You bent down, or rather, slid forward a little, and loosened your heel, letting it fall to the carpeted floor. Your bare foot, under the warm light, suddenly became enormous. Five pale toes, the ball of your big toe reflecting the chandelier like a sliver of moonlight.
"Like this. Now, stretch out your leg."
You obeyed, feeling the warmth of his cotton against the soles of your feet. With your tip, you explored his ankle, then moved up the hem of his pants, reaching his leg. It wasn't just a simple contact: it was a mapping, a reconnaissance beneath everyone's field of vision. The table, five feet long, left your movements hidden by linen tablecloths. Meanwhile, the cello was rising in tone, and the waiters approached, setting down flutes of champagne. Nanami paid no attention to the wine. With an imperceptible movement, he pushed the back of his foot against your ankle, forcing you to flex it, then moved his heel toward the inside of your thigh. The satin of your dress pushed up your thighs. You held back something, perhaps a murmur. It wasn't pain, it was the fear of being discovered.
"I feel you tensed up," he said as he picked up the menu. "Relax. Dinner is long."
He opened the menu as if it were the Holy Bible, his thumb running over the items.
"For today, I recommend the salt cod, but if you want to be daring, try the lobster with bitter cocoa reduction. It will make you want to lick your fingers for hours." He paused, looking down at you. "Licking is your favorite hobby, right?"
Your cheeks burned. You felt the soft pillow beneath you and the tablecloth caressing your bare thighs. "We're in a fancy restaurant, and I'm touching his leg with my bare foot." But reason prevailed: the skin between your legs was so tight you could have played a tambourine.
Meanwhile, Ijichi, the driver, entered the place. He had left his car at the valet parking service: no one would have imagined that the professional-looking man had such a burning gaze. He sat down at the bar in the back, ordered a glass of sparkling water, and kept his jacket over his knees, to cover any erection. The chandelier's scorching spotlights didn't touch him. He was staring at table 12, where you and Nanami seemed to be chatting about French wines. You noticed that motionless silhouette on the horizon, and your heart leaped into your throat. Two brown eyes, old but bright, were watching you from afar. A shiver of wonder and embarrassment ran up your spine. Your fingertips went numb, your heartbeat quickened. Your toes curled between Nanami's legs, a mixture of protest and request. Nanami, understanding the reason for the sudden movement of your toes, whispered without turning around.
"See? He's watching you."
To let Ijichi know Nanami had noticed him, he moved his chair a foot away, causing the waiter behind him to wave around him in annoyance. Nonchalantly, Nanami pushed his knee between your legs, raising the table slightly. The movement made your thighs clench in an involuntary dance. But he caressed the sole of your foot, slowly opening your legs. Your foot bounced first on his calf, then on the inside edge of his pants. The sliding fabric made you feel the line of a zipper: there was his cock, turgid and long, waiting its turn. Nanami didn't let you touch it; he kept it hidden beneath the fold of the undeformable fabric. But its swollen presence throbbed against your ankle, making you blush.
"Do you feel it throbbing for you?" he said. "And to think you won't have it tonight."
The first course arrived: celery with black olive powder. Nanami didn't let you remove your legs from his cock. With the back of a teaspoon, he let you taste the food, covering your lower lip with a white foam: a trickle ran down your chin. You didn't even have time to dry yourself before Nanami leaned over and licked the trail when, suddenly, one of the waiters, trying to pass by you, stepped back cautiously. The salty, earthy taste exploded in your mouth, then down your throat, then down to your stomach. Something inside you ignited. 'I feel like I'm on the verge of orgasm from just a taste.'
Your heart was pounding, and now you were thinking only of what was beneath your feet and between your legs.
Ijichi, meanwhile, reached behind the counter, pretending to check his telephone. In reality, he had activated the camera, but with the lens pointed at the mirror behind the counter, where Table 12 was reflected. He didn't want to miss a thing. His fingers were holding the zipper down and his cock was half out, but the dignity of his job didn't allow him to touch himself openly. You took a deep breath: that salty smell coming from the lobster made your mouth water, or maybe it was just the urge to cum.
