He likes the very back booth in the diner, walls on two sides, both of us on the same bench, me in the corner.
At 29, almost five years younger than I am, he likes me to - he requires me to - call him Daddy; he calls me his Dirty Little Girl.
This is insane; or depraved; or sick; or...all of the above.
And here we sit.
I surrendered my panties before we left the apartment, just a block away - a simple transaction, nothing terribly new or different for us.
He requested; I rolled my eyes.
I complied; he something between smiled and smirked.
I rolled my eyes some more; he crumpled my panties - plain white cotton, not small, and dowdy - in his palm, sniffed them deeply, his eyes laser-focused on mine, before depositing them in his pocket, offering his crooked elbow, so we could link arms, and he could chivalrously escort me down the stairs, out into the street, and one-block-over, to dinner.
As he talks to the waitress - in a slow, sleazy, seductive tone; surely nothing she hasn't heard before - his hand is up my skirt, the tip of his middle finger firm, oscillating just a little bit, as though in indecision, on....
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