(Inspired by “When Harry Met Sally” and “The Ugly Truth”)
For our 30th anniversary, my husband Tom made reservations at our favorite restaurant, a neighborhood bistro, and then texted me explicit directions.
“You will be there precisely at 7 o’clock. You will wear a black wrap dress, black push-up bra, black fishnet stockings, and black stiletto heels. And no panties.
“There will be an empty chair at the far corner of the bar. You will order a vodka martini, straight up with a twist.”
“At 7:15, the bartender will hand you a package. You are to wait until the ladies’ room is unoccupied. You will take the package to the ladies’ room, lock the door behind you and open it. Inside will be further instructions.”
I was intrigued. Tom and I sometimes engage in some harmless role play to spice things up, but we can never stay in character for very long. We always wind up laughing and reverting to our boring middle-aged selves. But something about the serious tone of Tom’s text messages made me think that this time might be different.
I rushed through my day, checking my phone occasionally for new texts. Nothing. The mystery was getting me a little turned on. I decided I would play along.
I took a luxurious bath. I shaved my legs and trimmed up a bit, hoping something special was in store for me. I put on my most elegant black lingerie and expensive stockings—things that rarely make it out of my bottom drawer—and caught a glimpse of myself in our full-length mirror. Not bad for a 50 plus GILF.
I went to my closet, wondering what I could improvise into a sexy black wrap dress. To my surprise, there was a blue box with a red bow sitting on my dressing chair. How had I missed that this morning?
I opened the box. Inside there was a black cocktail dress. I tried it on, and it fit me like a second skin. There was no way to hide my ample cleavage. I thought about pinning it up but decided, Why not give Tom a little anniversary show?
I finished getting ready, hopped into my soccer mom SUV, and drove the half-mile to the restaurant. But Tom’s car was nowhere in sight.
In the parking lot, I remembered that I had been explicitly instructed, “no panties.” So I slid them off and, to my surprise, found them damp with excitement. I folded the black lace into my purse and walked into the dark restaurant, expecting the usual greeting from the pretty maître d’.
But instead of a friendly “Hi, Mrs. A. Where’s Mr. A?” she gave me a wink and escorted me to the empty barstool. A cold Martini was waiting.
I took a seat and realized, to my embarrassment, that the dress not only showed plenty of cleavage but also revealed my stockings all the way up my thighs. I tucked the silk fabric in as best I could and took a sip of the Martini. It was ice-cold, dry, perfect.
As I expected, the bartender eyed my décolletage (in this outfit, any man would) and glanced around as if someone was watching him. Then he placed a small box beside the Martini glass. I scanned the room for Tom but only saw couples I did not recognize engrossed in drinks and conversation.
I picked up the box; it was heavier than I expected it to be. I checked the ladies’ room and found it empty, so I quietly slid the lock across the door and untied the package’s black lace ribbon.
Inside was a note, a small black silk bag, and a U-shaped hot pink vibrator, fully charged.
The note read: “Take the vibrator and slide one end inside you. Place the other end against your clit. The shape will hold it in place. Do not turn it on. Put your panties back on. Keep your hands in sight when you return to the bar.”
I did as I was instructed. The vibrator was cold, but I was so turned on that it slid easily inside me.
Back at the bar, I sat down and took another sip of the Martini. Suddenly the vibrator inside me came to life. Startled, I jumped a little on the bar stool. My free hand shot to my crotch, and then I remembered, “hands in sight.” Trying to stay cool, I sipped my drink and checked my phone.
“That’s odd,” I thought. I had a new app on my screen that had just loaded. It was called “AvecPlaisir,” and although I could open it, I could not control it. It showed a flashing temperature – 98.2, 98.3 – a pulse rate 60,62 – and a dark gray graph with a bright pink line, slowly moving in gentle waves to the rhythm of the pulsations between my moistening thighs.
I felt the toy getting warmer and heard a faint low humming. Thank goodness the restaurant was busy. I hoped the young bartender could not hear anything, but I noticed him watching me out of the corner of his eye, a sly smile on his face.
Where was Tom? Surely he was behind all this, but how? Then I noticed a familiar handsome face, sitting at a corner table, staring down at his phone. He swiped his screen with his finger, then looked up and smiled at me.
The vibrator shot up in intensity, and I nearly fell off the barstool. I looked at Tom and silently mouthed, “What are you doing to me?” He just grinned and swiped again, and the device changed its rhythm to a low, pulsating disco beat. I could see my body temperature and pulse rate increase on the app screen on my phone, and I tried to breathe deeply and concentrate on not looking too conspicuous.
It was obvious that Tom was trying to make me come at the bar of our favorite restaurant. I was not about to let him!
I stood up and walked wide-legged (as best I could) over to Tom, grabbed his arm, pulled him out of the front door, and straight to his car. He was laughing and following my lead.
”OK, OK. Just having some sexy fun, right? You don’t want to have a leg shaking orgasm in our favorite restaurant?”
“There are children in there!” I screamed.
“What are you talking about? There are no children in there!”
“Well, there are people in there who are our children’s age!” I wasn’t making much sense, and my pussy was still dancing around under my skirt like a drunk stripper.
“Our kids are 25 and 28! They probably have their own collection of sex toys!” Tom tried to reason with me.
“Ooooh. Wow, that feels good. OUR CHILDREN WERE RAISED IN A CHRISTIAN HOME! They do NOT own ddd…dildos! Or bbb…butt plugs! Or remote control vvv…vibrating pppp…panties!” I was losing it.
Tom’s face brightened. “You have a butt plug? Where? I’ve never seen it.”
“No, I don’t have a butt plug!” I shouted. A couple getting out of their car looked over at me wide-eyed, then locked their doors and ran into the restaurant—to get away from the crazy lady who didn’t have a butt plug!
“Take me home this instant!” I insisted.
Tom started the car and dug out of the parking lot, then put his hand on my leg and said, “Annie, I’m so sorry. You’re not really mad, are you?”
I tried to look stern, but Tom was so cute, I started to laugh.
“We don’t know those people, do we?”
“Not really. That was the Stephensons. They go to our church.”
“WHAT?!” I screamed.
”Just kidding,” Tom said. “Um, maybe this is not a good time to say this, but I can feel you vibrating all the way over here. Do you want me to turn it down a little?”
“Oh. No. It actually feels wonderful.”
“Let’s go home and finish what we started, then go back and get a bite to eat,” Tom suggested. “You look amazing!”
“I CAN’T GO BACK IN THERE!?” I shrieked. “What about Mrs. Stephenson!?!”
“Well, maybe she can loan you her butt plug,” Tom suggested with a wry smile.
We pulled into the driveway. I ran inside, removed the vibrator, put my panties back on, checked my makeup, and ran back to the car. “I’m actually starving,” I admitted. “No one really saw anything, right?”
”No way! That place was packed! No one paid us any attention,” Tom assured me.
“OK, take me back. I hope we don’t see the Stephensons.”
“Not till Sunday morning at least.” I hoped he was kidding.
We slunk back into the restaurant. No one said a word. Whew. At least, not until dessert. The pretty maître d’ came over and said, “Our chef has a special surprise for you.” They presented me with a cake and a card.
I opened it, and it read, “Happy Anniversary to our favorite couple. We’ll have what she’s having!”
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