The Table Was Mine (Velvet?s POV)

He begged Me to behave.
How adorable.
His text, the night before:
"Please, Goddess. It's a big night. No games. Just... support me, okay?"
Support? Oh, pet. You don't bring Me to a dinner if you want support. You bring Me if you want ownership. If you want to spend your entire promotion soaked in fear and desperate to keep your cum inside your pants while I treat your cock like a secret weapon.
And that's exactly what I did.
The restaurant was exquisite--dim lights, low music, thousand-dollar smiles. His boss sat across from Me, all patriarchal polish and handsy charm. The other partners dotted the table like game pieces--wives in silks, husbands in cufflinks. Power, distilled into posture.
I wore black. Open back. No bra. Legs crossed high, skin oiled, eyes sharp.
I didn't look like a wife.
I looked like the problem.
He was already sweating before the wine arrived.
So sweet.
He introduced Me--"This is... Velvet"--with the tone of a man who didn't trust what might come out of My mouth next. He'd warned them I was confident. He hadn't warned them I was a weapon.
And beneath the table, I removed My heel.
I watched bursa escort him tighten--just a twitch--but I knew the signal. His body braced like prey sensing danger it couldn't name. And then I touched him. The ball of My bare foot pressed into his ankle, then up... slowly... onto the inner thigh.
He was mid-sentence when My toes slid higher. I felt his pulse in the arch of his leg. His voice caught--just for a moment--but he recovered. Good boy.
By the time they served tuna tartare, I was massaging his cock through his pants.
Soft at first. Gentle. Like seduction whispered on a breeze.
I didn't even look down. I just felt. Each toe wrapping, flexing, teasing. The subtle slide of silk skin over expensive cloth. His cock responded immediately--eager, twitching, so easy to read.
He tried to smile. Tried to speak. But his hand was white-knuckled on the stem of his wine glass.
And I wasn't even close to done.
I leaned forward and let My voice caress the conversation. Asked his boss questions he couldn't answer. Teased out laughter from the table while I ruined him beneath it. While I stroked his cock with precision that belonged in orchestras.
And bursa eskort then--photo time.
My heel dangling. My smile wicked. A single snap.
Sent.
Buzz. His phone lit up.
He choked on a breath.
Second photo--lower now. My foot, wet, tucked right up between My thighs. Caption: "Focus, pet."
He couldn't.
He was coming undone.
That's when I leaned over, lips near his ear, voice low:
"Don't make a sound. I'm going to make you cum right here."
And I did.
My toes gripped him, circled. The arch of My foot slid in deliberate rhythm. And I felt it--felt his cock twitch, his thighs lock, his soul collapse as he released.
A quiet gasp.
A ruined orgasm in his pants.
In public.
In front of everyone.
I withdrew My foot.
Sat back. Crossed My legs. Sipped My wine.
Didn't speak to him for the next twenty minutes.
He excused himself eventually--shaky, humiliated, undone. He looked like a man walking on broken glass. I kept sipping, still smiling. His boss was talking about bonus projections. I didn't hear a word.
Because he had already given Me My bonus.
--
When he returned, I didn't acknowledge him. Not even a glance. Let him stew in his wet shame, surrounded by promotions and pleasantries. He looked... emptied.
We didn't speak much on the way home. He opened the door for Me, like a good little shadow. I walked inside, took off My earrings, sat on the arm of the couch, and finally looked at him.
"You made a mess," I said, casually inspecting My nails.
He blushed. "I--I couldn't stop it."
"I didn't tell you to."
He didn't speak after that. Just lowered his eyes and nodded.
--
The next morning, I left before he woke up. Early meetings, early power.
But I did leave a note:
"Congratulations, partner.
Now kneel every time you say that word."
No signature.
Just red lipstick on the corner of the paper.
--
Two days later, he sent Me a photo: the company bonus check, uncashed, laid flat beside a velvet pouch.
He didn't write anything.
He didn't have to.
I invited him over that night. No dinner. No wine. No small talk.
I laid him on the floor, naked.
And I rubbed his face with the sole of My foot until he was whimpering again.
His new title? Doesn't matter.
His new salary? Already Mine.
What matters is what he now understands: that power doesn't live in titles or corner offices.
It lives under My foot.