I’m wearing my shortest skirt – white and flaring right out, like a tennis skirt – and no panties, along with a skimpy white tank top, through which my nipples are clearly visible, and platform wedges, as I sit on the barstool at our friend Colin’s new restaurant, the latest of eight he owns. I’m only five foot three, but height isn’t important from my perch. My almost black, sleekly styled straight hair falls just past my shoulders, long enough that I can swish it around or run my fingers through it. I’m wearing a little butterfly clip in my hair on one side, and stark, dramatic black eyeliner that makes my brown eyes pop, plus bright-red lipstick with shimmering gloss that makes me look even paler than I normally do, emphasising the dramatic colour.

Next to me is Jake, my lover, my boyfriend, my top – and my wardrobe coordinator. When we get dressed for an evening out on the town, he tells me what I should be wearing, from how to do my hair to whether to wear makeup to whether I should insert a butt plug in my ass. Sometimes I’m fresh-scrubbed, wearing a ponytail and an outfit more appropriate for jogging than for fine dining, what he calls my slutty cheerleader look, even though on the outside it’s totally wholesome; he says the slutty part is something that those who know what to look for can just tell about a girl like me. Sometimes I’m in basic jeans and a sweater, incognito, in a way; he says that, when I’m dressed down like that, even those attuned to naughty girls don’t have a clue, that it’s our dirty little secret, to be revealed at his behest – or not. I have a walk-in closet full of four years of clothes he’s purchased for me or that I’ve amassed, and, while fashion is a favourite pastime of mine, being Jake’s plaything is my number-one hobby – or avocation, if you will.

He bought the tank, skirt and shoes for me; I’m more of a colour girl, when (occasionally) left to my own devices. I like to play up bold, striking colours that garner as much attention as the tattoo on my left shoulder of a purple dragon. Plus my breasts are big enough that I really should be wearing a bra, a fact he knows very well. When I don’t, not only are they visible, they also bounce heavily against me with each step, reminding me of their presence. ‘I like being able to see those pretty nipples,’ he told me while I was getting dressed, as he came over and plucked from my hands the T-shirt bra I’d been planning to wear. I know what he really meant was that he likes seeing other people noticing my nipples, ogling me quite obviously, sometimes accompanied by smirks or winks, allowing Jake to be a voyeur by proxy. Showing me off has always been something he’s enjoyed, a bonus to our ongoing play, and under his tutelage I’ve become quite the exhibitionist. Sometimes he’ll make me flash a car driving next to us on the highway, or he’ll drop a credit card on the ground at an opportune moment, so I have to bend over and bare my bottom just when the car salesman or manager or waiter is standing there. If I ever refuse, the punishment will be far more embarrassing.

At first, I was a little concerned about this delight he took in my risqué attire; I loved the games we played, but wondered if Jake’s lack of jealousy meant there was something wrong with him, or me, or us. Then I realised that it gave me a chance to show off and flirt and have fun in a safe way. I’d had lovers who acted like their mild jealousy was no big deal, only to later find out that even a smile at a stranger on my part could incite something in them I couldn’t undo. With Jake, he’d made it clear that he wanted me, the core of me, the heart and soul of me, and if he had that – had my devotion – a few little harmless peeks and looks wouldn’t matter. I was his to show off, but I was definitely his.

Technically, our relationship was open, but it came with boundaries and rules, and neither of us had fully taken advantage of that openness yet, save for some make-out sessions and heavy petting at parties in front of one another. The frisson of sexual energy passing between other people and back towards us was enough to recharge our erotic spark, to make us fully aware we were capable of choosing each other over and over again, even if other possibilities dangled in the air. ‘That older man asked me if you’d suck his cock,’ he told me after one of our early parties, as he shoved his fingers between my legs in our doorway. I’d shivered at the thought of them having such a conversation. ‘I thought about telling him yes, then blindfolding you and making you suck his cock, thinking it was mine. Maybe another time. Tonight I want you for myself,’ he’d said, before taking me roughly, tossing me on to the bed, pinning me down, both wrists in one hand, another twisting a nipple, while he slammed his cock into me in one deep, penetrating thrust.

The light bulb had finally clicked at another party when I’d watched, champagne in hand, as a sweet young thing I could’ve eaten for breakfast flirted up a storm with Jake, tossing her masses of blonde hair over her shoulder, gazing at him with utter adoration, letting her breasts not so subtly brush against his arm repeatedly. There was something about seeing my Jake, in a suit, which is not really my thing but he wears them so well, chatting up this girl in a skimpy dress that probably cost a few hundred dollars while I wore artfully shredded jeans and a tight black lace top.

