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After every fifth bite you take, I want you to find a way to drop some food on the floor. Anything will do, even a crumb or a single pea.

It seemed like such a small, simple, silly thing when you said it. Yes, we were in public, but I've been out to eat with a remote-controlled vibrating egg up my ass. I've been out with a full-on karada under my clothes, I'm no stranger to naughty little secrets. This? This is just nothing, right? I mean, it's like you said: just a bit of fun, reliving that that sneaky, misbehaving thrill you had feeding your dog what you didn't like off your plate when you were a kid.
Bite number four.

You're staring at me from across the table with that nakedly hungry look in your eyes. Do you know how much this is making me squirm? My cheeks are burning, they must be a brilliant red.
Bite number five.

I pick up my napkin to wipe the sweat from my palms. How am I going to pull this off? I wonder if you actually knew how hard this was going to be, if you knew how frustrating it would be to me to have to be a bad restaurant patron in order to be a very good boy. There's a grain of rice, there, on the very edge of my plate facing me. Maybe, if I brush against it just like that when reaching for my next bite...
Back to bite one again.

Having to count each bite isn't helping. Keeps me constantly aware of what you expect me to do. Counting each forkful, ticking off the seconds before I throw my food on the ground again like a child.
Two.

I'm already trying to figure out how I'm going to engineer “accidentally” dropping the next morsel, nudging some crumbs from my roll to the edge of the bread plate for easy access.
Three.

My shaking hands make the silverware patter against the plate when I cut my next bite of chicken. I manage a smile your way, and I think I see approval in your expression. I definitely see lust, enough to encourage me to keep going.
Four.

I make sure the errant breadcrumbs land on my napkin, so that...
Five.

...I can let them drop to the carpet when I put my napkin on my lap. Thank goodness for the double benefit of covering the evidence of how turned on I am.
My heart is racing, I take a few deep, long breaths to try and calm myself down enough to continue. How many more groups of five bites, do you think, until the meal is finished? I lose count, focusing only on the litany of one, two, three, four five, drop. Over and over.

I'm getting bolder. This time, I drop a nice, big slice of red pepper. The woman across from me sees me do it, and gives me a look like you'd give a bad puppy who'd just peed inside. You see it, too, though, and her sourpuss face can't compete with the look you get when you're about to burst into laughter out of pure joy. I'm okay, I can do this. If I don't spontaneously combust first. Why is it so hot in here?

Another couple of grains of rice.
A tiny sliver of chicken.
A little glob of butter.

Crap. That one really was an accident. And finally there it is: one last bite and my plate is clean. All that's left to drop is a tiny curl of onion, easily knocked off the fork when I bring it to my mouth. Done.

I offer to go pay, please please let me. I need to get home, now. To be at your mercy, to let you quench this insane fire you've kindled in me. At your nod, I go first up to the counter where they keep the debit machine. You stop to tie your shoe before you join me. I hope I'm the only one who notices that it wasn't actually untied to begin with. When you get back up, there's a swagger in your step that wasn't there before.
The cheque is paid.

Take me home now, Sir, please?
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