knees bent and ankles crossed. The seat was gently sloped, so
that my head tilted down, my hair spilling off the edge.
The man spoke to me impatiently.
“You have to straighten your legs so he can lower the lid,”
explained Jack.
I did so, and the lid was lowered. I could no longer see the
ceiling—only polished wood a few inches from my face. From there, the wood
pressed against my shoulders, and the opening admitted my breasts. Beneath
them, the second panel covered my stomach.
Now I felt the man’s hands on my ankles, slowly bringing
them apart and in the direction of my head. It reminded me of yoga, a pose
called “Plow Position,” where you laid on your back and stuck your ass in the
air and finally brought your toes to touch the floor above your head. Except
here I was also doing the splits. I relaxed, finally, and the tops of my thighs
rested upon the wide upper level of the table.
Even with all my clothes on, it was not difficult to see the
kind of view this table had been expertly built to facilitate. And I did not
imagine I would be wearing clothes whenever I climbed into it next.
“Good,” said Jack, and the table was opened again and I
climbed out. Between the blood rushing away from my head and the anticipatory
tingling between my legs I suddenly felt everything spinning and began to lose
my balance.
Jack saw, and grabbed me, steadying me. “Are you okay?” he
asked, “Is this still okay?”
The room still lurched and spun but I could focus on his
face, searching, worrying.
“Yes,” I said. I was dizzy, but terribly excited.
11.
The lighting in the restaurant was somehow both bright and
flattering—presumably carefully engineered to show off the gorgeous colors and
textures of the fish behind the counter. The sushi chefs were preparing
everything for the evening when Jack and I walked in. Once again, I wore my
fur. This time, having an idea of what was in store, I hadn’t bothered to put
anything on underneath it.
This had led to various stresses, amusements and
titillations in the process of getting here from our hotel, nor had I eaten
yet, so for the second time that day I was simultaneously floating and aroused.
I cruised the counters and inspected the pink and orange and nacreous white
flesh of the fish, saw the tank of teeming, striped prawns, the inert coils of
octopus tentacle. Beads of salmon roe glistened orange, whole mackerel lay in
little streaks of silver. It felt more like a jewelry store than a restaurant,
so clean and white, everything safely behind glass.
As I finished my inspection I turned back toward Jack and
saw the table. I realized now it had been finished to match the rest of the
furniture in the restaurant—it was at even height with the other tables, its
finish the same glossy, understated surface as all the other wood in sight.
My breath caught a little and I wobbled in my brand new
high-heeled shoes. Jack had suggested I be pedicured and lavishly shod, given
that my feet would be very much on display. “I doubt they’ll be looking at my
feet!” I teased him, but I surely didn’t mind some preparatory pampering.
“When does it start?” I asked him, and he looked at his
watch.
“Five minutes,” he said. “You should probably climb in.”
I nodded and stepped toward the table as he lifted its lid.
He helped me off with my coat and for a moment I just stood there in the middle
of the restaurant, naked. The sushi chefs studiously continued their work, not
stealing so much as a glance. I found their work ethic reassuring, admirable.
Jack helped me into position in the little table. I wriggled
down until my head was at its lowest part, my back and breasts arched up, my legs
clear of where the lid would hinge back down.
“Are you comfortable?” he said.
“I think so,” I said. “I’ll need to eat later, though.”
“Of course,” he said. “We’ll make
that my head tilted down, my hair spilling off the edge.
The man spoke to me impatiently.
“You have to straighten your legs so he can lower the lid,”
explained Jack.
I did so, and the lid was lowered. I could no longer see the
ceiling—only polished wood a few inches from my face. From there, the wood
pressed against my shoulders, and the opening admitted my breasts. Beneath
them, the second panel covered my stomach.
Now I felt the man’s hands on my ankles, slowly bringing
them apart and in the direction of my head. It reminded me of yoga, a pose
called “Plow Position,” where you laid on your back and stuck your ass in the
air and finally brought your toes to touch the floor above your head. Except
here I was also doing the splits. I relaxed, finally, and the tops of my thighs
rested upon the wide upper level of the table.
Even with all my clothes on, it was not difficult to see the
kind of view this table had been expertly built to facilitate. And I did not
imagine I would be wearing clothes whenever I climbed into it next.
“Good,” said Jack, and the table was opened again and I
climbed out. Between the blood rushing away from my head and the anticipatory
tingling between my legs I suddenly felt everything spinning and began to lose
my balance.
Jack saw, and grabbed me, steadying me. “Are you okay?” he
asked, “Is this still okay?”
The room still lurched and spun but I could focus on his
face, searching, worrying.
“Yes,” I said. I was dizzy, but terribly excited.
11.
The lighting in the restaurant was somehow both bright and
flattering—presumably carefully engineered to show off the gorgeous colors and
textures of the fish behind the counter. The sushi chefs were preparing
everything for the evening when Jack and I walked in. Once again, I wore my
fur. This time, having an idea of what was in store, I hadn’t bothered to put
anything on underneath it.
This had led to various stresses, amusements and
titillations in the process of getting here from our hotel, nor had I eaten
yet, so for the second time that day I was simultaneously floating and aroused.
I cruised the counters and inspected the pink and orange and nacreous white
flesh of the fish, saw the tank of teeming, striped prawns, the inert coils of
octopus tentacle. Beads of salmon roe glistened orange, whole mackerel lay in
little streaks of silver. It felt more like a jewelry store than a restaurant,
so clean and white, everything safely behind glass.
As I finished my inspection I turned back toward Jack and
saw the table. I realized now it had been finished to match the rest of the
furniture in the restaurant—it was at even height with the other tables, its
finish the same glossy, understated surface as all the other wood in sight.
My breath caught a little and I wobbled in my brand new
high-heeled shoes. Jack had suggested I be pedicured and lavishly shod, given
that my feet would be very much on display. “I doubt they’ll be looking at my
feet!” I teased him, but I surely didn’t mind some preparatory pampering.
“When does it start?” I asked him, and he looked at his
watch.
“Five minutes,” he said. “You should probably climb in.”
I nodded and stepped toward the table as he lifted its lid.
He helped me off with my coat and for a moment I just stood there in the middle
of the restaurant, naked. The sushi chefs studiously continued their work, not
stealing so much as a glance. I found their work ethic reassuring, admirable.
Jack helped me into position in the little table. I wriggled
down until my head was at its lowest part, my back and breasts arched up, my legs
clear of where the lid would hinge back down.
“Are you comfortable?” he said.
“I think so,” I said. “I’ll need to eat later, though.”
“Of course,” he said. “We’ll make
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