Nanami caressed your ankle with his index finger, then moved further down: heel, sole, all the way to your big toe. He took it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a nipple and squeezed it lightly.
"I could caress your little feet all night, you know?"
At that thought, the strength in his hand increased. The pain fused with pleasure in a thick, warm flow. A contraction made your belly tighten; the liquid that had begun to seep under the Audi's seat returned to keep you company in the form of new, subtle fluids. Your horny girl smell couldn't be detected by the expensive perfumes in the place, but you could smell it, and that was enough to make your ears red.
The second course: crispy salt-baked cod, fennel reduction. Now the white wine was pouring; the waiter finished pouring and stepped back with a nod. The bottle left on the table allowed you to pour your own glasses. You, cursing under your breath, poured a drop of wine (you were shaking too much), so that the golden liquid spilled onto the linen napkin. He looked at you, biting his lower lip. Meanwhile, his fingers continued to stimulate your foot, alternating nibbled kisses with light caresses on your neck. His nails tickled your back. Every time the weight of the driver's gaze reached you, your body seemed to accelerate.
Nanami would sometimes stare at the chandelier, as if something might rain down from there. As he spoke, his voice would occasionally become softer, almost paternal.
"You're beautiful," he said, his fingers working intermittently on your foot, as if reflecting the flow of a thought. "But enough chit-chat. Place your right foot between my thighs. I want to feel you at my balls height."
You hesitated for a moment; the waiter had moved away. The arms of Nanami's chair were high and obscured his view. The restaurant had become a steady buzz of knives and crystal. Carefully, you bent your knee; you reached Nanami's pants, worked his balls, felt the roughness of the fabric, and behind that veil, noticed how hard and thick he was. Nanami, in turn, captured your foot with his closed thighs: he imprisoned you like a luxurious vice, not too tight to hurt, but tight enough to let you know he had you. Heat rose up the sole of your foot; for a moment, you felt as if your heart had moved there, beating between his legs.
Nanami sighed contentedly and crossed his arms over his stomach. "Y/n, you're turning me on. Be careful." His voice dropped a tone, "and if you push me too far, I'll open you up under the table." You caught a glint in his green eyes, and it seemed to you he was adding, "Just how you want it."
You didn't respond, pleasure tightening your throat. Slowly, you began to massage with the sole of your foot planted between his legs, maintaining a low, circular rhythm. Every now and then your calf would go numb, but you preferred the effort to the interruption. You could hear the people around you, the changing music in the background, the scent of bitter cocoa wafting from a tray just served at the next table. It all entered your mind like water flowing into an already overflowing glass: the excitement was reaching your eyelids, making you blink intermittently.
A nod from Nanami to the sommelier brought a new wine: Barolo Chinato, spicy, almost cinnamon-like. The amber-red liquid poured into your glass. Nanami let you take a sip, holding the glass for you, then drank himself, letting your foot continue to move slowly. The contrast between the cool and hot temperature of the wine and the feverish sex under the table made your desire rise even more. Your lips turned red and glossy as his legs tugged you deeper and deeper. A drop of Chinato dripped onto the edge of your chin. Nanami caught it with his pinky, ran it over the edge of his lips, and murmured, "Are you ready to be fucked? Or do you still want to play?"
"I'm yours," you whispered without hesitation. You hadn't seen a dick in years, the sound coming out broken, but loud enough to make your eyes sparkle. "Anytime, if you want. I'm yours." You didn't know if it was true, but in that moment there was no room for lying, the pleasure was shaking you like shaking a wet towel.
Nanami sighed, a hint of triumph. "Good, now hold my cock between your feet. Create a tunnel, but without using your hands. You have to crush me."
His voice penetrated you and warmed your veins. You spread your fingers, grasped his cock with the inside edge of one foot and squeezed it with the other, resting your fingers against each other. The fabric of Nanami's pants served as a sheath: underneath, the skin was very hot. Carefully, you moved back and forth, then rotated your left ankle and traced circles on the fabric with your big toe, as if testing its consistency. Each time you passed the outer edge of the testicles, the pressure increased. Nanami would occasionally tighten his thighs, blocking your movement, then release, allowing you freedom. It was a hypnotic dance, a silent dance where the steps were made of small spasms of muscle and skin.
