Date Night: Remote Egg and Shark Tank Passion

You sit across from me in the low candlelight of the restaurant, twenty-six and glowing, the black silk of your dress clinging to the curve of your breasts and the flare of your hips. I’m twenty-eight, and the phone in my palm already feels warm from how often I’ve thumbed the app. The little egg is seated deep inside you, slicked by the steady seep of your pussy since we left the apartment, and every few minutes I give it a short, wicked pulse that makes your fork pause halfway to your mouth.

The first one hits while the waiter is still describing the wine. Your thighs press together under the tablecloth and your teeth catch your lower lip hard enough to leave a faint mark. I keep my face easy, ordering the duck for myself and the scallops for you, voice steady while the vibration climbs from a lazy throb to a tight, insistent buzz that I know is nestled right against the soft spot behind your clit. You manage a smile for the waiter, but your knuckles go white around the stem of your glass.

Between courses I let it rest, just long enough for you to breathe and to lean forward and whisper that you’re already dripping onto the seat. I answer by sliding the slider up two notches. Your back arches a fraction; the silk over your nipples tightens. Other diners glance our way when you make a small, involuntary sound and then cover it with a cough. The thrill of it—being watched while no one quite knows—makes your eyes shine. I reach under the table and rest my hand on your knee, feeling the fine tremor running through you, and I murmur that later, when we’re alone with the sharks, I’m going to make you come until you can’t stand.

You eat slowly, each bite interrupted by another random pulse. Once I hold the highest setting for a full ten seconds while you try to answer a question from the couple at the next table about the neighborhood. Your voice stays polite, but your hips shift restlessly and a flush climbs your throat. By the time the check arrives your panties are soaked through and your thighs are slick; you keep crossing and uncrossing them, chasing and fleeing the pressure at the same time. I pay, pocket the phone, and offer you my arm. You take it, pressing close so the hard line of my cock brushes your hip through my pants, and you whisper that if I don’t get you somewhere private soon you’re going to come right here on the sidewalk.

Outside, the night air cools the sweat at the nape of your neck. I text Cody while we walk the three blocks to the aquarium. He answers at once: side door, lights already dimmed, he’ll lock us in and come back in two hours. We’ve done this before; he knows the arrangement and he trusts us not to leave a mess. When we reach the service entrance he’s waiting in his navy polo, thirty-four, keys jingling. He grins, lets us slip past, and bolts the door behind us with a quiet click that echoes down the empty corridor.

The exhibits glow blue-green in the dark. Water light ripples across the tile and over your skin as I steer you deeper, past the jellyfish drums and the long ray tank, until we reach the massive shark gallery. The glass wall rises two stories; sand tigers and blacktips drift in slow circles on the other side, their pale bellies flashing. I pull out the phone again and shove the slider all the way to the top. The egg detonates inside you. Your knees buckle; I catch you and press your back to a shadowed stretch of wall between two emergency lights, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up under your dress to find the wet heat of your inner thigh.

“Please,” you gasp, already grinding against my palm. “Benedict, please, I need to come. I’ve been on the edge since the appetizers.”

I kiss the corner of your mouth, tasting wine and desperation, and I tell you to beg louder. The possibility that some late-night cleaner might still be on the far side of the glass, or that security might glance at a monitor, only makes you wetter. Your hips roll, chasing the ruthless buzz, and your voice breaks when you say you’ll do anything, that you want my fingers, my mouth, my cock, that you want to come while the sharks watch. I keep the egg screaming inside you and drag my thumb over the soaked silk of your panties until the fabric is transparent and clinging to your swollen lips. You whimper, thighs shaking, and I finally hook the panties aside, feeling how outrageously slick you are, how the egg’s cord disappears between your folds.

I drop to my knees on the cool tile. The dress bunches at your waist. I push two fingers into you alongside the buzzing egg, curling them hard against the front wall while my thumb works your clit in tight circles. You’re so swollen and sensitive that the first stroke makes you cry out. I fuck you with my hand, steady and deep, the egg trapped between my knuckles and your g-spot, vibrating so fiercely I can feel it in my wrist. Your cunt grips and flutters; juice runs down my fingers and drips onto the floor. I look up and watch your face—eyes half-closed, mouth open, one hand braced on the wall, the other tangled in my hair—while the sharks glide behind you in silent procession.

“Come for me,” I say against your thigh. “Right here. Let them see.”

