Chapter 21: Flirtatious Fantasy
The air in their new, modern apartment felt thick with expectation as Cristina emerged from the bedroom. She shimmered – a vision in a dangerously short, electric blue dress that clung like a second skin to curves she usually hid. The neckline plunged, showcasing smooth skin and the impressive swell of her breasts, while the hem barely grazed mid-thigh, highlighting legs made longer by spike heels. Her dark hair was sleek, lips a glossy pink. She’d even dabbed on a hint of floral perfume, a scent utterly alien to her usual self.
David, perched on the blood red chaise that Cristina and Veronica had decadently christened, dropped his phone. His mouth hung slightly open. "Whoa. Cris? What's...?"
"It's Saturday night, baby," she purred, her voice pitched higher, sweeter, dripping with a practiced innocence she’d been refining since crafting the character with Veronica's help. She sauntered over, the click-clack of her heels echoing. "Surprise! We're going somewhere nice tonight... the initials are M and F. And look what I got you!" She produced a crisp, pale blue button-down shirt and a pair of dark slacks she’d ordered earlier, holding them up like trophies.
David blinked, scrambling to sit upright. "Musso & Frank? Like… that Musso & Frank? Cris, I mean… Doll, that place is…" He gestured vaguely at his own attire. "I'm not dressed for that."
"That's why I got you these, silly!" She giggled, a light, airy sound. "Come on, let's get you out of those rags." Her fingers were already tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. He resisted weakly, a flush creeping up his neck.
"Babe, seriously, I can dress myself."
"But where's the fun in that?" She pouted, batting her eyelashes dramatically. She pushed him gently back onto the couch as his shirt came off, her fingers tracing the lines of his chest. "Mmm, you look good enough to eat already." She held the new shirt open. "Arms up!"
He complied, still looking bewildered but undeniably intrigued. As he slid his arms into the sleeves, Cristina leaned in close, her breath warm on his ear. "Gotta look proper for dinner, handsome. Can't have my man looking like a slob when I look this fuckable, right?" She fastened the buttons slowly, deliberately, her knuckles brushing his skin each time. When she reached the last one, just below his navel, she let her hand linger, palm flat against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. "Someone's excited for Italian," she whispered, giving him a little squeeze that made him suck in a breath. "Hold that thought."
She made a show of helping him step into the chinos, her hands "accidentally" brushing places that made him jump. She tugged the zipper up slowly, her eyes locked on his, a playful smirk on her lips. "There," she announced, stepping back to admire him. "Look at you. All handsome and respectable." She adjusted his collar, her touch lingering. "Almost." With a final squeeze of his stiffening manhood, a lingering promise of future adventures.
The drive to Hollywood was bathed in the fading orange light of dusk. David seemed quieter, more focused on the road than usual, his knuckles whitening slightly on the steering wheel. Cristina let the silence simmer for a few blocks, the low hum of the engine the only sound. Then, with a deliberate slowness, she unbuckled her seatbelt. The click echoed in the quiet car.
"I don't think I can wait for dinner, baby," she murmured, her voice thick with sweetness. "I'm just too.... hungry..."
She slid gracefully across the leather seat, the short dress riding up even higher, exposing the firm, rounded curve of her ass. David’s gaze flickered down for a split second. "Uh, Cris… what are you—?"
"Hush," she whispered, her fingers already working at his belt buckle. The rasp of leather sliding free was loud. The button popped next, then the zipper slid down. He stiffened, his breath catching. "But, someone could see…"
"Why do you think I wore such a hot dress?" she breathed, dipping her head. Her glossy lips parted. She didn't hesitate, taking him fully into her mouth, warm and wet. David gasped, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His foot jerked slightly on the accelerator before he forced himself to steady it, his hands clenching hard enough to make the leather-wrapped steering wheel creak.
Cristina worked with practiced precision, a technique she’d studied in the very videos David thought were hidden. She hollowed her cheeks, used her tongue, applied just the right pressure – all while keeping one eye on the road ahead. She felt the tension coil in him, heard the sharp, ragged breaths he tried to suppress. The vibration of the car, the scent of his cologne mixed with her perfume, the taste of him – it was a heady, powerful cocktail.
He somehow managed to keep the car on the road, and she felt it slowing, perfect timing to keep him thoroughly aroused and on edge.
"Oh, we're here!" she said brightly, her lips popping off of his throbbing cock as though it was utterly ordinary to arrive at a valet stand mid-blow-job. She didn't bother to fix her dress, stepping out as the wide-eyed valet opened the car door.
"Cris," David said with a choked tone. She glanced down, noticing that one light pink aureola was visible above the low neckline, and giggled.
