Progressive Dinner

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“OK,” I answered. “Which nights?”

Elle named a weekend about three weeks away.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“No, you just get the hotel room. I’ll take care of the rest.”

We had been seeing each other for almost a year, so I recognized that mischievous smile. She wasn’t going to say anything more no matter how I begged, so I let the matter drop. Not that I stopped wondering, you understand.

Almost a year – I realized that the date she picked was the weekend closest to our anniversary. OK, maybe I’m male, but I’m not stupid. I figured that had something to do with the dates she had chosen. At least she gave me enough time to find a nice present for her.


I arrived at the wine bar a little earlier than her email had specified, so I picked a table on the rooftop deck and parked myself. I ordered a merlot and a glass of water, and sat back to watch the world go by. It was a sweaty-hot day near the end of summer, so the students were back in town. I was enjoying the scantily clad young women when I happened to look down. Then I realized the extra advantage of this rooftop table – the angle gave me a view of lots more décolletage than I would ever see facing the young lady at her own level. Just then, Elle stepped onto the deck and looked around. She waved and started toward me.

She was much better dressed than I was, with her knee-length black skirt, satiny blue blouse un-tucked, and summer weight linen jacket. I noted that she had on flat shoes (I was quite happy that she never wore heels that made walking impractical) and a tint to her legs that suggested stockings. I wondered about that on a day this hot, but I figured a big girl knows how to dress herself.

I rose when she came over, gave her a social hug and a peck on the cheek, and we sat. She ordered a pinot gris and, like me, water, then asked “What’s so interesting down there?” Then she looked down toward the sidewalk and her eyes widened. I looked too, in time to see a heavy-set young woman with cavernous cleavage walk under us. Elle looked back up at me with a mock-serious expression that barely masked a grin, and slapped my thigh under the table. “Men. Is that all you ever think about? No, don’t answer that.”

Her wine came. She took an appreciative sip, followed by a few big gulps of water. Then she stood up and headed toward the door. “Will you watch my bag for me? I’ll be right back. Oh, and don’t order anything else. I have plans for later.”

I set a small box at her place on the table and went back to watching the college-town wildlife. When she reappeared at the door, she obviously had something wadded tightly in her fist. Since she had left empty-handed, I couldn’t imagine what it was. When she got closer, she saw the ribboned box, and asked “Is that for me?” I nodded, and she almost skipped the rest of the way to the table.

Before she sat down, she opened her bag. That’s when I saw that she had her pantyhose in hand, as she tucked them into an inside pocket. “It’s much too hot for these.” I mumbled an agreement, and she sat down.

“What is it?” She picked up the little box and shook it gently. I smiled and didn’t answer. The wrappings tore off with an eagerness that didn’t quite match her elegant outfit. She found the chain bracelet inside and my note: ‘Can you believe it’s been a whole year?’

“You remembered!” She leaned over and gave me a big kiss. Then she surprised me. Instead of putting it on her wrist, she leaned over to wrap the bit of silver around her ankle. As she did, the front of her blouse tipped open, giving me a peek at smooth skin and glimpses of lace: white cupping her breasts and black hanging loosely across them. It took her a little while to work the clasp, so my view went on long enough for the edges of fantasy start forming around it, then she sat back up. We dawdled over our wine, chatting comfortably about nothing in particular. A little later, she looked at her watch and said, “Time to go!” Before I could get my wallet out, she had left a few bills on the table and was standing. I checked what she left, just to make sure, and noted the generous tip she had included. She had long since argued down my old-fashioned chivalry by pointing out that letting a lady pay was not nearly as ungentlemanly as creating a dispute about it. I’d just have to be faster next time.

We walked a few blocks, my arm around her waist, until we came to a tapas bar. We took a seat on the sunny side of the patio, and started exploring the menu. The waiter brought water for us and a small dish of olives, and took our drink orders. I went for the white sangria, she asked for a dry sherry.

“I really overdressed for this weather,” she said as she stood up, “Do you mind …?” Her jacket was half off by that point, showing that her blouse was a neatly tailored sleeveless.

I answered “By all means.” As it turned out, I had made the mistake of thinking I knew what she had in mind.

