Red Dress no Knickers.

Dinner.  Posh restaurant, dark, lots of heavy drapes, black and red, velvet tablecloths and seat covers. Large black candles on floor mounted candelabra provide the seductive illumination. A 20’s theme night.

A pleasant murmur of conversation pervades the room, the actual voices and content muffled by the heavy furnishing. The clientele are very obviously affluent; there is an undercurrent of decadence often brought about by gatherings such as this. All of the ladies are wearing 20’s style gowns, those who smoke exhibit their cigarettes held in long holders twirled between fingers clad in lace opera gloves. Many wear extravagant, colour-coordinated hats. The dress code of red and black chosen specifically to blend with the environs of the room.

You are wearing an off –the- shoulder red silk dress, tight to the body, hugging your butt, thighs and calves, leading one’s eyes to the impossibly high patent stilettoes which you can only barely walk in. Your stockings, black of course, are hidden under the red silk, but the tell-tale bobbles of the garter belt are very visible. Your strawberry blonde hair is in a tight bun extending behind a black hat that almost resembles a skull cap. Your lips are painted cherry red, full and pouting, a hint of annoyance betrayed in them and your kohl-enhanced eyes.

You return from the bathroom take a sip from the expensive  glass, filled with a pricey, exclusive wine and after placing the glass on the table next to mine, you arrange your dress so that you may sit legs crossed slightly askew of the table.

“You did as I asked?”

“Yes, of course”

“And they are where right now?”

“In my handbag.”

“Take them out and place them on the table”

A hint of hesitation, but you comply, opening the tiny patent bag and pulling out a pair of ludicrously expensive red silk cami-knickers, edged in lace and seemingly unnecessarily large.

“So you decided not to follow my suggestion of wearing a thong?” I am not irritated, the comment is purely questioning rather than accusatory.

“Sir knows I cannot bear thongs, I am sorry” Your head tilts down in the first sign of submission you have displayed the whole evening. A small victory for me.

“That is unfortunate as I want you to place them on the table for all to see where they will remain for the evening. A thong would have been so much easier to hide.”

I drink from my glass, a full bodied, fruity white, actually almost amber in colour. I normally can’t abide white wine and my customary red would have matched the décor so much better but you were allowed to choose this evening. As I drink you arrange the knickers in the middle of the table between our black, gilt-edged plates. Now that is what I call table dressing!

We order, or more accurately, I order for us both. Queen scallops for me and oysters for you, drizzled in juice. It is impossible to eat oysters without making a mess.

“I have no napkin, would you ask for one for me” You have become somewhat accustomed to the environment and are showing signs of forgetting that, for this evening at least, you are the subordinate.

“Your napkin is on the table, my dear, it is not my fault that you chose not to use it” I gesture towards the knickers, in pride of place on the table. “I am sure our young waiter would be pleased if you put them to some use other than as an embarrassment to him.

“But Sir…”

I take the choice from you and pick up the knickers and offer them to you extravagantly. The elderly but immaculate couple on the nearby table notice and he nods his head, a knowing smile passing across his mouth.

You take them and wipe the corners of your mouth with the ever-so-expensive  silk. The stain is obvious. The remainder of the meal concludes, your dishes and dessert specifically chosen to be as requiring of a napkin as possible. The unshelled prawns were a particular master-stroke I thought, if you would pardon the clumsy pun.

The knickers are ruined, greasy and sticky. Only after dessert do I allow you to take advantage of the proffered finger bowl, with its cleansing lemon slice. Your wine glass is particularly in need of attention from where your fingers have touched; it is a smeared disgrace compared to its former self.

“My dear, why don’t you take that hideous glass to the bathroom and clean it. Fill it with wine and use it to wash your knickers, then put them back on and return to the table.”

A look of horror comes across your face, not helped by the fact that the couple next door hear the request as I deliberately raise my voice above the pervading hubbub. The lady grimacing as she appreciates the humiliation involved.

“Go. Now!”

You stand up from the table, take the ‘napkin’ and the full glass with you and, as elegantly as you can manage under the circumstances, walk to the bathroom. I drink my wine, noticing there is no more; my mouth is dry with anticipation of what is going on in the bathroom. Should I dare to follow you and watch and revel in your discomfort?  As I think of this the lady beside me excuses herself and walks off confidently after you.

After a few minutes the lady returns to her chair, an indecipherable expression on her face. Did she see? How wonderful if she did. How humiliating for you. The dirty old cat! Did she enjoy your humiliation? Perhaps that was the look I couldn’t place. Her man is laughing audibly and turns deliberately to watch for you.

You return, it is impossible to hide the damp patch on your dress underneath which the greasy and now wet knickers are residing. The couple look very deliberately and a few other assorted heads are turned in your direction also.

You sit, surprisingly dignified under the circumstances and you appear to have a slight air of defiance about you. That is good, better to rise to the challenge, head held aloft, than shrink into oneself.

“Your glass is empty, Sir. It would be a shame to waste my wine. Obviously I cannot drink it after what I have just done. Please, Sir.”

“You are very kind, my dear, frankly I would have thought you would have used it all to clean out your underwear.” I cannot resist playing to the growing audience, there are several tables worth of people now obviously trying to follow the scenario.

“No, Sir, I though it better that I stink of seafood than use up such a fine vintage.”

Distinct defiance in your voice, the graphic description eliciting several giggles and one or two outright gasps from the now entranced nearby diners.

“You are very kind, my dear and I appreciate your sacrifice.” I raise your glass, gesture my appreciation and down the amber nectar in one hit.

I cough slightly and cannot keep the look of shock off my face as I realise that the wine is indeed exclusive but perhaps not of the vintage it had been originally.

“Enjoy? Is my piss as refreshing as you imagined?”

A collective gasp fills the air and then the room falls eerily silent. I do my very best to salvage my self-respect as I realise the tables have been turned.

“Your wine is very definitely pleasant but you need to keep it chilled in future, my dear.”  I am pleased with my quick response. There are a few laughs and smiles as I appear to have recovered the situation somewhat with my quip. The gent beside us laughs out loud yet again.

His lady rises from her chair, takes hold of her man’s black tie and drags him to his feet.

“Come slave, you need to remember your place and you,” she leans toward me deliberately, “ should not assume it is  necessarily her vintage that you have just consumed!”

With that she marches off, towing the poor man in her wake to everyone’s amusement.

He is the lucky one.

“Waiter!” you shout above the laughter, “a coffee for my friend, he appears to have a nasty taste in his mouth he needs to get rid of.”

My humiliation is now total and not likely to end for some time.