5 comments/ 14350 views/ 6 favorites Dinner in Chicago Pt. 01 By: subbiemac 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... Dinner in Chicago Pt. 02 Continued from Part 1: I see the waitress approaching from across the room, the key bouncing on the chain about her neck as she strides toward our table. No! Wait! I need more time! A few minutes to puzzle this out, please! But time now makes no difference. You'll reveal nothing else - you're enjoying my torment too much. And I can't read the waitress at all. I'm cornered prey before you, and you relish my discomfort. "Can I get you anything else? Dessert?" she asks as she reaches our table. Dessert! Yes! Those extra minutes might be my salvation. Maybe you'll give up some key tell. "No, thanks," you answer, before I can speak up. "We'll grab something sweet later tonight, I'm sure. I think we're ready for the check, right, pet?" Pet?!?!? Is that a clue? That means the waitress knows, right? The pounding of my heart in my chest is deafening. And yet you sit there with that tilt of your head and that grin... "Um, yeah... Sure," I stutter. It has to be now! I have to say something! But what? "Ok, I'll go get everything that you need. Be right back," the waitress replies. Was that another wink to you? Or am I imagining things?!? "Everything that we need?" Does that mean that she'll tuck the necklace and key in with the check? Can I stop worrying about how to broach the topic with her? "Pet," you say, somewhat sharply, interrupting my thoughts. "I think the service here has been top notch. I think our waitress deserves a very generous tip, don't you?" The head tilt. The grin. The wink. I stare at you, eyes wide. I cannot form a coherent thought in my mind. I know you're toying with me, but that knowledge alone does me no good. I search your eyes and your face for any hint about what you've revealed, any clue. But nothing - just that grin and that twinkle in your eye. My time is up. The waitress stands beside our table and lays the check upon it, the necklace and key still around her neck. I grab cash out of my wallet and hesitate. I close my eyes, take a breath, and stutter, "Um, yeah, thanks. The food was great... Thanks... Yeah... So, the, um, necklace...?" "This?" she asks, running her fingers down the chain. "Oh, thanks. I almost forgot. Your date asked me to hold onto it. She said it was a key to something very valuable to you." What to say? How much are you two toying with me? "Um, yeah... Yes, it is. So, can we have it back?" I ask, feeling the beads of sweat on my forehead. "What's it a key to? It looks too small for a safe deposit box," the waitress responds, drawing out the tension. "Um, nothing, really," I offer. "I doubt it's 'nothing,' or you wouldn't ask for it back," she replies, looking me directly in the eye. Has she copied the way you tilt your head and grin, or am I reading too much into her expression? How much to give up? How much to reveal? How much of my dignity must I sacrifice? I look across the table, but you are no help for me. You're resting your chin in your hands, eyebrows raised. To anyone else in the world, that is an innocent look. But I know better. You are toying with me, and enjoying every minute. "I mean, is it money? Bonds? A family heirloom?" the waitress asks, locking my gaze with hers. "Jewels," you interrupt, barely suppressing a snicker. My mouth is dry. My heart is pounding. I am paralyzed to respond. I can feel every slow, painful tick of the clock... I'm tempted to say nothing. My fear of humiliation is too great. But can I take that risk? If I'm wrong and pass up my only change to regain what proves to be the real key, your torment will be relentless. My glance darts back and forth between you and the waitress. Time stands still as I brace myself, take a deep breath, and start to confess my situation. "Um, she... My..." I try to start, hesitantly. "Well, never mind," the waitress interrupts. "No biggie. Here," she says as she lifts it over her head and lays it on the table before walking away. I close my eyes and exhale. You don't even try to stifle your laugh "Oh, now THAT was fun!" you exclaim. I'm numb. I look at you, with complete resignation in my face. In response, you offer the head tilt, the grin and the twinkle in your eye, removing any remaining doubt that you own me. "OK, you've been such a good sport. You deserve a reward, but first you need to do just a little more to earn it. Let's get back to the hotel," you say, as you stand, drape the chain and key back over your neck and grab my hand, leading me from the restaurant into the open, downtown air... Dinner in Chicago Pt. 03 We exit the car, enter the hotel lobby and walk toward the bar. "Get us a couple of spots at the bar, pet" you tell me. "I'm going to visit the ladies' room." The bar is only semi-crowded, so I easily find two adjacent stools. I suck in my breath as I sit uncomfortably, the unforgiving butt plug reminding me of its presence as I settle my weight on the bar stool. Not sure what you might want to drink, I defer the bartender's question and scan the patrons. The bar seems to draw an attractive, but eclectic crowd. Urban professionals - classy, but nonetheless a meat market. A few minutes later, you stride into the bar with confidence, and I notice the not-so-subtle gazes you attract. They admire the dress that hugs your curves, and the features that it reveals - your toned legs, your strong arms, and the defined features about your head and neck. You've worked hard to achieve your level of fitness, and the result is impressive. Some might be intimidated by you, but those who are simply aren't worth your time. I'm a bit shocked as you walk past the vacant stool beside me, and settle instead on one a little further down the bar. I start to stand up from my stool to follow you, but my phone buzzes and I see your text: [Stay, pet] I swallow hard, glance in your direction, and see that grin, that tilt of your head. I've no doubt