"The steak is a bit overdone, don't you think?"
My father didn't look up from his plate as he spoke. He spent most of our family dinners analyzing the failures of the staff. My mother nodded in silent agreement, her pearls clicking against the rim of her wine glass. The restaurant was the kind of place where the tablecloths were heavy linen and the lighting was dimmed to hide the wrinkles of the wealthy. We sat in a velvet booth that felt more like a fortress than furniture.
You sat right next to me, your shoulder brushing mine. You looked breathtaking in that silk dress, the way the dark fabric hugged your curves and the high slit that opened all the way up your thigh. It was a bold choice for a family outing. You kept shifting in your seat, your breath coming in shallow rhythms. I knew exactly why you were fidgeting. I knew there was nothing but air and silk between your skin and the upholstery of the booth.
I shifted my weight and slid my hand under the table, the heavy cotton tablecloth hiding my hand. I found the opening of your dress with ease. Your skin was warm, and you were already damp. I let out a soft breath when I felt how ready you were for me. I slid one finger inside you, circling the heat. You gasped, a tiny sound that was swallowed by the noise of the dining room. You gripped the edge of the table, your knuckles turning white. I leaned closer, my lips almost touching your ear.
"Keep a straight face, Kiddo. Don't let them know what we're doing," I whisper, my voice a low gravelly growl. You bit your lip and looked toward our parents. They were deep in a conversation about real estate. You tried to answer a question from our mother about something mundane, but your voice cracked. You closed your eyes for a second, leaning into my touch as I pressed deeper. The contrast between the sterile, formal atmosphere of the restaurant and the heat building between us made the air feel thick.
I increased the pace, my finger curling to find the spot that made your toes curl inside your heels. You let out a muffled whimper, quickly disguising it as a cough. You reached over and gripped my thigh, your nails digging into the fabric of my trousers. The risk of being caught was a palpable thing, a tension that mirrored the friction of my skin against yours. Every time my father laughed or my mother shifted her gaze, you froze, your breath hitching in your throat.
"Are you feeling alright? You look a bit flushed," our mother noted, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied your face. You stared back at her, your eyes wide and glazed with a mixture of panic and arousal. You managed a shaky nod, telling her that it was just the warmth of the room. I didn't stop. I moved my thumb in slow, deliberate circles against your clitoris, feeling you tremble beneath me. You were fighting a losing battle against the pleasure, your body arching subtly toward my hand. I watched your expression, the way your pupils dilated and your chest heaved. The power of the moment belonged to me. I could feel your internal muscles tightening around my finger, pulsing in a rhythm that told me you were close. I leaned back, maintaining a mask of brotherly indifference while my hand continued its relentless work. You looked at me, a silent plea for me to stop and a desperate hope that I would keep going, all while the waiter approached to refill our water glasses.
The waiter was a young man who moved with a practiced, robotic efficiency. As he leaned over to pour the chilled water into my father's glass, I felt your leg twitch violently. You gasped, the sound barely a whisper, and you squeezed my thigh so hard it left a mark. I didn't flinch. I pushed my finger deeper, hooking it upward to hit that precise angle. You let out a sharp, stifled moan that sounded like a choked sob. Our father paused mid sentence, his fork hovering an inch from his mouth. He looked at you, his brow furrowed in confusion. You quickly grabbed your wine glass and took a large, desperate gulp, the liquid splashing slightly against your lip. You stared down at the tablecloth, your face a deep shade of crimson, while I let a slow, triumphant smile spread across my lips.
"Something funny?" you whispered, your voice trembling as you glanced at me. I didn't answer with words. Instead, I increased the speed of my movements, driving you closer to the edge. The friction was intense, the heat between us becoming a physical weight. You were breathing through your nose in short, jagged bursts, trying to regulate your heart rate. I could feel the moisture on my skin, the evidence of how much you wanted this. You were completely at my mercy, trapped between the expectations of our parents and the raw, electric current running through your veins. You tried to shift your hips to find a better angle, but I gripped your thigh firmly, pinning you in place. I wanted you to feel every second of the anticipation, to crave the release that I held in my hand.
"Pass the salt, please," my father said, his voice cutting through the haze of your desire. You jumped slightly, the sudden request snapping you back to the reality of the table. With shaking fingers, you reached for the shaker, your movements clumsy and disjointed. As you handed it to him, I gave one final, hard press against your dripping heat. Your back arched, and a soft, guttural sound escaped your throat. You froze, your eyes locking onto mine, the sheer intensity of the climax washing over you in waves. You sank back into the velvet booth, your body suddenly limp, a look of utter exhaustion and satisfaction on your face. I slowly withdrew my hand, the feeling of you still lingering on my fingertips.
jeessuusssss. could you IMAGINE omg that would be soooo embarrassing. but phewww
