I told him I’d wear the dress, but only if he promised to behave.
He said nothing. Just smiled.
It was a pale beige satin wrap dress, the kind that swayed dangerously with every step. I’d worn it once before—on our first date. Tonight, I wore it again. With nothing underneath.
As we walked into the rooftop restaurant, his hand brushed the small of my back and paused there, just long enough for me to feel it. Then he reached into his coat pocket and slipped something into my palm: the remote.
I looked at him, heart already fluttering. “You wouldn’t,” I whispered.
He didn’t reply. Just kissed my cheek and whispered back, “Start at level one.”
The restaurant was elegant, full of glass and quiet, the kind of place where you order wine with too many syllables and talk in careful tones. The kind of place where you don’t moan, shift, squirm, or come.
But I was already wet before we even sat down.
As we waited for our appetizers, I slid the rabbit vibrator into place, adjusting it carefully under the table. The curve nestled between my lips, and the soft bunny ears kissed my clit like it knew me.
He kept talking—something about work, I think—but I was already somewhere else.
When he pressed the first button, I sucked in a breath.
Low. Gentle. A tease. Like his finger tracing my thigh in slow circles, just out of reach. I crossed my legs and forced a smile.
“Everything okay?” he asked innocently.
I nodded.
By the time the main course arrived, he had me at level three. My legs were trembling under the tablecloth. My wine glass shook slightly as I lifted it.
He watched me. Studied me. Ate slowly. Drank deeply.
I didn’t touch my food. I couldn’t.
My panties—if I had been wearing any—would’ve been soaked. The vibration wasn’t just physical. It was everywhere: in my nipples, in my scalp, in the arch of my feet. Every pulse of that little rabbit was like him whispering "Come for me" over and over again.
He slid the remote to level five.
I gripped the edge of my seat.
He leaned in, voice calm. “Don’t come until dessert.”
By then, I was biting the inside of my cheek, eyes glassy, thighs clenched hard enough to bruise.
He was talking to the waiter, asking about chocolate soufflé. I was holding onto the table like it was the only thing anchoring me to the world.
I felt the surge building—hot, slow, relentless. My hips rolled without permission. My breath caught.
Level seven.
He glanced at me, casually, like I was just another part of the room.
I came before dessert.
Silently. Violently. Completely.
My eyes fluttered shut. My thighs pressed tight. I felt the world narrow to a pinpoint of trembling heat.
When I opened my eyes, he was sipping wine, still smiling.
Later, in the elevator, he leaned in close. His mouth brushed my ear.
“You lasted longer than I expected,” he said. “But I wasn’t done watching you.”
He held up the remote.
“Round two?”