"Oops," she said carelessly, adjusting her dress, making sure to give the valets an eyeful of her round, perky breasts as she tugged it upwards just an inch. David came around to take her arm, and she leaned on him as they walked in, enjoying the feel of her augmented tits pressing into his side and the breeze on her tight ass, nearly exposed by the mini-dress.
Musso & Frank hit them like a wall of warm, aromatic chaos as they stepped inside. The buzz of conversation, the clatter of cutlery on plates, the rich smells of garlic, tomatoes, and roasting meat. Red-and-white checked tablecloths blurred together under the warm glow of vintage lamps. Every head seemed to turn as Cristina led David towards their table. The tiny blue dress, the long legs, the sheer presence of her bimbo self cut through the restaurant's old-world charm like a laser. Men stared openly; women glanced, some with envy, some with disapproval.
David walked stiffly beside her, still radiating the heat she’d stoked in the car, his discomfort palpable. Cristina revelled in it. She swayed her hips just a little more, letting her heel catch slightly so she had to steady herself against his arm, pressing her breast against him. "Oopsy," she giggled, loud enough for nearby diners to hear.
A young waiter, dark-haired and flustered, rushed over. "Good evening! Table for two? Right this way." His eyes darted nervously, repeatedly drawn back to Cristina’s cleavage as he led them to a small table near the back. She flashed him a dazzling, vacant smile.
"Thanks, sweetie! This is perfect." She slid into her chair, crossing her legs slowly, ensuring the hem rode up another perilous inch. David sat opposite, his discomfort with the spectacle warring with his pride at being seen with the hottest woman in the room and his arousal at her exhibitionism. Cristina, meanwhile, was very gradually parting her legs, the dress sliding up her shapely legs until her panties were just barely visible.
The waiter fumbled with menus. "Can I get you started with drinks? Our house Chianti is excellent..."
"Oh, I love Chianti," Cristina chirped, leaning forward conspiratorially, giving him an unobstructed view down her dress. "Two glasses, please? And lots of ice water for my big, strong man here." She winked at David. "Gotta keep him hydrated." The waiter stammered an agreement and fled.
David leaned across the table, his voice low and tight. "Cris, you look amazing, but... people are staring. Are you going to get us kicked out?"
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Staring? At little ol' me?" She reached under the tablecloth, her hand finding his knee, then sliding steadily, purposefully, up the inside of his thigh, over the fine wool of his new slacks. Her fingers traced the hard outline of him beneath the fabric. He jumped, knocking his fork onto the floor with a clatter. "Oopsie daisy!" Cristina giggled, not retracting her hand. She squeezed gently. "Someone's still excited. Relax, baby. Enjoy the show. It's just for you." Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper that sent a visible shiver through him.
"You wanted me, baby, so here I am. Blonde hair, tiny dress, huge tits, tight ass. I'm your perfect slutty sex bomb girlfriend."
She spread her legs further, her panties now in full view. The crotch was soaking.
Her fingers moved again, a slow, deliberate stroke that took in the full length of his cock and made his breath hitch. He squirmed in his seat, trapped between public embarrassment and the urgent pressure of her hand.
David’s knuckles whitened on the tablecloth, sweat beading at his temple. Cristina’s fingers danced higher, tracing the straining outline beneath his slacks with deliberate, torturous slowness. He sucked in a sharp breath, the sound lost beneath the restaurant’s cheerful din. "Cris," he hissed, voice strained, "please... not here."
"Why not?" she whispered back, her eyes wide and guileless, a stark contrast to the knowing pressure of her hand. She squeezed, eliciting a choked gasp. "You love it. Admit it." Her thumb rubbed a slow circle over the head of his cock through the fabric, feeling the dampness seeping through. "See? Your body tells the truth." She leaned forward conspiratorially, the neckline of her dress gaping dangerously. "Bet you wish you could just bend me over this table right now, huh? Show everyone who owns this pussy." Her voice was sugar-coated venom.
The waiter reappeared, balancing two glasses of deep red Chianti and a sweating pitcher of ice water. His gaze flickered nervously towards Cristina, then hastily away. "Your drinks," he announced, placing them down with slightly trembling hands. He avoided looking directly at her, focusing intently on the tablecloth. "Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?"
Cristina withdrew her hand slowly, leaving David sagging slightly in relief mixed with acute frustration. She beamed at the waiter, the sudden shift jarring. "Oh, we definitely need menus, sweetie!" Her voice was bright, airy. "I’m starving! All this...anticipation." She fluttered her eyelashes. David stared fixedly at his wine glass, his face flushed crimson.
The waiter scurried off. Cristina picked up her wine glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip, her pinky finger extended. She watched David over the rim, a predatory glint in her eyes. "See?" she murmured, the sweetness dropping momentarily. "Easy. Just gotta play the part." She set the glass down, the crystal ringing softly. "Now, behave. Or I’ll start describing exactly what I want him to do to me later... loud enough for the nice couple next to us to hear." She gestured subtly with her chin towards an elderly pair engrossed in their pasta.