“Thanks!” she escort kızılay said, sitting again. Once seated, she pulled her jacket up around her shoulders. Next, she reached across with her right hand to her left shoulder and pulled a black spaghetti strap down her arm. Her elbow wriggled loose, then she did the same on the other side. Whatever she was doing, it had my complete attention. Next, her hands went to her waist on both sides, at the open hem of her blouse, and tugged the camisole toward her hips. Next it looked as if she was tucking her blouse in, but that wasn’t it. She was just tucking the blouse under the cami, now a lace-trimmed crumple around her waist, outside of her blouse. At this point, she shrugged the jacket off onto the chair-back behind her. She grabbed a bunch of the camisole in her left hand, held the blouse down with her right, and tugged it partway up. The she switched hands and did it again, on the other side. After a few back-and-forth motions, working the lingerie up, she lifted it off over her head.

I just stared. When I realized that I was gaping like an idiot, I just looked up at her and said, “Wow. Could you do that again?”

She gave me an indulgent smile and said “Down boy, down.” I just hoped she wasn’t referring to my erection, which had started to stir itself in curiosity.

Conversation continued as we munched our salty and spicy tapas and washed them down with wine. For us, “nothing much” in the way of conversation usually meant something about work, her work this time. She talked about something going on in the lab – terms like ‘upstream regulator,’ ‘intron binding site,’ and ‘alternative splicing’ flowed as she talked. I always managed to follow along, sort of, but it really isn’t my field. She’s working to understand breast cancer at a molecular level, and has found some exciting leads out in the “junk” DNA. Conversation is easy when all I have to do is listen. And, as I just noticed, trace the seams in her bra where they pressed against her blouse. I kept eye contact with her, but worked my peripheral vision to its limit.

Soon, the last bit of olive oil had been swept up with the last scrap of bread. I reached for the menu again, but Elle held my hand down on the table. “We have more stops to make.” I flagged the waiter for our check. A little preemptive paper-folding had the approximate amount out as soon as the check arrived. I checked the sum, added some ones to the pile, and we were off.

We had about a fifteen minute walk to our next stop, just at the edge of a toney retail street. Down a half-flight, and we were transported to Japan. Well, not really, but Elle knew this was my favorite among Japanese restaurants. In this seaport, Pacific rim city, that’s saying something. Elle had a reservation in her name. At a normal dinner time, it would have mattered. The city’s night lifers had barely woken up, though, so plenty of tables remained open. We sat and started on the menus. Before the hostess left, I asked for a small nigori. Elle piped up, and requested a small hot sake. ‘Small’ seemed to be the key, here, since I didn’t know what she had in mind for later.

My mind was only half on the food, though. I’m an engineer, I have vivid visual imagination, and kept seeing where the pantyhose and camisole had been. I knew the menu well enough that I didn’t have to think. When the waitress came back, I asked “Is the ikura really fresh?” I knew it had been in the market this morning. Hai, hai, hai, very fresh. “Does it bounce?” One of the sushi chefs looked up, recognized me, and smiled at the waitress with a small nod. They spoke a few words and she scurried back. “Yes, but must ask special price.” I was asking for roe caught that day locally, not from some jar. “Hai.”

Elle ordered a two or three relatively safe items and some edamame to share, then excused herself. “All that water I drank has to go somewhere.” The food came to the table a moment before she came back. She folded her legs under herself at our Japanese-style table, and reached for her purse. When I saw the bundle of white in her hand, I reached over and touched the back of her wrist.

“May I?” She smiled, almost a challenge, and turned her hand palm up. I recognized the soft white cotton and narrow elastic band before her hand opened. I closed my hand around hers, then added my other hand to envelop hers completely. A whiff of animal Elle rose out of the handful, and my half-erection rose to whole in response.

“What is that?” I asked, holding her hand.

“I’ll assume you didn’t mean that question, since you know perfectly well what it is. In answer to the question you didn’t ask, I shaved this morning.”

Legs? Pits? Oh. I knew she trimmed her bush in bikini season, but this was new. My hands tightened around hers. “That got your attention, didn’t it? I just had to take these off because the skin is so sensitive now.”

