“Here?!” I try to keep my voice low, but I’m caught by surprise.
John’s answer is nonverbal. The corners of his eyes crinkle, he nods slightly, the ends of his handlebar mustache edge upward with his grin.
We’re at a diner off highway 42, halfway to his mom’s to celebrate her birthday. He said he had something special planned for the trip, but I thought it was the beads.
Oh yes. The beads. Four of them strung together, hollow plastic, a bit smaller than ben wa balls, with heavy steel marbles inside them. The whole lot is inside me, shifting and quaking with every movement.
And now he brings out the rope.
It’s just one short length of nylon cord. He lays it on the table then reaches across and takes my wrists. I’m already wet from the beads, and the way he grips me almost sends me over the edge right then and there. In fact, he has to tighten his hold to keep me from sliding under the table.
A shadow falls across the table. Our waitress has arrived.
She’s forty-ish, plump, looks bored with everything. “Hi my name’s Justine I’ll be your server,” she chants, monotone, then stops short, noticing the way John is holding onto me. “Are you all right, deary?”
I don’t trust myself to open my mouth, so I nod and attempt a smile.
John perks up. “‘Justine,’ huh? DeSade wrote a book called Justine. Did you know that?”
She looks puzzled, then annoyed at the pop quiz. “Look, do you need more time to decide?”
“No, we’re ready,” John says, winking at me.
“Wait!” says Justine with a sudden sign of life. “Didn’t he make cars or something, way back?”
Now John is puzzled. “Who?”
“DeSoto.”
John stifles a laugh. “Yes,” he says, “I think that’s right.”
“So what’ll it be then?” she asks, addressing me first.
My attention is on John’s hands holding onto me. Carefully forming my words, I ask for a salad only. Justine scribbles and recites the choice of dressings. I nod when she comes to ranch.
She turns expectantly to John, but he’s looking straight at me. “Switch,” he says to me.
Shit. I’m sitting with my legs crossed, right over left. Switching to left over right forces the beads to shift around within their steamy alcove. “Oh!” I gasp. “Mm,” I sigh.
Justine looks back at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
John speaks up. “Justine, we’re on our way to my mother’s house, so what I want is a nice grilled cheese sandwich, just like mom used to make when I was a boy. Good ol’ American cheese between two slices of white bread, buttered and toasted on a hot griddle till the cheese oozes from the sides. And be sure the cook smashes it down real good with a greasy spatula, too.”
Justine rolls her eyes. “A number three,” she mutters, jotting it down on her pad.
As she saunters away, John loops the rope around my wrists. I can’t believe he’s actually doing it. We’ve talked about trying a little public bondage, but why here of all places?
I sit mesmerized as he forms the square knot and pulls it tight. Under the table, his foot pushes against my crossed leg. Obeying his silent command, I put both feet on the floor and spread them apart for him. Soon his foot is between my thighs, nudging against my… my…
“John!” The word erupts louder than expected.
“Yes, Annie?” he says, ever so smoothly. He smiles as he tightens his grip on my bound wrists.
I try to sit still, but can’t help squirming. I keep my mouth closed, but can’t help moaning. I’m panting and sweating, as if I’d just sprinted a few blocks. I hang my head and close my eyes, and pray no one notices us.
It’s happening and there’s nothing I can do about it. The first shudder starts deep within me and quickly spreads throughout. Another follows immediately.
“Oh! God! Shit!”
John loves doing this to me, teasing and tormenting me in public. He especially likes it on the way to his mom’s, when his starched-shirt brother and prissy sister-in-law will be there. I don’t know why, but it’s a fact. I think he just likes the contrast between them and his own wanton slut.
Justine returns with our orders. I try to tuck my hands under the table, but she sees the rope around my wrists and glares at John.
He shrugs. “She has a condition,” he says. “Seizures. Convulsions. It’s necessary to control her sometimes.”
“Uh huh,” says Justine.
She glances in my direction, but I’m occupied with trying to guide a forkful of lettuce to my mouth. It’s no easy task with hands tied and John’s foot still in my crotch. She clears her throat. “Something to drink?”
“No!” I snap.
“Suit yourself.” She walks away and begins whispering to some of the patrons at the counter.
We finish as much of our food as we can. I know John is excited too. I can almost see his hard-on through the look in his eyes. Leaving my hands tied, he gets up to pay the bill. I follow along, walking gingerly. The beads are doing such a number on me, I’m sucking air with each step to keep from crying out.
Once outside, John puts his arm around me and guides me to the back of the diner. The small building is on a lonely stretch of road, with only a patch of woods behind it.
John brightens as we round the corner of the building and I immediately see why. He takes my hands and pulls them high over my head. There’s a convenient hook on the back of the building, which he puts to good use. It’s a bit of a stretch, but my toes stay in contact with the ground.
He kisses me furiously as I half-dangle there. His hands rove possessively up and down my body. I can finally feel his cock straining for release. I want it. I want it!
“Oh God, John, hurry!” I gasp.
He tears himself away just long enough to raise my skirt, rip my panties off and yank the beads from their warm niche. He shoves my things in his pocket, then unzips. His beautiful cock springs out, eager for action.
He grabs my ass to support me as I lift my legs and wrap them around his waist. And then he’s in me, ramming and slamming me against the wall.
It’s over so fast I hardly notice the strain on my arms. He lingers for a moment, then withdraws. He substitutes fingers for cock and does a thorough job probing my depths. So delicious.
At last, he pulls the beads from his pocket and eases them back inside me. Then he slips my hands from the hook and unties the rope.
As we hobble back to the car, we find Justine at the side of the building. She’s smoothing out her skirt. Her face is flushed. It’s obvious she’s been watching us and masturbating. There’s an awkward silence, then she smiles and shrugs. “Next time,” she says, “just leave a tip.”
© 2003 Yolanda West. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
More stories by Yolanda West can be found at Rod Harden’s Titillating Tales.