David’s head snapped up, panic flashing across his face. "Don’t."
"Then smile, baby," she commanded, her own smile widening into something dazzling and vacant. "Look like you’re having the time of your life with your perfect little fuckdoll." She uncrossed her legs deliberately, letting the hem ride high again, the damp lace of her panties clearly visible in the gap for a fleeting second before she recrossed them the other way. She sighed dramatically, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back to thrust her augmented chest forward. The movement pulled the thin strap of her dress taut against her shoulder.
The waiter returned with menus, his eyes darting towards the display. Cristina lowered her arms slowly, deliberately brushing against the basket of breadsticks he placed on the table. "Oopsy!" she exclaimed, a little too loudly. Her hand fluttered towards the basket as if to steady it. As she leaned forward, reaching across the table, the delicate strap of her electric blue dress slipped completely off her shoulder.
It happened fast. The thin fabric, strained by the movement and the weight beneath, slid down, baring the entire smooth, tanned curve of her right breast. The pink, pert nipple, hardened slightly from the cool air conditioning or pure adrenaline, was fully exposed. Time seemed to freeze. The clatter of cutlery, the murmur of conversation – it all faded into a muffled background hum for Cristina.
She didn’t immediately pull the dress up. She held the pose for a deliberate, heart-stopping beat, her eyes locking directly onto the waiter’s. His face drained of color, then flooded crimson. His mouth opened slightly, no sound emerging, his gaze frozen on the exposed flesh inches from his elbow. A breadstick tumbled unnoticed from the basket onto the red-checked cloth. Cristina’s lips curved into the faintest, most knowing smirk.
A murmur rippled through the restaurant, eyes . Time snapped back into focus, loud and jarring. Cristina felt the cool air on her bare skin, saw the waiter’s wide, excited eyes locked onto her exposed breast. Her nipple crinkled in unconscious arousal, Cristina's exhibitionist side reveling in the display, the attention. Her pussy was soaking by now, and she was tempted to try to ride David right there in the booth.
The waiter’s choked gasp was the loudest sound in the sudden bubble of silence surrounding their table. Cristina’s exposed breast felt cool under the restaurant’s air conditioning, the nipple tightening further under the waiter’s stunned, hungry gaze. A thrill, sharp and electric, shot straight to her soaking core. Yes. This was the power Veronica promised. This raw, undeniable attention.
David’s hand shot out, rough and urgent, grabbing the thin strap of her electric blue dress. He yanked it back onto her shoulder with a force that made her stumble slightly against the table. "A little clumsy there, Cris." he said, his voice tight with a mixture of nerves and something darker, hotter. His eyes darted around, taking in the frozen stares, the elderly couple’s open-mouthed shock, the waiter still rooted to the spot, face crimson. "Are you happy now?"
Cristina giggled, a high, brittle sound that cut through the lingering tension. She smoothed the dress fabric over her breast, her fingers lingering deliberately over the nipple. "Silly me!" she chirped, batting her eyelashes at the mortified waiter. "These straps are so slippery!" She leaned towards David, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper laced with honey. "Don’t be mad, baby. Look how hard he got." She subtly nodded towards the waiter’s tented trousers before turning her dazzling, vacant smile back on the young man. "We’ll have the spaghetti carbonara, sweetie. And another basket of breadsticks? That one seems to have… escaped." She gestured airily at the lone breadstick lying forgotten on the tablecloth.
The waiter stammered incoherently, snatched up the fallen breadstick like a live grenade, and practically sprinted towards the kitchen. David slumped back in his chair, running a shaky hand through his hair. He looked wrecked – flushed, furious, and undeniably aroused. Cristina watched him, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her glossy lips. She uncrossed her legs deliberately, letting the hem ride high again, thoroughly exposing herself. The damp lace of her thong glistened faintly in the warm lamplight. "See?" she murmured, her voice dropping back to that sultry whisper meant only for him. "Everyone wants me. But I’m yours." She took a slow sip of her Chianti, the deep red liquid staining her lips. "For now."
David stared at her, his breathing still ragged. The initial panic was fading, replaced by a dawning fascination. His gaze travelled from her glossy lips, down the plunging neckline, to the scandalous length of thigh exposed by the tiny dress. He watched the subtle shift of her augmented breasts beneath the thin fabric as she breathed. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You’re gonna get us arrested," he muttered, but the heat in his eyes contradicted the words. He picked up his own wine glass, draining half of it in one go.
