If someone had tried to tell me, just a few short weeks earlier, that I’d allow a man to have such power over me, I’d have said they were mad. If they’d said that I’d do it voluntarily, I’d have said that they were fucking mad.

I was twenty-eight years old. Divorced. A successful manager at the head offices of a well-known retailer, with over thirty people directly under me, far more used to giving orders than receiving them.

At the time, I had three lovers, all casual by mutual consent. I’d been seeing Rob for about six months, on and off. He was older than me, mid-thirties, with just a little distinguished grey at his temples, but in excellent physical shape. He was a nice guy and a very attentive lover, whose only fault was that at times I found that he could be a little dull.

I’d agreed to go to a restaurant with him that Friday night, but, to be honest, I would have cancelled it if I’d thought I could get away with it. I’d had a very bad day: one problem after another, all of them pretty crucial issues that couldn’t be rushed or delayed, and all of which would have had bad consequences if I fucked them up. The end result was that I’d spent the whole day making critical decisions, and I’d have vastly preferred to have spent the evening at home with a nice bottle of red, vegging out in front of the TV. But I’d made a commitment, and I’d just have to live with it.

“What are you having?” Rob asked me after I’d stared blankly at the menu for several minutes.

It was as if I had simply run out of decisions. “You choose for me,” I replied.

“I might have the filet mignon,” he said. “It’s supposed to be good here.”

“Good. Sure. I’ll have that as well.”

“What would you like to drink. Wine?”

“I really don’t mind,” I answered.

Rob gave me a funny look. “Are you OK, Sandra?” he asked, sounding concerned.

I sighed. “To be honest, Rob, it’s been one of those days,” I admitted. “Could you just, like, take care of everything? Take care of me? Please?”

He reached over the table and took my hand in his. “We can go, if you don’t feel up to it?”

“Physically, I’m fine,” I assured him. “Decision fatigue, I think it’s called. You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. OK?”

Just then, the waitress, a pretty little thing called Charlize, according to the badge, came to take our order. I couldn’t help noticing that she was paying a lot of attention to my silk blouse. Or rather to what wasn’t terribly well hidden inside it - I didn’t have a bra on, and a slight chill had made my nipples erect.

Rob ordered some salads, the steaks, and then chose a bottle of Pinot Noir. It felt so good just to let him take charge of everything. To not be the one with all the answers for a change.

“I think you have an admirer,” he said after the waitress had gone: clearly, he’d seen her interest as well.

“Really?” I said, pretending not to have noticed.

“I think you should undo a few more buttons on that blouse.”

“You are aware that I’m not wearing a bra?” I asked pointedly.

“Undo the buttons,” he said firmly. I looked at him, seeing a side of him that was new to me. I had more or less just put him in charge. A feeling settled over me that I wasn’t familiar with: the freedom of just letting someone else be in charge.

He looked at the cleavage I was now displaying, and then said, “One more, I think.” And I did that too. My top was now unbuttoned to well below my breasts, and I knew that I’d have to be careful how I moved if they weren’t going to fall out.

“Good girl,” he said, bestowing a lovely smile on me that made me feel warm all over. Then he said, “Describe your panties to me.”

He hadn’t said please or anything, but I found that I didn’t mind, replying straight away, “Red satin and lace thong.”

“Hmmm. Go into the powder room and take them off. Then come back and give them to me,” he said. Again, it was more like an order.

“But--” I began to object.

“Just do it, Sandra,” he interrupted firmly.

There was something in his tone that excited me. I’d wanted him to take charge, and he was now taking charge of me. And I liked it. I liked it so much that the panties we’d been discussing were getting decidedly moist.

Without saying another word, I got up and headed to the ladies’ bathroom.

When I came back, I tried to hand the panties to him under the table, but he indicated with a nod that I should pass them over the top.

“Here you are,” I whispered, as I held my fist out to him, the panties clutched tightly inside.

“Here you are, what?” he said.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, totally confused.

“Here you are, Sir, would be OK. Or Master, or possibly, Daddy,” he stated, still leaving me hanging.

I think it was at that moment that something kind of clicked inside me. I remembered the last time I’d really trusted anyone to look after me: it had been my parents, or more specifically, my dad. The feeling of being loved and looked after. Of knowing that whatever happened, he’d be there to take care of me and make any problems just go away. I’d forgotten what a wonderful feeling that was ... and I wanted it again.

I was trembling as I said meekly, “Here you are, Daddy.”

He finally reached over and took them from me, raising them to his nose and smiling. “You’re a very good girl, Sandra,” he said softly, and I was filled with a warm sense of joy and fulfilment.

“You’re excited, aren’t you?” he said.

I was. Sitting in a room full of people with my boobs mostly on show, and no panties, was making me decidedly horny. “Yes, I am,” I admitted. He raised an eyebrow, and I belatedly added, “Daddy.”

“Touch yourself.”

Oh God. Could I really do that? What if I were caught? But it wouldn’t be my fault: he’d told me to do it. I slipped my hand under the table, parted my legs a little, which caused the split in my satin wrap skirt to open right up, and began to stroke my pussy lips, surprised by how wet they were.

“Now lick your fingers.”

I was so fucking turned on, both by performing this outrageous act in public, and by the way that surrendering my will to this man was making me feel. Keeping my eyes locked to his, I raised my hand and began to lick my juices from my fingers, not caring who saw me. As always, I loved the way that I tasted.

We both saw the waitress heading in our direction, and I started to cover myself up.

“Did I tell you to do that?” he asked pointedly. “Move your skirt so that your pussy is visible.” I hesitated for just a moment, and he hissed, “Now.”

I obeyed instantly, parting the sides of my skirt, exposing my sex.

My heart was pounding in my chest and I couldn’t breathe properly as Charlize placed my plate in front of me. It was almost a relief that she seemed far too interested in my breasts to notice anything else. I began to relax just a little as she moved around the table to give Rob his food.

“I think you may have spilled something in my girlfriend’s lap,” Rob said calmly to her, and I thought I was going to die.

She came back around the table, and, as she looked down at my groin, I waited for the screams of horror or outrage, but none came. For several heartbeats, she just stared at my pussy, which was literally dripping with my intense excitement. Then she simply said, “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” Then she picked up one of the napkins from one of the unused place settings and began to dab gently at my vulva. Having someone touch me in my state of arousal was utterly wonderful, and it was all I could do not to moan out loud.