I admired him anew, and liked that he was being hunted down by other women, but would be coming home with me. He’s extremely skilled in the art of flirting, and I smirked to myself as I watched him lean in towards her, heard her giggle but not whatever he whispered so close to her ear he may as well have kissed her. I got wet thinking about him doing to her some of the things he does to me. I got so lost in my fantasy of all that blonde hair swirling around her head as he held her in place while she sucked his cock, my fantasy vision so realistic that he startled me when he came back and whispered in my ear, ‘Having fun?’ I blushed, and asked him about the girl. My zest for the details made me see that Jake wasn’t to be faulted for wanting other men to look at me; it was more like he was dangling me before their eyes, saying look but don’t touch – except if I give you permission.

And of course men are going to look at me in the outfit Jake had selected, with my nipples practically right on the bar alongside my vodka cranberry. We shift to a table and, even though I’m not that hungry just yet, he encourages me to order whatever I want, and I select a glorious host of appetisers, from shrimp cocktail to grilled oysters to prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, along with a fruit and cheese plate. I wouldn’t have to eat it all at once.

He takes my hand over the table, stroking it, his dwarfing mine. I love the way my hand fits into his, safe and secure and full of promise, whether we’re just resting there, almost as if by accident, or squeezing tightly. This time, he runs his thumb along the pad of my palm, sending a shiver through my body. I catch a breeze in the air and my nipples stiffen, just as the waiter arrives with our oysters. ‘Ma’am,’ he says, and I try not to giggle. I’m not really the ‘ma’am’ type, by age or inclination, but I smile at him. It only takes a second or two for his eyes to rake over me, but I notice, and I am sure Jake notices, because his feet trap mine under the table and his hand squeezes me harder.

‘Thank you,’ I say, making room in front of me for the oysters, while he sets a plate of cheeseburger sliders before Jake. He is more the food snob than I am, and loves to test out the latest new hip foodie restaurant, even if their fare is nothing more than an overpriced attempt to cater to a crowd that wants to feel like they’re getting their money’s worth. We sip our drinks and the icy cool vodka cranberry works its way inside me, making me flush with that early buzz alongside my arousal. He watches me as he sips his wine, knowing exactly what even that little bit of alcohol will do to me.

We each order steaks, and then our array of appetisers arrives. We dig in, each of us lost in an almost orgasmic oral reverie at the exquisite tastes. We smile at each other, occasionally commenting on the tastes, but mostly saving our mouths for the mini feast. Jake traps my feet between his, pressing them together, letting me know he’s aroused, and that he’s still in control. I’m savouring a piece of shrimp when the awful sound of Jake’s cell phone going off pierces the air. He looks at it, frowns, then picks up. I wait for a minute, then two, then give up and go back to eating.

‘Honey, I’ve got to take this,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.’ Jake doesn’t look remorseful so much as determined, his mind already prepared to deal with whatever urgent work crisis has come up; it’s a look I recognise well from our two years together, and one I know from experience brooks no argument. Work and I run a constant race for his attention, and work almost always wins, though only in true emergencies would he abandon me like this. We’d discussed this issue endless times and I’d grown grudgingly used to these occasional absences.

He’s off with a quick kiss on the cheek before I can even fully process it, and I sit there facing a table full of food I’m not sure I want to eat now, with more on the way. ‘Is everything OK, ma’am?’ It’s the same waiter, and I smile weakly.

‘Great, thanks,’ I get out, and pick up a piece of brie and nibble on the edge. I can’t help the moan of delight that escapes my lips, and catch an answering smile on his face. It is truly divine, and I devour the rest in two quick bites that leave my tongue in an ecstatic state, the echoes of the exquisite tastes lingering. I shift in my seat, suddenly hungrier than I’ve been all evening. Jake does, in fact, know how to pick ‘em, and, while part of me wishes he could taste what he’d surely enjoy as well, I’m not going to complain about having to eat all the shrimp by myself.

It isn’t until I’ve finished my last spoonful of the best s’mores I’d ever eaten, layers of dark chocolate pudding interspersed with graham cracker and topped by a triangle of toasted marshmallow that actually dripped off my spoon on to the table if I didn’t bring it to my mouth in time, that I realise I don’t have my wallet with me. I’d switched purses to an extremely small one holding only my lipstick and keys, because part of our arrangement is that, when Jake wants to eat at one of his fancy restaurants, he pays. ‘Please don’t take your phone, Jessie,’ he’d urged – another ongoing battle is how much internet usage is acceptable at the dinner table – so I’d reluctantly left it at home.