Finally, Nanami grabbed your calf, digging his fingers into your flesh.
"Enough, move your foot there…"
He guided you to his bare skin, inside his open pants. The zipper, unzipped all the way, revealed his hardness. The first contact between the backs of your toes and his cock made the air pop: warmth, softness, a lively pulse. You let out a small, strangled cry. Nanami held his breath.
"Don't worry, you don't need to move. Standing still like this is driving me crazy."
It was then that Ijichi, from behind the counter, sensing the shift in tension, slowly stood up. Under the pretext of going to the bathroom, he passed by your table. In a flash, he saw your leg jutting out from the tablecloth, a strip of bare skin disappearing into the shadows beneath the table. A two-three-second vision, enough to make him tremble. His cock was now fully hard, stretching along his thigh, pressed almost painfully by his gray pants. He continued walking. He reached the bathroom corridor and locked himself in the stall. Inside, he made a few quick movements: zipper, palm, two or three thrusts into the empty space of the toilet. The risk of being discovered wasn't enough to stop him. He held his mouth with his other hand, the internal screams too close. He imagined you, with your wet pussy, your lipstick messed up. He imagined his boss pounding your pussy with his power. The pleasure quickly mounted, making him buckle his knees, and with a gasp he came, streaking the toilet with hot cum. He stopped breathing for a moment, then cleaned himself with the care of a man who knew he had to return to command. He adjusted his tie, flushed the toilet, and left. His forehead was shining, but his mind was now empty, really empty.
Meanwhile, at the table, the game continued. Nanami, without even a nod, poured the double Chinato into your glass. He removed your foot from his pants, kissed it softly on the inside of your ankle, then placed it under his ass, on the napkin-covered chair. The temporarily interrupted pleasure made you snort. Your body cried out for closure. Nanami, almost as if wanting to cuddle you or tease you, caressed your arm.
"Pretend nothing happened. Look at the menu; dessert is essential."
At that sentence, the tension eased slightly. Your muscles, albeit reluctantly, accepted the pause: dinner, in fact, was still long. The waiters brought cheese wafers with lard, ricotta rolls with melted butter, and seared tuna canapés on sesame wafers. Each serving was small, and with each bite, Nanami would instruct you on how to hold your fingers, how to lick the edge of the spoon, how to taste first with the tip of your tongue and then with the back, where your taste buds are more capable of detecting bitterness. All this with the air of a servant who knows what it means to spoil his master. Within two plates, you had developed a taste for it: you savored it with the awareness of being part of a game where the prize wasn't the prize itself, but a path to a goal. The prize, and Nanami told you this with his lips slightly parted, would only be yours when the game was over.
At a quarter to ten, the place began to empty. A group of businessmen paid their bills with a wad of hundred-dollar bills. Then an older couple slowly exited, their smiles the perfect evening. The lights dimmed further: the cello played a slow version of Avicii's "The Nights," almost as if it were a requiem. The silence, for the first time, was so deep that you could hear the ice melting in your glasses.
Nanami folded the napkin and placed it on the table.
"Time to go."
He didn't wait for your consent; he simply handed you the shoe, had you put it on, and wrapped the strap around your ankle. You tried to say something, but Nanami placed a finger on your lips.
"No, no word until we're in the car."
Then he stood up. He placed his hand on your elbow with the lightness of someone who had already decided everything. Looking around, you glimpsed Ijichi: the driver had returned to the entrance, motionless, his expression unmistakable, that of master and servant. You'd never touched before, but you felt three pairs of eyes on you. Nanami's sharp ones, Ijichi's burning ones, and yours, in the mirror, where you were once again trying to understand what you had become. With your chins raised by the collar of Nanami's jacket, you stepped out into the wind of the square. The chandelier behind you, little by little, seemed like a glowing heart, beating, burning.