A gentleman would do no less.

After another quick glance around, you shift your chair back and duck under the table. The tablecloth hangs nearly to the floor on all sides, and since the lighting in the restaurant was dim (“atmospheric” is how the management would put it) to begin with, you can’t see much down here other than shadows.

You feel your way around. There’s the pole holding up the center of the table; you don’t want to bang your head on that. There are Rebecca’s shoes, and so those are almost certainly her feet inside. You slip one shoe off, and draw a finger along the sole of her foot. She jumps a little, nearly kicking you, and you hear a little yelp of surprise.

Next you duck your head, finding the slope of her ankle with your lips. You nuzzle your way up her leg, feather-light, and this time you hear her sigh with approval. She parts her knees as your lips reach them; the tight skirt of her dress will only allow her so much motion, so she hitches the skirt up, tugging until it’s halfway up her hips. Now you’re able to nudge her legs apart far enough to move your head between them.

You kiss your way up the inside of her thigh. You smell perfume, and below that, you smell Rebecca herself, and the combination is intoxicating. She shifts herself a couple of inches forward to meet you, so that she’s sitting on the edge of her chair. Your nose is first to make contact with her crotch, and then your lips, grazing over the lace of her panties. You hear a sound like a whimper from somewhere above the table.

As interesting as her underwear is, it’s not exactly what you’re looking for. You bring your hands up under her thighs, around the sides of her hips, finding her panties where they stretch around to her buttocks. She understands what you’re up to immediately, and when you pull, she lifts her hips up just enough so that you can tug down her underwear. You perform the necessary maneuvers to get the lacy scrap of fabric down past her feet and off.

This time, when you tuck your head in close between her thighs, and find a warm, wet place to put your tongue, you feel her quiver, and you hear a clinking sound that tells you she nearly upset her water glass. You set about paying close and detailed oral attention to her, having your dessert before your dinner.

Her feet scuff against the floor. Her chair creaks. She makes unintelligible, quiet, breathy sounds. She gets quite wet; her chair is going to want a few passes from a cleaning wipe after this. Your cramped position under the table isn’t the most comfortable you’ve ever occupied, but the feel of her body, the taste of her pussy, and the sound of her arousal more than make up for it.

After a little while you suspect that the fuse on her explosion might be burning dangerously short...