Roswell char. Not mine.
This is the sequel of Fun at the Grocery.

Friday evening.

The restaurant is alive.

It is breathing, buzzing with voice, glowing with the heat of a hundred hungry bodies.

The clatter of cutlery punctuates talk about anything; mouths and tongues in overdrive as friends, families and first-daters fawn, fight and flirt the evening away. The eyes and ears have as much to feast upon as the stomach.

Graceful gaps in conversation allow shifting glances, a moment to browse. Each diner is aware of the other, is watching in human fascination.

There are those who have made the effort, dressing up to make the occasion feel special. Others have walked in off the street before a movie or play begins. Dresses, skirts, blouses, shirts; stockings, shoes, cufflinks, jewels. It's a palette of moving colour, where the art can't sit still for long.

She enters, shaking the cold Autumn night from her hair, and loosens her long coat. The maitre d' takes her name, all smiles and dazzling sincerity, then leads her to a table where a man in a suit is waiting.

He gets up and pulls out her chair. They kiss briefly on the lips before she sits, sliding her bare legs beneath the long, heavy tablecloth. The maitre d' presents her with a menu and departs. The man resumes his place opposite her and smiles.

"Oh Max, have you been waiting long?" she asks, almost apologetically.

"Not really, honey." he replies. "Traffic wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

Their small talk continues:

"God, it's cold out there," she says, opening the menu and glancing at the tantalising list.

"Yes, it is," he agrees. She hasn't noticed yet, but he is staring at her with a certain look; a very specific look. His composure masks a swirling, heady desire, a lust for her that is both urgent and consuming.

"Let's see . . ." she remarks to herself, eyeing the pasta dishes and testing the memory of each taste against her mouth's current fancy. She can't decide, and looks up to ask him, "What are you having?"

"Liz, what I want isn't on the menu," he drawls, his mouth curling wickedly.

She feels something ignite inside her. It's the strange, delirious, butterfly excitement that makes her feel like a girl again. He is the only man she has ever known who could reach into her stomach and switch it on with a mere glance, and that is why she loves these little games. She is addicted to them. Any moment, in any place, one of them might feel like playing. Neither could tell when the fun might begin.

She leans forward, putting the menu down, and glances from side to side, aware of how public this is.

"I'm curious," she purrs. "Tell me what you have in mind."

He leans closer too, putting his face, his lips, just inches from hers.

"Honey, I want to make you scream."


"Why not?"

She smiles, then sits back again.

"Darling," she says, putting bite into the word, "don't get too confident, please; it's embarrassing. I might not be in a screaming mood."

At this he is amused. "I know you are, or you wouldn't have worn that dress."

She blushes slightly at his astute perception. In choosing her outfit earlier, she had purposefully gone with the short blue dress that always entices him, and had left her panties in the drawer at the last moment. She had hoped to initiate something herself after dinner, and feels a little cheated at his jumping the gun.

"I wore this dress because it was the first on the rack," she tells him, faking indifference. "I came here to eat, and I don't think you have anything that would satisfy my hunger right now, thank you very much."

He is still watching her, taking in the fullness of her breasts and the way her hair hangs lazily across her shoulders. "Wanna bet?" he asks quietly.

She's intrigued. "Bet?"

"I bet that I can make you scream."

Her smooth thighs press tight together beneath the table. She wants to giggle wildly at the suggestion, but maintains her cool.

"I set the terms," she says firmly. "You made the dare, so I make the rules."

"Anything you say, Liz."

She reflects a moment, deciding on the stakes.

"Alright," she says at length, "this is how it'll work. I'm going to sit right here, as innocent as can be, and you are going to do your very best to make me lose control."

At this, she moistens her lips with her tongue, more eagerly than she is aware. "If I remain composed, and no one in this room suspects a thing, you are mine for the rest of this weekend. And that means you have to do anything I say."

"Vice versa, if I win?"

"That goes without saying, dear."

He is quick to agree. "But let's be clear. You can't show any reaction at all: not one squeal, moan or gasp; no covering your mouth, no banging your fist wildly on the table." – she chuckles at this – "Nothing. Right?"


A waitress appears, brandishing a small pad, a well-worn pencil, and a polished, tip-winning smile.

"Are you ready to order?"

They order quickly, and the waitress is gone. For a few seconds they say nothing. The noise of the restaurant is nakedly clear as they stare at each other. Then she speaks:

"I think you dropped your napkin, Max."

They exchange a subtle but knowing grin. He slips from the chair and dives beneath the table with such stealth that no one pays him any notice.

