Dinner in Chicago Pt. 01

You knock on the bathroom door. "Are you ready to go, pet? I'm getting hungry."

I look once more in the mirror, nervous that everything will be obvious to anyone giving more than a casual glance. But the butt plug you have ordered me to wear seems discreet, and the cock cage shows no obvious bulge in my pants. Similarly, the blazer seems to hide the protrusions from the nipple clamps under my shirt, although it also rubs against them, making them tug and pull slightly.

Steeling myself, I exit the bathroom.

"Comfortable?" you ask, tilting your head slightly as you give me that naughty and knowing grin. Your eyes twinkle; the question is, of course, rhetorical, but you want to hear me say it.

"No, but I guess that's the point, isn't it?" I smile, a bit sheepishly.

You wink as you reply, "don't worry too much, pet. We'll take care of you. C'mon, let's go."

We ride the elevator to the street level and exit the hotel. Once outside, I call for the Uber car and, while we wait, you hand me your coat and gracefully turn your back to let me help you don it. After you get your right arm into the sleeve, I feel you reach down and firmly grip my cock cage through my pants. You give it a tug, as if I needed any reminder about who is in charge this evening. You insert your left arm into the jacket, turn, giving me a wink and that coquettish grin that I cannot resist.

The Uber car pulls up within a couple of minutes. You sit down in the back seat, but surprise me by not sliding over. Instead, you close the door, roll down the window and say to me, "Start walking, pet. I'll meet you there."

And with that, the car pulls away.

There is only a slight chill in the air, and the restaurant is only a mile away, but the butt plug and nipple clamps remind me of their presence with every step of the twenty- minute walk.

I arrive at the restaurant to find you sitting at the bar. You've left your coat in the coat-check, so your intricately tattooed arms stand out from your sleeveless dress. You are absolutely stunning, and I can see many of the bar patrons admiring you. I'm sure they are envious as I approach you and give you a gentle kiss on the neck. I no doubt appear quite the player, but if they knew about the cage, the plug and the clamps, they would understand who's really in charge for tonight.

The hostess approaches, gets our attention and leads us to our table. As you sit down, the candlelight glints tauntingly off the key that hangs on the chain between your breasts - the key to the cage that keeps me entrapped and in your playful control. You notice my gaze and take the opportunity to run your fingers along the chain, and that grin returns once again to your face.

The attractive waitress approaches to take our drink order.

"Hello, I'm Ashleigh," she introduces herself. "I'll be taking care of you this evening."

You let the key dangle as you hold the chain in your fingers for an extra moment. I nervously glance at you, knowing that it was neither a casual nor an accidental gesture, and hope that the waitress didn't notice. You lock eyes with me, drop the chain so the key settles again between your breasts, and say, "I think he needs another couple of minutes to review the wine list. He's been a bit . . . distracted."

"Absolutely," she replies. "Take your time." She walks away, but I could swear she gives you a wink as she does.

With your gaze still locked with mine, you tilt your head and ask, "See anything you want - on the wine list?" Your grin is my kryptonite.

I select a nice, dry red and request it when the waitress returns. I'm worried about the smile she gives me as she takes the order. How much has she already figured out from the previous exchange? How much does she know about the control you have? How obvious is it that you're toying with me?

The waitress leaves to retrieve the bottle, and our eyes meet again. "I'm chilly," you note. "Can I wear your jacket?"

My eyes widen slightly with worry as I process your question. Without my blazer, the nipple clamps might be more detectable from under my shirt. Maybe I'm reading too much into your question, though. My reply hints at what I hoped you meant.

"Would you like me to get your coat from the coat-check?" I ask, hopefully.

"No, I don't need anything that heavy," you answer. "And, besides, don't you think I look cute in your jacket?" The tilt of your head. The grin on your face. The mischievous twinkle in your eye.

I stand, walk behind your chair, remove my blazer, and drape it over your shoulders. The nipple clamps are subtle, but no doubt visible to anyone looking closely. "Thank you, pet," you say as you pull me down to give me a peck on the cheek. "Much better."

The waitress returns with our bottle, opens it and pours. I'm sure I notice a slight double-take, but perhaps that's just my paranoia. I swirl the wine in the glass, raise it to my nose to smell, and take a sip, trying to keep my arms in front of my chest to hide the slight bulges of the clamps the entire time, I nod my approval to the waitress.

"Wait, honey," you interrupt. "Can I sample, too? I want to make sure I do it as you've taught me." You extend your arm, but only a short distance across the table. To give you my glass, I'll have no choice but to pull my arm away from my chest.

I pause, but that head tilt and that grin... I resign myself and hand you the glass, knowing that the waitress can no doubt see the clamps if she looks down at my chest.

"Mmm. That is good. Thanks," you say to the waitress. And again I think I see a wink.

I again move my arms close to my chest, trying to salvage my dignity, as we order our entrees. The waitress takes the order and leaves.

We sit for several minutes. My mind reels. How much has the waitress deduced about my situation? Is she sharing her suspicions with the rest of the wait staff? Is it obvious to the other patrons of the restaurant? Will the waitress or a patron complain to the manager, who might make a scene and ask us to leave?

