Blue Meat (a story where ballbusting meets findom💵 ˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊)

I’ve been waiting at this restaurant for 15 minutes. The air is stiff and cold. This place carries a thick aura of prestige. I feel the fellow patrons' eyes glare through me as if I am a trespasser.
Where is she?
I feel uneasy now as time goes by and the waiter asks about my party. She’ll be here, I know it. He walks away coldly. The restaurant is dimly lit, the candles on the table bring warmth to the chilling atmosphere. I stare at the door, but only to find couples with dead expressions, flat conservations, and mink coats. I begin to lose hope until I catch the silhouette of a slim feminine figure. She struts through the doors and the wind from outside carries her warm scent through the restaurant. Her scent is earthy, her figure is caressed by a tight fitting black dress, the Louboutin heels are the ones I purchased several months prior. There’s no mistaking it’s her.
Savina.


She gets seated by the hostess and I struggle to find any words. “S-Savina”, I muster. She kindly says my name back. The air is filled with warmth and the eyes of the customers seem to be kinder. The scent intensifies; tonka bean and tobacco. She asks me how long I’ve been waiting, I lie and say not too long. But, it’s never too long of a wait for her. She takes her sharp heel and steps on my shoe.
“Do you like the heels you bought?”
I scream inside knowing I’ve bought her the very thing piercing my foot. The $800 heels I saved two paychecks for. The So Kate Louboutins that she dreamed of are crushing my toes. All of my blood starts to rush below.
The waiter comes and she orders her food meticulously. The waiter asks what I want and she answers for me.
“Oh, he’ll have a single glass of water.” She looks at me sadistically and traces her foot up my pants legs. “I’m not all bad,” she says tracing the rim of my cup with her french manicure. “I won’t let you completely starve.”


The food comes and she starts off eating very slowly, giving me all of her scraps as she indulged and kicked my groin under the table. Her main course arrives and it’s a steak bigger than her. She cuts into it exposing its rare bloody flesh. She looks deep into my eyes before taking a bite. She firmly places her heel on my crotch and presses down. I wince and she laughs at my reaction before taking a bite of her steak.
“That reaction is going to cost you.”
I don’t know whether to be afraid or even more aroused. She takes off her one shoe and delivers a crushing blow to my crotch. I almost scream which prompts the waiter to check in. “Don’t mind him,” she says. “Bloody meat makes him squeamish.”


She switches feet and tortures me with her heel as she takes her time with the meat. I couldn’t help but finish in my pants.
“That’s going to cost you too. I want $1000 for me and you better give the waiter a fat tip.”
I place the cash on the table, ask for the check and notice the price. I read the check out loud. “A seafood tower for $260, wagyu steak tartare for $41, foie gras for $24, ‘accompaniments’ for $75, wagyu for $186 and barely touched bottle of champagne for $75.”
I think about all of the bologna sandwiches I’ll be making just to satisfy her animalic cravings and I nearly come again. I pay the check, I pay her and I tip the waiter a crisp $100 bill. I want to clean myself off in the bathroom, but I have no spare underwear. She slips her black thong past her back seamed garter socks and heels and throws them to me to wear home. The scent alone proves that $1,761 is worth every penny for her.