A Surprise Under the Table

I thought the dinner was just another boring Friday night with Sophia’s stuck-up friends. She’d booked us a corner booth at a fancy wine estate where the tables are draped in heavy linen and the waiters pretend they can’t see anything. 

Sophia wore the black dress (the one that hugs her tits like it’s painted on) and a smile that told me she was up to something. She always gets that look when she’s planning to ruin me in public.

We were six at the table: me, Sophia, her best friend Anna, Anna’s new boyfriend Jason (some gym-bro lawyer), and an older couple who kept name-dropping politicians. 

By the second course Sophia’s bare foot was already sliding up my calf under the tablecloth. I shot her a warning glance. She just licked wine off her lower lip and winked.

Dessert hadn’t even arrived when I felt her hand on my thigh. Slow, deliberate, nails dragging. I shifted, trying to act normal while Jason droned on about his new Porsche. 

Sophia leaned over to refill my glass, whispering so low only I could hear: “Unzip. Now.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. The tablecloth hung almost to the floor; nobody could see below chest level. Still, one wrong move and we were fucked (figuratively, then literally). 

I popped the button, eased the zipper down just enough. Cool air hit my cock right as Sophia’s warm fingers wrapped around the shaft. She gave one lazy stroke, like she was testing if I was already leaking. I was.

Anna was laughing at something on her phone, oblivious to her surroundings. Jason had his arm around her chair. The old couple were arguing about whose turn it was to pay. Perfect cover.

Sophia started slow (long, teasing pulls from root to tip, thumb swirling over the head every time she reached the top). Precum smeared across her palm, making each stroke slicker, louder if anyone actually listened. I gripped my fork so hard the metal bent. She squeezed the base, cutting off circulation just enough to make my balls ache, then loosened and pumped again. The rhythm was maddening: two slow, one fast, pause, repeat.

“You okay, mate?” Jason asked suddenly. “You’re sweating.”

Sophia never stopped moving. Her grip tightened, twisting on the upstroke. I swallowed hard. “Wine’s strong,” I croaked. “Hits you quick.”

Sophia leaned in, pretending to steal an olive from my plate. Under the table, her hand sped up. “Liar,” she breathed against my ear. “You’re dripping like a broken tap. Bet you’d explode if I blew on it.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. She shifted tactics (short, sharp jerks focused right under the head, the spot that makes my knees buckle). My cock throbbed in her fist, veins pulsing against her fingers. She knew exactly how close I was; she always does.

Then she did something evil. She let go completely, wiped her hand on my thigh, and reached for the bread basket like nothing happened. I stared at her, begging with my eyes. 

She smirked, tore a piece of bread, and buttered it slowly. The knife scraped loud in my head.

Ten seconds. Twenty. My cock strained in the open air, twitching, desperate. Jason started telling a story about a court case. I barely heard it. Sophia’s foot nudged my ankle (her signal). I looked down just in time to see her slide off her heel and press her bare toes against my balls. She curled them, massaging gently, then dragged her foot up the underside of my shaft. The arch of her foot was warm, slightly damp from the leather. She trapped my cock between both feet now, stroking with her soles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I gripped the edge of the table. The linen tablecloth bunched under my fists. Sophia kept chatting with Anna about wedding venues while giving me the sneakiest footjob of my life. 

Her toes curled over the head, smearing precum down the shaft, then slid back to the base and squeezed. I was leaking so much the fabric of my boxers was soaked where they bunched around my thighs.

The waiter appeared to clear plates. Everyone leaned back. Sophia didn’t stop. If anything, she sped up, using the table’s vibration from his tray to add extra friction. I felt the orgasm building low in my spine, that freight-train roar you can’t outrun.

“Soph,” I hissed under my breath.

She met my eyes, all innocent. “What’s wrong, baby? You look tense.”

Her feet clamped tight, one sole pressing the head, the other pumping the shaft in quick, milking pulls. That was it. I came hard, vision whiting out. The first spurt shot high enough to splat against the underside of the table (I heard the soft patter). The rest pulsed over her toes, thick ropes coating her skin, dripping between her arches. She kept stroking through it, wringing every drop, until I sagged in the chair, chest heaving.

Nobody noticed. Anna was taking a selfie. Jason was checking football scores. The older couple were signing the bill.

Sophia lifted her foot casually, inspected the mess glistening on her skin, and (without breaking eye contact with me) brought it to her lips. She licked a fat drop of cum off her big toe, slow and deliberate, then smiled like she’d just tasted dessert.

“Delicious,” she whispered.

I sat there stunned, cock still out, cum cooling on my thighs, while the waiter asked if we wanted coffee. Sophia answered for both of us: “No thanks. My boyfriend’s suddenly very… spent.”

She tucked me back in, zipped me up with the same hand that had just milked me dry, and patted my crotch like a good girl finishing homework. Then she leaned over and kissed my cheek, leaving a faint lipstick smudge and the taste of my own cum on my skin.

“Next time,” she murmured, “I’m sucking you off under the table at your mom’s birthday dinner.”

I believed her.