so, but then I was bound to be hyper-conscious of my situation. Would anyone notice? Would they double-take and whisper about me, knowing that I was naked under the dress and informing their dining companions of the fact? Would the whole
restaurant know that my bare pussy was just a whispery skirt away from potential fingering? I bit my lip, trying to chase the blush from my cheeks. It wouldn’t go.
I sprayed my wrists with perfume then, looking around to make absolutely sure I was alone in there, I put the atomiser under my skirt and gave my nethers a squirt. Bad idea. It stung.
I winced, put the perfume down, squeezed the knickers into as tiny a ball as I possibly could and sailed back into the restaurant, trying to exude inner confidence.
I was so busy exuding this inner confidence stuff that I forgot to look where I was going, tripped over a waiter’s foot and stumbled forward. In the process, I lost my grip on the knickers which flew wildly over to the right, landing with perfect precision in the dead centre of a diner’s bowl of soup.
I couldn’t help it. I screamed.
The waiter, a man of sterling worth, whisked the bowl away before the diner had registered anything more than a piece of dark cloth in his consommé, and His Lordship leapt to recover me, helping me over to our table while I gibbered hysterical apologies to the offended party.
Had anyone seen that the article in flight had been a pair of my knickers? Everyone was looking at me, but it wasn’t clear from their expressions. They all looked away politely about three seconds later and the restaurant returned to the discreet buzz of conversation I had so recently shattered.
‘That was spectacular,’ said His Lordship dryly. ‘You went a little bit beyond the brief there. So to speak. Haha.’
Hilarious.
I pouted at him.
‘Stop it. I feel like crying. Can we just go?’
‘No we can’t. We’re staying. I’ve just ordered you the crab linguine.’
‘But I might die of mortification.’
‘You won’t die. Nobody ever died of losing their knickers in the soup.’
He stifled a laugh with his pocket handkerchief, eyes bright over the exquisitely stitched hem.
‘You’re cruel. Making me stay here under these circumstances. Really, really mean.’
‘Yes, I am. So, how does it feel?’