So I’m stranded. My mouth is still twitching in delight as the last vestiges of the s’mores linger on my tongue, while dread starts to build in my stomach, the opposite of the butterflies I felt when Jake slipped his hand into the back of my panties, resting his fingers lightly against the crack of my ass as he led me to our table. Now I’m trying not to look frantic, to seem as serene and satisfied as anyone who’s just enjoyed the hundred-dollar meal I’ve consumed. But the adrenalin coursing through my body won’t let me simply lean back against the plush leather seat and feel satiated after what has to have been one of the most delectable meals of my life.

I scrape the spoon against the edges of the cup and think frantically of some way out of this, when I see Colin, the owner and head chef, coming my way. ‘How was everything, Jessie?’ he asks, that same slightly leering smile he uses every time I see him stuck to his face. I don’t mind, because it’s all in good fun, although an extra tremor runs through me.

‘It was divine, truly. Look – I didn’t leave a drop.’ He leans over but manages to stare at my tits while he does, and, despite myself, they harden. ‘The only thing is … I’m having a little problem. I don’t have my wallet or any cash on me and Jake had to run out and I can’t reach him, so could I run home and pay you back later tonight? It won’t be long.’

Colin picks up my spoon and idly lets it dangle from his fingertips. ‘You know, Jessie, I’d love to help you out, but this is a place of business, my place of business, and I can’t let people just walk out without paying the check. That would be highly unprofessional of me. Maybe you can find a way to work off your … hundred and eight dollars, plus tip.’

I lick my lips, tasting the remnants of our meal and my sweet lipgloss. ‘Sure,’ I find myself saying. ‘I’m great at dishwashing and know my way around a kitchen –’

Colin presses a finger to my lips. ‘Stop right there, my dear. That wasn’t what I meant, and I don’t think it’s what Jake would want you to do. He told me you don’t like to get your hands dirty – but your mouth, that’s another story.’

A huge wave of mortified, arousing heat rushes over me as I realise exactly what’s just happened – Jake planned this. He asked me to wear this outfit specifically so I’d get stuck and ‘owe’ Colin a hefty bill. And from what I can gather from the words that have just left Colin’s mouth, he wants me to pay for it with my body.

The thought makes me cold, then hot. Suddenly I’m not panicked and don’t want to cry; I’m wet and hungry between my legs. I’m aching the way I ache when Jake tells me what a slut I am, how he wants to take me to a party, strip me and leave me there for anyone to have a go at. He likes to tell me that as he eases a fourth finger into my pussy, then orders me not to come just as I’m about to. This situation is as maddeningly delicious as that order. He wants to share me, in the most naughty way possible. He wants to whore me out to pay for my dinner. I wonder what Colin will want for the amount that I owe him?

He stands up then and drops the spoon on the table so it clangs. I can see his erection pressing against his pants and this time, when I lick my lips, it’s for an altogether different reason. If Jake had truly left me like this, I wouldn’t have just been angry, but hurt and betrayed. We’re not the types to let each other down or let work take priority. But we are the types to want to push the envelope, to force each other into new situations we’d never get to on our own, and this is certainly one of them. I decide to pretend I’m playing the role of the slutty woman who’ll do anything to make up for her lack of payment – after all, I already look the part, and if Colin were to feed me more of that s’mores I’d probably let his entire staff gangbang me, it was that good.

But I’m not in the mood for food any more, even gourmet desserts. I follow him through the kitchen, the stares of the men and women chopping and sautéing making my nipples press harder against the thin tank top. I’m suddenly sure they can tell I’m not wearing panties. I brush against one woman who I’d thought was so intent on plating a mozzarella and tomato appetiser she hadn’t noticed me, but the smile she gives me makes the air between us sizzle. It’s a hungry smile, a predatory smile, a smile that says, I want you when he’s done. No wonder the kitchen is so hot!

Then we’re alone again, Colin tugging me away to stare directly at me, as if trying to figure me out. The more he looks at me like that, the more my mind starts to waver and wonder whether I really am in trouble, to wonder just how much of a setup this is. Could Colin truly have thought I would stiff him? I want to say something cute like, ‘Do you do this with everyone who can’t pay their check?’ but the words stay in my mouth. ‘Wow’ is all I manage when Colin leads me back into his office, a cluttered but somehow still homey cube of a room cluttered with papers, open cookbooks, a laptop, a desk, chair and small couch.

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