Cristina leaned forward again, resting her elbows on the red-checked cloth. "Wouldn’t that be exciting?" she breathed, her eyes locked on his. "Imagine the headlines. ‘Blonde Bombshell Arrested for Public Indecency After Restaurant Striptease.’" She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip. "They’d take pictures. Lots of pictures." She saw the flicker in his eyes, the way his gaze dropped momentarily to her cleavage. The fear was morphing. Blending with the thrill she’d ignited in the car, with the primal pull of her blatant sexuality. He was starting to see it. The spectacle. The power it gave him by association.
The waiter returned cautiously, placing their carbonara plates down with exaggerated care, eyes firmly fixed on the tabletop. He practically threw the new breadsticks basket onto the table and vanished again. Cristina picked up her fork, twirling a strand of pasta coated in creamy sauce. She took a slow, deliberate bite, closing her eyes and letting out a soft, exaggerated moan of pleasure. "Mmm, soooo good," she sighed, licking a speck of sauce from her fork, her lips closing softly around the instrument.
The creamy carbonara coated Cristina’s tongue, rich and salty. She savored it, letting the moan linger, watching David’s reaction over the rim of her wine glass. He stared, fork hovering, caught between hunger for food and the undeniable hunger she’d stoked all evening. The low hum of the restaurant, the clinking silverware, the scent of garlic and wine – it all faded into a buzzing backdrop for the electric current crackling between them.
"Good?" David finally managed, his voice rough. He stabbed a forkful of pasta, avoiding her eyes.
"Delicious," Cristina purred, leaning forward conspiratorially. Her hand, hidden by the red-checked cloth, found his knee again. "Almost as good as…" Her fingers slid higher, tracing the inseam of his slacks, feeling the renewed hardness beneath the wool. He froze mid-chew, a flush creeping up his neck. "...dessert."
He swallowed hard, his knuckles white on the fork. "Cris…" It was a warning, but weak. Drowned out by the thrumming in his own veins she’d orchestrated.
Her fingers didn’t hesitate. They slipped past the waistband of his slacks, cool against the heated skin beneath his briefs. She found him, fully hard now, pulsing against her palm. Her thumb rubbed the head, slick with pre-come. David gasped, a sharp intake of breath lost beneath the restaurant’s cheerful din. His hips jerked involuntarily.
"Easy, baby," she whispered, her voice low and honeyed, dripping with false concern. "Just relax. Enjoy your pasta." She began a slow, deliberate stroke, her eyes locked on his face, watching the struggle play out – the panic warring with the intense pleasure she was wringing from him. He tried to take another bite, mechanically chewing while her hand worked him under the table. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
His free hand shot out beneath the tablecloth, groping blindly. It found the smooth skin of her exposed thigh, high up near the hem of the tiny dress. His fingers dug in, possessive, rough. They slid upwards, tracing the damp lace edge of her thong. He groaned softly, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against the fork he still held. His thumb pressed hard against the soaked fabric covering her clit.
"Fuck," he breathed, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. The conflict was dissolving, replaced by a raw, urgent need she’d meticulously cultivated. The fear of getting caught was morphing into fuel for the fire. "Take them off."
Cristina raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, feigning surprise. "My panties? Here?" Her hand never stopped its rhythmic motion on his cock.
"Now," David growled, his voice thick with desire. His fingers hooked into the side of her thong, pulling it taut against her skin. "Go to the bathroom. Take them off. Bring them back to me." It was a command, laced with the heat of ownership she’d promised him.
Cristina held his gaze, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her glossy lips. She withdrew her hand from his pants, leaving him achingly hard. David’s hand retreated from her thigh, leaving a phantom heat. He watched her, expecting her to slide out of the booth towards the restrooms.
She didn’t move.
Instead, Cristina uncrossed her legs deliberately. She hooked her thumbs into the delicate lace waistband of her electric blue thong, visible for a fleeting second beneath the scandalously short hem. With a fluid, almost casual motion, she wriggled her hips, sliding the scrap of fabric down her smooth thighs, past her knees. She lifted one foot, then the other, her spike heel dangling precariously for a moment.
The damp, blue lace thong dangled from her fingertips. She held it up for a fraction of a second, a tiny, sodden flag of her defiance and arousal, catching the warm lamplight. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she dropped it onto the red-checked tablecloth beside her half-eaten carbonara.
David stared, utterly frozen. His mouth hung slightly open. The discarded thong lay there, an impossible, intimate declaration amidst the breadcrumbs and spilled wine. Cristina smoothed her dress back down over her bare hips, the fabric now the only barrier. She crossed her legs again, the movement smooth, unhurried. The cool air kissed her exposed skin beneath the table.
"Better?" she asked sweetly, picking up her fork as if nothing had happened. She speared another bite of pasta. "Saves a trip." She popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving his stunned face. The damp patch on the tablecloth beside her plate was the only evidence, a silent, shocking testament to what she’d just done. Right there. In the middle of Musso & Frank.