that the next phase of the evening will prove uncomfortable for me, but I'm powerless to resist. I settle back onto the stool as easily as I can, the butt plug and cock cage reminding me of who is in charge. Your intricate tattoo sleeves never fail as an icebreaker, and it's not long before you draw a small crowd of curious onlookers, both male and female. You entertain their questions with grace, tolerating the ignorant ones ("Why did you want to do that?") and indulging the more serious ones ("Wow - what do you have planned next?"). Most of the women around you seem a bit insecure as they hold their own dates a little closer, intimidated by the aura you exude and its obvious effects on their male partners. A couple of men who are on their own actively vie for your attention, and you string them along, identifying no obvious favorites. You spread your legs slightly as you sit on the stool, revealing subtly that you are wearing no panties. Was this for my benefit? Those standing around you are no doubt too close to see, but it was obvious to me from several feet down the bar. A drink appears in your hand, and you sip it with appreciation, smiling coyly as you do. It wasn't from me - which of your suitors bought it for you? You still deftly avoid picking a favorite, toying with all of them as you enjoy the hunt. I catch the bartender's eye, order a drink, and turn my attention to the TVs behind the bar. Over time, the crowd around you thins a bit, and the women succeed in dragging their partners away from you, hinting at the lectures each will receive later for succumbing even slightly to your charms. Only two men remain, and you flirt with them mercilessly, playing them off against each other, before ultimately dismissing them both abruptly. Puzzled at your seemingly sudden change of heart and not realizing that they never really stood a chance, they collect their drinks, tuck their tails between their legs, and wander away from the bar, searching for less discerning companions. I start to rise from the stool, again to join you where you sit. But again, my phone buzzes and I see your text: [Stay, pet] I look over at you, confused. You reveal nothing other than the tilt of your head and that grin that melts me. Unexpectedly, a woman sits down on the still vacant barstool beside me. I hadn't even noticed her come in, fixed as I was on the dance you were orchestrating at the end of the bar. I smile politely, and she reaches out to touch my arm gently. "Hi," she says. "I'm Lisa. Is this seat taken?" She must have considered it a rhetorical question, since she asked it only after sitting down. "Um, well," I stutter, looking over at you. To my surprise, you raise your eyebrows and smile. You don't seem threatened - likely because you know you shouldn't be. You turn to your phone, and few seconds later, mine buzzes with your text: [Well - looks like pet is as player. This might be fun.] My only desire is to take you back to our hotel room and make love to you, but the evening is clearly still young for you, and the game is on. "Are you in town for business or pleasure?" Lisa asks, trying to draw my gaze back to her. "Pleasure, apparently," I reply. My phone buzzes: [Don't be rude. Buy her a drink!] My eyes widen as I glance at you. You smile calmly and nod. What is this game that you're playing? "Can I, um, buy you a drink?" I ask, hesitantly. "Sure," Lisa responds. "But don't assume I'm easy. That will take at least two drinks," she says with a wink. Lisa proves a pleasant, if somewhat naïve woman. I politely make small talk, offering vague, noncommittal responses to her questions. My eyes continue to dart over to you, expecting anger, but I see only amusement. You don't feel threatened by this woman, but rather seem entertained by watching me fumble my responses, not knowing what you expect of me. [She seems quite enamored with you, pet] your text appears. [Be polite to her] By the end of her second drink, Lisa seems a bit unstable on the stool. She's giggling more than the conversation merits, and she begins to reach frequently to caress my arm, holding my gaze as she does. I must look like a deer caught in the glare of headlights, frozen by your complete lack of jealousy or anger. I am completely stumped about why you seem to want me to continue this engagement. Lisa orders her own third drink, telling the bartender to put it on my tab. "I think he's trying to get me drunk," she tells her with a slow wink. Lisa falters a bit as she stands from her stool and presses herself closer to me. She wraps her left arm around my waist and begins caressing my knee with her right, slowing working her way up my inner thigh. And then it hits me: the cock cage! I understand completely how you're toying with me now. You've been setting me up for this. This woman is bound to feel the cage under my pants. What will I do? Can I discourage her attention now? I look over to you in panic, only to see that grin and that tilt of your head. You've been wondering when I would figure it out, and are now entertained as it all becomes painfully apparent to me. Just then, Lisa turns toward me, tilts her head back and invites me in for a kiss, just as your hand slides the rest of the way up my thigh. I start and she reaches the cage, obviously puzzled by its feel. She pulls back in shock and looks at me, a dozen unasked questions on her face. "I, um..." I stutter. What do I say? How do I explain? Can I salvage my dignity? Can I at least avoid a scene? "I'm owned," I finish, hoping that the simple explanation is all that will be required. "What do you mean?" she asks, puzzled. "My penis," I reply. "It's locked up. And my girlfriend holds the key." "Are you kidding me?" she asks, more loudly than I would like. "No, he's not," you say, sharply. I hadn't even noticed you approaching. "Time to run along, little girl. He's mine. Isn't that right, pet?" "Yes. Yes it is," I reply, meekly, and yet relieved to be once again clearly in your control...