You break with a sharp, helpless sob. Your pussy clamps down in rhythmic pulses, milking my fingers, and a fresh rush of wetness floods my hand. I keep stroking through it, drawing the orgasm out until your legs tremble and you have to clutch my shoulders to stay upright. When the last aftershock fades I ease the egg free; it slips out with a wet sound and a gush that spatters my wrist. I set the toy aside, spin you around so your palms slap the glass, and bury my face between your ass cheeks.

From behind you are perfect—ass tipped up, cunt open and gleaming, still spasming. I spread you with both hands and lick a long, flat stroke from your clit all the way up, gathering the thick, sweet-salt taste of you. You moan and push back, grinding against my mouth. I seal my lips around your pussy and suck, drinking every pulse of juice that spills out, tongue fucking into you while my nose presses against your ass. One hand reaches around to rub your clit; the other holds you open so I can devour you properly. You taste like arousal and the faint metallic tang of the egg, and I groan into you, greedy, swallowing everything you give me.

The second orgasm hits faster. Your thighs shake, your hole flutters against my tongue, and you come in a hot rush that fills my mouth. I drink it down, lapping and sucking until you’re whimpering that it’s too much, that you can’t, and still I don’t stop until the spasms gentle and you’re dripping down my chin. Only then do I stand, wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, and free my cock. It’s thick and aching, already wet at the tip. I nudge the head against your soaked entrance, bend you lower so your breasts press to the cold glass, and drive into you in one long, animal stroke.

You take every inch with a broken cry. The stretch is obscene; your pussy is still clenching from the last orgasm and it grips me like a fist. I set a hard rhythm immediately, hips snapping, balls slapping your clit with every thrust. The glass fogs under your breath and your palms. Beyond it the sharks circle, indifferent and huge, their eyes catching the light. I fuck you like I own you—deep, relentless, one hand fisted in your hair so your cheek stays against the tank, the other reaching under to pinch and roll your nipples through the silk. Each stroke drags over that swollen spot inside you; the wet sounds are loud in the empty hall.

“Look at them,” I growl against your ear. “Look at the sharks while I pound this greedy cunt. You’re going to come on my cock, Francesca. Twice. I want to feel you milk me.”

You nod frantically, eyes locked on a sand tiger gliding past, and the exhibitionist heat of it—being fucked in the open dark, bodies outlined against the glowing water—tips you over again. Your third orgasm rips through you with a high, startled wail. Your walls flutter and squeeze, gushing around my shaft, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from following. I don’t slow down. I fuck you through it, harder, the angle brutal, until the oversensitive clench turns into another rising wave. Your voice goes raw. You beg me not to stop, tell me you can feel every vein, that you’re going to come again, that you want my cum but not yet, not until you’ve given me one more.

I give it to you. I reach down, find your clit with two fingers, and rub in fast, slippery circles while I pound into you. The fourth orgasm crashes over you almost at once—longer, deeper, your whole body locking up, pussy milking me in tight, rhythmic pulses that drag a groan from my chest. Juice runs down your thighs and over my balls. I stay buried to the hilt, grinding, letting you ride it out against the glass while the sharks turn in slow, ghostly loops on the other side.

When you finally sag, trembling and spent, I pull out carefully. You turn in my arms, eyes dark and shining, and drop to your knees on the cool floor without a word. Your mouth opens and you take me deep, throat relaxing, tongue working the underside while your hand strokes what won’t fit. The taste of your own pussy is still on me; you moan around the length of it, sucking hard, hollowing your cheeks. It doesn’t take long. The sight of you—dress rucked up, lips stretched, sharks drifting behind your head—snaps the last of my control. I cup the back of your skull and come in thick, pulsing jets straight down your throat. You swallow every drop, eyes watering, then lick me clean with slow, possessive strokes until I’m shivering.

I pull you up and kiss you, deep and unhurried, tasting myself and the salt of your cunt on your tongue. We stand there a moment, foreheads touching, breathing each other in while the tanks hum around us. Then I straighten your dress, tuck myself away, and take your hand. We walk the long curve of the gallery, fingers laced, the afterglow making everything soft and blue. You lean into my shoulder and murmur that next time you want the rooftop garden after the jazz club closes, the one with the glass rail and the city lights, and you want me to make you come with the egg still inside while strangers pass on the street below. I squeeze your hand and tell you I’ll text the owner tomorrow. We already know he’ll say yes.