“Tell me about it.” I really wasn’t sure what I was asking for, ankara yabancı escort but I got it. I let go of her hand so she could tuck the undies away. We both poured soy sauce into our little dishes; I stirred in a lot more wasabi than she she did.

She spent the next fifteen minutes telling me and my erection about it. First, the process in the shower, with all the awkward leg-lifts to get at the fuzzy bits down low. My visual imagination ran full tilt the whole time, combining memory of our showers together with the words that described how she stood. Usually, her bush covered her better than some bathing suits I’ve seen. So, when she talked about looking into the full-length mirror seeing the bare Elle, my little man was standing right next to her.

“If I were there, you wouldn’t have been able to see through my hand.”

“I was there, and could barely see through mine.” I had noticed, long ago, that wisps of inner folds always peeked out between her outer labia, more when she got excited. This was all news to her. She described, in detail, how she traced that soft pink line with her fingertips, and how her hips and shoulders clenched at the touch. I had known about that for ages, after so many nights together with her, but some women seem to have such a difficult time discovering the bodies they’ve always lived in. “Then, when I touched that little pink peekaboo, I felt your fingertip guiding mine.”

“Is that what you want to feel right now?” I asked.

“Patience, my big man.” The check had materialized somehow, and her plastic sat on top of it. “For now, I just want to feel the evening air.” Legs apart, she fluffed her skirt. I probably just imagined it, but I could have sworn there was Elle in the air. My erection launched itself uncomfortably in the wrong direction. I felt a single pulsation, the kind that meant a clear droplet was soaking into my boxers. Then we stood again, and walked.

She led, and I followed in a daze. My visual imagination was running full tilt, seeing her more-than-nude curves under that swaying skirt. She guided us toward Little Italy, the enclave of wonderful restaurants and salumerias. We made it only to the edge, though. This stop was just to cleanse our palates and, I suspect, walk off some of the carbs from the sushi place. We stopped at a little Italian ice cart. She got lemon, I got passionfruit (yeah, I know, but I really like the flavor). We exchanged tastes, and my mouth puckered around hers. “It’s an old recipe – they simmer the lemon peels into it. Much more refreshing than all that sugar.” Perhaps, but I was happier with mine. We found a bench and lazed for a bit, watching the sun go down over the bay.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but this is really digging into me. Is it OK?” I waved nonchalantly, as if I knew what she was asking. She reached up behind her, and undid her bra’s eyelets, somehow working them apart through the cloth of her blouse. Then she reached up under her sleeveless sleeve and pulled a thin white strap around her elbow. Having seen this maneuver before, I knew what was coming next. My erection quietly nodded its approval, too.

I’m wrong a lot. She did reach up the other shoulder, as I expected, and pulled the strap down her arm. This time, the whole bra came with it, out the arm hole. I sputtered, and melted Italian ice came out my nose.

“Oh, you.” She laughed gently at me as she folded the two cups together, then tucked the bra neatly into her bag. I kept my hand on her shoulder in a friendly way. I also fought myself to avoid staring at her soft, free tits, and mostly won. With both hands, she rubbed up and down her chest once or twice, then relaxed into the sunset and into my touch. I looked down at my lap – a dark spot had formed just left of center. Did Elle have any idea what she was doing to me? Any other girl I ever went out with … well, she wasn’t any other. Whatever she was doing, it was working. I wanted her more than I had ever wanted anyone, right now. Instead, we walked above the sunset, my arm around her waist. When my hand drifted up to her low, soft breast, she took my hand in hers, shifted it to safer ground, and leaned up to give me a kiss. I really couldn’t figure this one out. Was it “yes but no,” or “no but yes?”

Once our ices were gone, we got up and walked toward the next stop she had planned. It was all I could do not to stare as her unbound breasts swayed and bobbed. Young, high breasts are nice and all. Still, every bosom lowers as a woman matures, and takes on a wonderful softness that charms me again every time I touch it. Elle came into that lovely, relaxed figure at a relatively young age, and usually didn’t like to be seen “flopping all over the place,” as she put it. I loved the look of her lively curves, though, and thoroughly enjoyed the extra bounce as she walked. I managed to keep my hands off, but only in the real world. My imagination had them wholly undressed and cupped etlik escortlar in my hands.

