Controlled by Sir While Dining Out

Last week a family member and I had dinner out. A treat after Covid-19 restrictions. I sent Sir a message letting him know how long I’d be gone. I also sent a picture of the purple sheath dress I wore. It’d hung in my closet for two years. Last year I didn’t go anywhere, so no need to put it on. But the year I bought it, I wore it one time when I met a client. It was snug and not in a sexy way. Lumps and bumps of pudge bulged where I didn’t want them.

Sir prefers me to wear dresses. And I embrace that desire, most of the time. That night there wasn’t a question of putting on a dress. I was ecstatic as it skimmed my body like Sir’s hands caressing my torso, hips, and ass. I smoothed it, fixed the seams into place, and twisted and turned, studying myself in the mirror.

The way it cupped my breasts reminded me of Sir’s hands on me. No roll of fat beneath my arms, no tummy bulge. And, oh you should see my back. It’s been years since I had a svelte torso and shapely bum. I took a few shots, hoping Sir would be as happy as I was, sent them to him, then left for the restaurant.

Shoulders back and head held high, I strolled into the restaurant. I wanted every eye on me. Male and female. They needed to stop conversing, eating and drinking, and focus on me. I believe they did. (lol, mainly in my mind).

We were seated, ordered an appetizer, and chatted about our day. When the dragonfly maki (a form of sushi for those not aware) arrived, I pulled out my phone to take a picture. My niece and I share tons of food pictures. This time was no different.

Sir had texted. And I made the mistake of answering.

Are you wearing a bra on under that dress? No mention of how much I’d trimmed down or that I looked sexy. No, Sir homed in on the one thing he didn’t approve of.

Yes, Sir.

Go to the rstrm and lift yur tits out of yur bra.

The waiter came as I left the table. I went back and placed my order. A woman passed our table on the way to the restroom. A few seconds later another woman. Suddenly a line of three more women traipsed past.

I texted Sir. 5 women waiting in line for 2 stalls. BRB.

Lol. Just do it in the hallway, he texted.

Can’t, I’ll moon everyone, I replied.

Not a bad thing, he sent back.

I didn’t tell him a six-year-old girl leaned over the low wall staring at all of us waiting in the hall.

Finally, it was just the woman in front of me and me left in the bathroom. In the stall, I lifted my dress and did as Sir instructed. I took a picture of my bare tits. I lowered my dress, tits still out of my bra, and snapped another shot and sent it to him.

Call.

I hit his contact info in the text message.

“Now don’t you feel freer?”

“Yes, Sir.” I truly did. I hate bras. However, I don’t like sagging breasts. Add extra pushups, I said to myself.

“Keep them out. Let them shake, no wiggle, that’s a much better word. Pinch those nipples, get them hard. I want everyone to see them as you walk back through the restaurant. Come.”

A small orgasm fluttered my pussy.

I know you’re not wearing any panties, are you?” he suddenly asked.

I knew better than to put on a pair. “No, Sir, I’m not.”

“When you’re seated at the table, I want you to clench that pussy. I want you wet, your clit throbbing. Do it over and over.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Come.” A woman and little girl entered the bathroom just as Sir commanded me to come. This orgasm was stronger, knowing they might hear my moans. I leaned a hand on the wall for support and let the orgasm wash over me.

“Pinch your nipples. Come,” he said twice more. He reminded me of his requirement and gave me another assignment for later that night.

We hung up.

I strode out of the bathroom. My head held just as high as it had been when I came in. This time because Sir used his property.

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