"I'm proud of you, pet," you say after several more minutes, as you reach across the table gently to take my left hand in your right. I notice as you do that the black collar with the small, studs - the one that you often place around my neck and to which you attach my leash during our private play sessions - is wrapped around your wrist as a bracelet.

"You're being such a good sport," you continue, "and I'm almost sorry about the clamps. They really are more visible than I thought they would be. You have permission to go to the restroom to remove them. Just put them in your pocket when you do. We're done with them . . . for now."

"Thank you," I reply, as I accept your leniency and stand up. I'm still faced now with the seemingly eternal walk across the restaurant to the restroom, and I feel all eyes upon me as I make that journey, but it's still the lesser of evils when compared to the thought of keeping them on for the remainder of dinner.

I enter a stall, reach up under my shirt and remove the first clamp from my nipple. I try to press my hand against it, but the returning blood flow and resulting sensation prove agonizing, nonetheless. I repeat the process for the other one, endure the inevitable pain, re-tuck my shirt, and return to the table.

We sit, chat and sip our wine, refilling our glasses as needed. As we pick at our salads, you remove your shoe under the table, and I feel your foot slip just inside the cuff of my pants to caress my leg. A few moments later you get bolder, placing your foot on my chair between my legs and tapping it against my cock cage - again, a superfluous reminder of my predicament.

As my gaze runs over you, I notice that something has changed, but I can't figure out what. My senses tell me that it's something important, but I just can't pin it down. My mind is reeling from being toyed with all evening, and the wine isn't helping.

Then it hits me. The necklace with the key to my cage - it's gone! It's not hanging around your neck anymore. I try to suppress my panic. Where could it have gone? It can't be lost!

"Um, sweetheart," I ask, hesitantly. "Did you go to the restroom, too - while I was up from the table?"

"Why do you ask, pet?" You reply, raising your eyebrows.

"Um, well..." I whisper. "Your necklace. The key?"

"Oh, that. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't scare you. I guess I felt a little guilty about displaying it. Don't worry. It's safe. I can get to it when I need to," you reply with a wink.

Relieved, I sit back and relax, and we return our attention to our salads.

A few moments later the waitress returns with our entrees. As she bends over slightly to place the plates on the table, I see it: a key on a chain, dangling out slightly from between her breasts. My eyes widen as I breathe in sharply. It can't be! You wouldn't have! I don't recall seeing her wearing it before, but surely you wouldn't have given it to her.

"Does everything look good?" the waitress asks. I say nothing, but you lock eyes with me, grin slightly and reply, "Perfect. Everything looks great. Thanks."

Panicked, I ignore the plate in front of me and stare at you in shock. You cut yourself a small bite, raise the fork to your mouth, and ask, "Everything OK, Pet? You look . . . concerned. What's wrong - cat got your tongue? Or your key?" You wink, smile, and put the bite of food in your mouth.

"How could you?!?" I whisper, sharply.

"Easy, pet. Careful of your tone. You're not bargaining from a position of strength right now."

I pause. "What did you tell her?" I ask, more respectfully, but equally as nervous.

"Nothing," you reply. "Or everything.

"You were in the bathroom for several minutes. Maybe she asked me about the nipple clamps and then maybe I told her all about your little cage and your cock all locked up and frustrated within it. Maybe I told her about how your tongue - amazing as it is - seems even more attentive when you're desperate for release. Maybe I told her all about how I control you and how we've expanded our bedroom games on our little trip here to Chicago, far away from home.

"Or maybe I told her nothing and just asked her to wear it for me." You take another bite, your typical devilish grin this time absent, leaving a poker face betraying nothing.

"When are you going to ask her to return it?" I ask, increasingly worried about my predicament.

"I'm not," you reply, curtly. "I'm not the one who wants it."

I pause, then say, "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Oh, you know exactly what I mean, pet," you say calmly, with a smirk growing in the corner of your mouth. "If you want that key, you'll need to ask her for it."

I sit stunned. What kind of gamesmanship is this? I've always admired your cleverness, but even knowing how intelligent you are doesn't help me read you.

As your smirk grows, I know that you recognize that all of the possibilities are playing themselves out in my mind. First, is that the real key? Have you given her another key and told her nothing, hoping to trick me into revealing my situation on my own? If I say nothing and don't get the key back, do you nonetheless have the real one with you to free me later, after the joke is over?

Or is it the real key, but you've told her nothing? Have you already arranged for her to return it before we leave the restaurant, requiring me to reveal nothing? Or is there no pre-arranged return, leaving it to me to say something, but perhaps not reveal the entire truth? The risk, of course, being that if we leave the restaurant without the key, I'll have no chance for release until we return from our trip to the spare key at your house.

Or is it the real key, and the waitress is completely in the know? Is she, like you, enjoying watching me twist in the wind? Will she nonetheless require me to confirm what you've told her, and what other stipulations might she impose before returning the key?

I look at you, in a near panic. You reply only with that grin - that maddening grin. You take another bite as you savor both the meal and your control over me.

To be continued...