Liz is suddenly quite aware of how exposed she is beneath her dress, and how well hidden is her lover behind a long shield of elegant cloth. Sitting there, apparently alone to all unknowing eyes, she feels the sweet, heart-pounding rush of anticipation.

First comes Max's breath on her left ankle. He blows against her skin, dipping softly for a quick kiss.

Gooseflesh makes her tingle all over. His hands, so big yet so soft, grasp her calf and begin to slowly massage. Her nipples harden in response, and her heart is racing. He continues his languid attention to her lower legs, switching from left to right.

Kisses and fingers cover her soft surfaces. Max is enjoying himself down there. Enjoying her.

Now a hand on each knee. Max guides her legs open, pushing the hem of her favourite dress higher.

Liz knows he can see everything now, and can feel lusty eyes greedily wandering. Those fingers move again, sliding along her inner thighs, stopping short of where she burns to be touched.

Liz rests an elbow on the table and casually strokes her cheek. Looking around, she's sure that someone must have noticed.

How can they be getting away with this in the middle of such a lively place? But no one is looking back.

People are still eating.

Max mouth sucking against her thigh.

People are still drinking.

Liz is so wet.

People are lost in conversation.

Liz is open to him.

His breath reaches her pussy.

Oh, Jes....

Liz bites her bottom lip; but not too overtly.

The waitress is back and puts their drinks down.

Beneath the table, an impish smile.

"Your food shouldn't be long," the waitress says.

Max's tongue darts from nowhere and brushes hard against Liz's pussy.

"Thank you," she manages to reply, almost yelping.

Her eyes flash wide for an instant.

The waitress' brow wrinkles only slightly before she leaves.

Liz crushes the sides of Max's mischievous head as punishment. His 'Ow!' is almost heard.

He's steamed up. Now he is more determined than ever.

From the outside he works his way in, sneaking into her private places. His hands keep her spread; his moist, warm tongue bathes her zealously.

Liz sighs through her parted lips, long but controlled.

Max's face is pressed against her, and his mouth is kissing her deeply.

She moves slightly in her chair. Her eyes still travel around the room. Look at them. All laughing politely, or chewing in silence, their bodies separated by tables and social graces. And here is she, daring them all, a secret lover in her lap.

Liz wishes she could tear the cloth from the table and give them something to look at; something that would cause them to choke and splutter on their own expensive dishes. But the taboo is what makes it so much fun. And besides, she reminds herself, there are high stakes to consider in this little game.

An old man sitting to her left catches her eye. Liz gives him a smile, uttering the faintest groan in her throat as soft flesh lashes her clit.

The old man smiles vaguely back, one eye on his silent wife. He hasn't noticed how flushed the young lady's cheeks are becoming. If he did, he would probably be flattered.

Liz concentrates hard. She wants to rock her hips, even just slightly. She wants to put her legs over her lover's shoulders, or slide off her chair and join him on the floor. She wants to let him enter her unrestrained, and lose herself in the moment.

But she resists.

In fact, she wants him to know how strong her will is.

Liz picks her glass and takes a sip, taking an ice shard into her mouth. Then, with a sleight-of-hand skill that would put any magician to shame, she collects the ice from between her lips and passes it under the table.

Max takes it, shocked by the challenge, and puts it between his own lips. Now his kisses are colder, and make her sex tingle.

The ice.

His breath.



His tongue so fast now, and his fingers slipping so easily inside.

Max fucks her.

Max tastes her.

Max excites her.

And through all she manages to remain sedate, despite the rhythm that is building inside.

She will not give in.

Harder and more furiously he works.

He is buried deep, sucking and pressing into flesh as though tasting the sweetest fruit.





The moment is close, and she braces herself for the test. A straining within, and the barrier has been breached.

Liz is coming, right in the grip of public display. She closes her eyes briefly, clenching her fists before her, and is overwhelmed with the glorious heat of liberty, lust, desire, relief, and images that fill her mind like the greatest memories of an unlived life.

Reality flickers for a few golden seconds, and then she is breathing more heavily, but managing to hide it so well.

The game is over, and she now enjoys the glow of victorious satisfaction.

Max attends to her with his own handkerchief, then reappears and takes his seat with the same unseen ease as before. He is as flushed as she, and he is now more desperate then ever to be alone with her. But she will not permit it yet.

Liz has had her fun for now, and is hungry in a different way.

The waitress deposits their food and vanishes again.

Max looks across at her.

Liz smiles and starts to eat.

Max knows it. The weekend is hers, and so is he.

[ edited 2 time(s), last at 25-Jan-2002 1:50:29 AM ]