The heat of the day had passed, but the cool hadn’t yet set in. She had decided on Indian food, at a restaurant that emphasized spicy South Indian selections. She sat in front of me, primly looking over menu, and leaning forward enough to give me a luscious view. We chatted as we decided, to make sure that each picked something that would suit the other’s taste as well. The dinner came with rice, raita, fresh chutneys, and a few other incidentals. I ordered extra pappadams, and sat back. Elle excused herself to the ladies’ loo again. Her unfettered breasts swung gently as she stood. That promise of holding that softness later had me squirming in my seat.

When she came back from the restroom, her jacket was buttoned all the way up. A blue fold in her hand made me look again. Her upper body was naked, except for that jacket; her blouse lay neatly folded in her hand. She tilted toward me as she sat down. Then she tucked the folded blouse into her bag, and leaned toward me.

“You like what you see.” It wasn’t a question. I noted later that it didn’t mention her feelings. I’ll tell you about that part in a bit.

Her jacket showed cleavage of a delightful kind – not just a crease, but long gentle lines diverging. She sat back in her chair and the jacket pulled tight across her torso. Her breasts lay low and a bit to the sides, not where fashionable underwear would have placed them – well, screw fashion. She leaned toward me next. A shift of each shoulder lifted her breasts up to a comfortable spot on the table, supported unevenly by her crossed arms.

“Elle, how many time do I have to tell you? You’re beautiful.” Her hand reached under the table, as if in some kind of challenge. My erection was obvious enough, and she found that quickly. I moved my hand under the table, too, and grasped hers. When I shifted her hand, there was a moment of resistance, then the followed my lead. With my fingers clasped around hers, we moved just an inch or two, and I pressed her fingertips against my denim. They touched, pinched the dampened fabric, then withdrew before I could grasp her hand again. She lifted her fingers to her nose and sniffed. Her eyes got wide and she smiled when she recognized the scent. Catlike, she cleaned the finger with a delicate pink tongue.

“You’re really getting drippy, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Tell me about it.”

Elle and I had always been verbal with each other. Talk and sound were always part of the way we made love. That’s when I realized that’s what she was doing – this public strip-tease was an outrageous new way to make love. She had every right to ask back for a little of the excitement she was giving me.

A few nearby tables were filled, so I scooted closer to her in our booth and leaned forward. She tilted her head close to mine, and I started to talk in a low voice. I told her about the little thrill I first felt, when I imagined her taking off her pantyhose. I didn’t think anything of it, at the time. Seeing the camisole come off had given me a huge erection, partly because I imagined everyone around staring at her. Then I realized, the show had been for me only. Anyone else would have seen something like Elle taking off a sweater. I still thought she was just teasing, though. She nodded and stroked my arm as I talked. This was clearly what she wanted to hear, so I continued.

The food came, so we stopped to serve ourselves. She ate quietly, washing the warm spices down with Kingfisher or water. I continued telling her about her, about the effect she was having on me. The panties were what really did it. That gave me an even bigger erection, one that hadn’t stopped since. Just as she had done, telling me about shaving, I went into all the little details of how it had gone down my leg, my boxers bunching around it, and —

I stopped. She had opened her purse between us, and rummaged inside. The panties came back to the top, but she had a pair of scissors, too. “What …,” I didn’t even know what to ask. With two quick snips and a little extra work at the elastic edging, she had cut the crotch panel out of the panties, a white cotton square a few inches on a side. She pressed that into my hand, then closed her bag again with a mischievous grin. The little wad hid completely in my hand – a discreet gesture brought it to my nose, and filled me with the scent of Elle.

I was practically babbling, right there in the restaurant. I had barely touched my food, so I ate while I collected myself. I still hid that bit of cotton in my hand. It warmed and filled the air around me with the Elle-damp scent it was moistened with. Once I could talk coherently, I went back to telling Elle the effect she was having. I had gotten up to the bra. I described in the most loving way I could how much her sloping breasts turned me on. I spoke cautiously, since this part of her appearance had never pleased her. She was still smiling as I talked about how their swaying brought the first clear droplets out of my erection.

She reached over and stroked my face at that point. “I’m never going to use the word ‘droopy’ again.”

“Oh?” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

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