First Sexy Sex Night Date

I won’t take my eyes off you. I couldn’t if I tried.

You know I would be happy to just stay in. Or, go to a dive bar. I don’t need anything fancy.

But you wanted to dress me up. So, I did my very best. My long hair freshly trimmed and blown dry by the stylist. It cascades down my back and across my shoulders. I like to imagine that it would tangle itself around you. Keep you close to me, forever.

You saw my little black dress in photos, and I knew you needed to feel it in person. I zipped myself into it, which was no easy task. I hope you will be zipping me out of it.

You tell the hostess “two.” I think it’s a hostess. Maybe it’s a guy. I won’t look away from your face and I don’t care if there is a world of people around us. I see only you.

You put your hand gently on my lower back as we follow our hostess(host?) to the table. Your touch sets me on fire. I feel like my legs aren’t working properly. I wish I could lean into you and let you carry me.

You smell nice.

Sitting across from each other, my heart is pounding. Can you hear it? Can the entire restaurant hear my pounding heart? I put my hand across my chest. It draws your eyes to my cleavage.

Damn. That desire is going to kill me right here. The way your eyes darken. I would do anything to please you.

There is a menu, but I’m not hungry. Not for food. I can’t eat with my adrenaline pumping this hard. You are polite to the server. When you look at me to order, I just say “french fries,” not taking my eyes from you. That wasn’t planned. But, I’m glad that I can eat them with my fingers and not stop looking at your face.

You smile and touch my knee.

How are you so relaxed? I’m shaking. The warmth from your hand has made my cooling knee feel empty.

I start to squirm in my seat. Damn it. My hips are not under my control. Maybe I can keep it down.

No, you noticed and smiled at me.

“I have something for you, sweetheart,” you purr in your southern accent. I hate to look away from you but I glance at the box you slid across the table.

Opening the lid, I see three glass beads on a string. My eyes dart upward and I know you intend for me to wear them inside. I hope you will look toward the ladies restroom, where I could have some privacy. But your eyes are piercing and I know you mean for me to put them in, right here at the table.

Of course, I want to. I want any bit of you, even a gift, inside me.

I have not worn panties, upon your request. The beads slide in easily. I realize a wet spot is forming on my dress.

The waiter walks up to bring our wine and he must have seen. There is no way he didn’t see. But I keep my eyes on your face. I don’t care about the waiter. I want you more than anything.

When he leaves, you touch my knee again. Then let your fingers reach up. I sink low into the seat to give you access. You feel the beads and smile. “Good girl,” is all you say.

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