The foot pressed a little harder.
The nylon was warm through the cloth. He could feel the outline of her toes.
"And the fresh-baked bread," the waiter said, and set the basket down at the center of the table with another bow. "The kitchen takes pride in the crust."
"It looks wonderful," Nellie said, in her soft, shy, perfectly ordinary voice, and her toes curled against him.
Lor made a noise that he turned into a cough.
The cloth on the table hid everything.
The waiter saw only two students at a table, one with a faint flush and one with a polite smile.
Under it, Nellie’s stockinged foot slid up along the length of him and down again, clumsy and gentle, and each time it moved he felt the soft, warm slide of nylon over his cock through the cloth of his trousers.
She was not good at this.
She did not know where to press or how fast to go, and twice her toes slipped off the side and had to climb back on.
But she was trying so hard.
She watched his face for any change, and when his breath hitched, she repeated whatever she had just done, slower, with a tiny, secret, satisfied lift at the corner of her mouth.
The damp lace in her pocket pressed against her thigh every time she shifted.
He was hard again in seconds.
After everything that had happened in this room, he had not thought it was possible.
The fabric of his trousers pulled tight.
He could feel the heat of her foot even through the layers.
"Would you care for a taste of the wine sauce, sir?" the waiter asked, holding the little silver boat above the lamb.
"Yes," Lor said, and his voice came out half an octave too high. "Please."
She pressed down with the ball of her foot, and rolled it, slowly, and Lor gripped the edge of the table until the wood creaked.
The waiter took his time.
He poured the sauce in a careful spiral. He adjusted the position of the plate by half an inch. He straightened a fork.
Lor stared at the lamb and counted the slices, the herbs, the grain of the crust, anything at all.
Heat was gathering low and tight in his stomach, and Nellie’s foot kept rubbing, patient and unsteady and shy, and the pleasure climbed with every stroke.
The nylon was warm and thin.
He could feel the outline of her toes through the cloth, the soft ball of her foot pressing against the hard line of his cock. Each slow roll dragged the fabric across the sensitive head.
He was close.
He could feel how close.
It was ridiculous, and he was going to come in his trousers in front of a man holding a sauce boat.
A bead of precum had already soaked through the front of the fabric.
He could feel it cooling against his skin.
Something small and soft hit the floor.
"Oh," Nellie said, in a voice that was almost too quiet to hear. "I’m sorry. My purse."
The foot slid away from him.
"Allow me, miss," the waiter began.
"No, no, it’s fine." She was already ducking her head. "I’ll get it. Please go on."
Lor had a single second to understand what was about to happen, and then the white cloth rippled, and she was gone.
He sat very still.
The waiter set down a plate of glowing fruit tarts, then a small teapot painted with jasmine flowers, and began to pour the first cup in a long, thin, steaming arc.
Under the table, something brushed his knee.
Hands, small and warm, found his calves, then his thighs.
She was crawling.
He could feel the shape of her moving through the dark space beneath the cloth, careful and quiet, until her breath touched the front of his trousers and he stopped breathing altogether.
The damp lace in her pocket pressed against her thigh as she shifted.
The smell of her arousal rose from between her legs, sweet and sharp, even through the cloth.
She unfastened him with trembling fingers.
The buckle first, then the buttons, one at a time. He did not look down.
He could not.
He kept his eyes on the lamb and his hands flat on the table, and told his face to do nothing. Cool air touched him when she pulled the fabric aside.
Then her warm breath.
His cock sprang free, thick and hard and flushed dark at the tip, a clear bead already gathering at the slit.
"Is the lamb to your liking, sir?" the waiter asked, setting down the second cup.
"It’s," Lor said, and her tongue touched him, and he lost the rest of the sentence. He pulled it back with an effort that felt physical. "It looks excellent."
"The chef will be pleased."
Then her mouth closed around him.
It was warm, and wet, and so unexpected after her foot that his hips almost came off the bench.
He locked every muscle in his legs.
Nellie, under the cloth, went still for a second, listening.
Then she began to move, slowly, with her lips tight and her tongue pressed flat against the underside, taking more of him each time she went down.
Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth and began to drip down his shaft and over her fingers.
The wet sound of it was soft but clear under the table.
Her tongue circled the head. She licked the bead of precum from the slit and swallowed.
He picked up his fork. It rattled against the plate. He put it down again.
"Will you be wanting anything else?" the waiter asked. He was standing less than an arm’s length away, hands folded behind his back, perfectly pleasant.
"No," Lor said. "Thank you. This is fine."
She sucked harder.
He stared at the tarts.
He studied the glaze on every one.
Her hand wrapped around the base of him and began to stroke in time with her mouth, shy and a little clumsy and absolutely determined, and her tongue circled the head every time she came up.