Free SoloPlay by Miranda Baker Page B

rocked her hips, grinding into the vibration, ready for more.
    His lips curved. “Should I spend the entire meal torturing you? I could start with your nipples, begin on the lowest setting, work up to the max while you enjoy your salad.”
    The electrodes began to send small jolts of energy to her nipples—sharp, buzzy hits like small tongues licking one and then the other. Instead of bringing relief, it heightened her frustration.
    “Of course, I could get you off immediately and then spend the rest of the meal torturing you.” Mark smiled again. “Relax, Sologirl. The food is very good here. You don’t want to miss it.”
    He picked up his fork and began to eat, one-handed. She groaned. The mesclun mix was tough as grass in her mouth and the vinaigrette was sour on her tongue. Alisa tried to remember what she had ordered for her entree. There was no way she was going to be able to concentrate on cutting a steak or a veal chop.
    Her nipples felt as big as ripe cherries, straining against the fabric of her dress. This must be the maximum setting. “You know, we plan to sell this model with adjustable nipple clips,” he said. Just the thought made her ache even more. Her nipples were throbbing now, in time with her pulse, sending lightning bolts of pleasure to her pussy. Her vulva was swollen, making everything a tighter fit, the wires rubbing tantalizingly against her labia.
    She regretted not pulling an extra layer of panties over BodyVibe because she was soaking wet. Should she make a run to the bathroom to towel off? As if he read her mind, or perhaps correctly interpreted her glance around the room, Mark said, “Don’t run away now. It’s just about to get interesting.” He leaned back in his chair to allow the waiter to remove his salad plate. Her own was barely touched.
    Alisa stayed in her seat. She didn’t think she would have been able to stand, anyway. She felt languid, boneless. The urgency of the moment before had been replaced with a surety of satisfaction.
    She wished she could touch herself, knew her labia would feel glossy and smooth, engorged, silken. Her lips would feel like petals and she would rub them, pluck them, slide her middle finger up and down, in and out, stroke the sensitized path deep into her vagina. This is when she would slow down. Stop to smell the roses, maybe even taste them.
    She smiled at the busboy as he refilled her water glass, and there was a telltale hitch in his gait when he moved on to the next table. “If you have any more smiles like that, send them my way,” Mark said.
    “Finish what you’ve started, Mr. Winters, and I’ll give you whatever you want.” Her voice was rough.
    “Promises, promises.”
    The waiter returned with their entrees. Penne pasta, thank God. She waved away the freshly grated Parmesan cheese.
    Her pussy was buzzing now. Not continuously, never enough to make her numb. Sometimes just long enough to take her up to the next peak, sometimes a few quick bursts in a row, almost enough to get into a rhythm, and then they’d stop. She was moving in her seat, rocking imperceptibly. Mark didn’t chastise her this time. He probably knew she had to do something to keep from screaming.
    Alisa glanced over and saw a sixty-ish woman sitting on the same banquette a few tables down the row, look over curiously. Her still-blond bob was immaculate, her eyes wide in her perfectly madeup face. The woman watched them for a minute. Then her eyes returned to her silver-haired dinner partner. She cocked an eyebrow at him. He took her hand.
    Across the room, a heavyset man wearing large gold rings on most of his fingers glanced over at their table. His young, brunette dining companion chatted endlessly.
    They must know. How could they not know something was going on?
    Alisa knew what she looked like when she was playing with herself—flushed, heavy-lidded, mouth softly open. She’d spent enough time sitting in her bedroom chair at home in front of a full-length