‘This level of embarrassment, you mean? Awful.’
‘No. Your cunt. How does it feel?’
He wasn’t laughing now. The light in his eyes was pure lasciviousness. He looked as if I was the main course and he was just about to dig in.
I forgot my lingerie woes and felt a gush between my thighs.
‘Ventilated,’ I said.
‘Wet?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to feel it for myself. Perhaps I will later. In the meantime, why don’t you put a finger in there?’
‘I can’t!’
‘Yes you can. Or just rub your clit. Do it, Keris.’
I adjusted the heavy tablecloth above my knees and placed one hand in my lap, glancing around furtively. Nobody was looking at me, the knicker incident forgotten, unless it was what they were all discussing so avidly.
My fingers crept slowly lower, past the border of the tablecloth until they rested on my bare knees. With my other hand, I held my wineglass, sipping ostentatiously to deflect attention from any other part of me.
‘Are you doing it?’ said His Lordship, voice seductively low.
I nodded and sipped, sipped and nodded.
Under the hem of my dress now, my hand moved towards the slick target. I kept it down, careful not to make a bulge in the visible part of the skirt. I watched the muscles in my upper arm, trying to keep their movements unobtrusive.
My fingertips bumped up against my pussy lips. My index finger made a leisurely upward stroke over my fat, wet clit. I held my breath, my eyelids feeling heavy. I tried not to look as if I was concentrating too hard. It was impossible
His Lordship chuckled.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Does it feel nice? Touching yourself in a crowded room? Of course, they all know you aren’t wearing knickers. They all know you’re a filthy little bitch in heat.’
The breath gusted out of me, but I managed to keep it quiet. I took my finger away, regretfully, wondering how long I would have to wait for an orgasm tonight.
‘Perhaps I should let them have you, one by one, over this table? Give me your hand.’
I removed it from my skirt and raised it to the table. He took it and lifted the fingers to his lips, as if meaning to kiss them, but instead he inhaled deeply.
‘Delicious fragrance,’ he said, more loudly than was necessary. Lowering his voice, he continued, ‘You’re juicier than the fruit meringues over there. I know what I’m having for dessert.’
The crab linguine arrived on cue. It smelled of sex and the very word “linguine” made me think of lapping tongues. There was no way I was going to be able to eat.
‘Before you start,’ said His Lordship, ‘I want you to pull your skirt up at the back so your bare bottom makes contact with the chair seat. That’s how I want you to sit for the rest of the meal.’
Somehow the idea of disobedience had become unthinkable. His Lordship’s lack of sympathy over the knicker tragedy had convinced me that resistance would be futile, so I reached a hand carefully around the side of me that wasn’t visible to other diners and hiked the skirt up, inch by inch, until I had pulled the back completely clear of my bottom.
This left my stocking tops exposed, so I had to cover my thighs with the tablecloth – how grateful I was not to be in Pizza Express or somewhere else that had dispensed with linens. The more expensive the restaurant, the better the opportunities for kinky behaviour, it seemed.
The seat was cool and smooth against my skin. I fidgeted, trying to ensure that none of my juices leaked on to its luxurious upholstery, and looked shiftily around the room. Did anyone know? Could anyone see?
‘Now eat,’ said His Lordship.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked, thinking I couldn’t call him “Your Lordship” here in this public place.
‘Sir.’