WG Story Drone
Well-Known Member
Both, WG, Dining, Dom, Sex: Here's a little feeder/feedee romance of love and domination.
Pamela Dumpling
She caught my eye the very first time I saw her. I looked across the crowded restaurant and there she was, biting into a Danish pastry. She had a look of total pleasure on her face, oblivious to everything going on around her. She was pretty skinny -- too skinny for my taste -- maybe 130 lbs on her petite frame, with just a suggestion of roundness to her cheeks. I looked away, so I wouldn't be accused of staring at her. She was very pretty. When I glanced back in her direction, someone had gotten in the way and I could only see her auburn hair when she leaned back in her chair.
As I made my way out, I saw that she was sitting alone. She was looking around the room in that way pretty girls do when they're impatient for their dates to return to the table. I just had to speak to her.
"Hi," I said, "my name's John. I couldn't help noticing your lovely smile. It lit up the whole room and made my lunch much more agreeable."
"Hello, John," she said, smiling broadly at me, "my name is Pamela. I'm pleased to meet you." She leaned forward as she introduced herself and her blouse strained to contain her large breasts. I thought one of the buttons was going to give way. Also, her stomach, though not large, rolled delightfully under the tight fabric of her skirt.
"Pamela, I don't want to seem too aggressive, but would you be free for dinner some night this week?"
"As it happens," she purred, "I have no plans for this Friday night."
"That's fantastic," I replied. "Where can I pick you up and what time's best for you?"
"Do you have a card and a pen?" she asked demurely. I gave her two of my business cards and my pen. She wrote her address and phone number on one and slipped the other into her purse. She handed me the card with her address on it, saying, "Around seven-thirty, at this address?"
I inspected the address and her phone number and nodded. "I'll be there promptly at 7:30." She held out her hand for me to shake and I decided to be continental and kiss it instead. It was very soft and had a delicious perfume. She smiled and looked just a little flattered and confused.
I made my exit swiftly, just before her date got back. She flashed me a smile as I looked back at her. I couldn't wait for Friday.
It was only Tuesday and I couldn't get her out of my mind. I kept seeing that picture of her face as she ate the Danish. I looked through the paper and selected from among a variety of movies, shows, and other entertainments. I really didn't know anything about Pamela, except that she liked Danish pastries. I tried to analyze her by what she had worn to the restaurant, but didn't get much further than business casual, a little tight across the chest. I ruled out anything too strenuous.
Then I saw it. The dinner train was having a special - in addition to the usual dinner, scenery, and winery tour, there was a bakers and confectioners bazaar at the winery. She liked pastry and it would give me a chance to see her sampling all kinds of sinful delights.
When Friday finally came, I equipped myself with my best suit, flowers, and a big box of assorted Belgian chocolates. Her address turned out to be a typical small house for the neighborhood. The yard was a little shabby. I wondered if she lived with elder parents. Five minutes early, I ascended the stairs and rang the doorbell.
She opened the door and gave me the same broad smile. Her eyes lit up when she saw the flowers, matching the blue of her very becoming dress that looked about a size too big for her. She invited me into the entry, where I waited until she'd dealt with the flowers. I revised my earlier estimation. The place looked very much like she was the only resident.
When she came back, I gave her the chocolates and again she thanked me and blushed. I helped her into her coat and we went out. She paused for a moment over the chocolates, and quickly slipped them into her coat, with a furtive glace at me to see if I'd seen. I pretended I hadn't.
"Where are we going, John?" she asked, as we descended the steps toward my car.
"I thought we'd take the dinner train," I replied, opening the door for her.
"Oh, I always wanted to do that, but never have until tonight," she commended, settling herself on the seat.
I went around the car and saw her slip a chocolate into her mouth. I took my time starting the car, being careful not to speak too soon, before she'd had a chance to chew and swallow the large chocolate she'd put in her mouth. I asked her if she was ready and she nodded.
As I drove, she chatted about nothing in particular intermittently. I told her some about myself. When I embarked on one of these monologues, she'd sneak another chocolate. When she was on the verge of stuffing the fourth piece in her mouth, I put my hand on hers and said, "Please, allow me." I took the chocolate from her soft hand and placed it gently in her mouth while I waited for the light to change. "I like women who like chocolate," I declared. She took the box of chocolates from under her coat and thereafter, while we talked, I would occasionally pick a piece from the box and feed it to her.
I'm sorry," she admitted on her tenth piece of chocolate. "I've been starving myself all week. I so wanted to make a good impresion. But I just can't help myself. I love chocolate."
"Believe me, Pamela," I offered, "you are making a wonderful impression. There's nothing I like better than a girl who can't help herself."
Just then, we pulled into the parking lot for the train and after I parked, I took one more piece of chocolate and fed it to her slowly and deliberately. She chewed it slowly and luxuriously, enjoying every it bit of it. Then I got out and opened her door. "They have a wonderful menu on this train," I said. "I do hope you're not too full."
"Oh no," she said with feeling, "I'm never too full. I'm still famished." Then she added in a deeper, slightly comical voice, reminiscent of the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street, "Feed me."
I stopped, turned, embraced her and gave her a kiss on the lips, which she returned with passion, holding me close and not holding back at all and pressing her body against me like it was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world to do. Like we'd been lovers for years. She tasted wonderfully chocolaty.
We walked hand-in-hand to the train and boarded it. I ordered us each a cocktail as we waited for the train to start. I excused myself and found the waiter on the way to the restroom. I gave him $20 and told him he'd earn another $30 if he made sure my date had extra generous portions and was always supplied with plenty of bread and butter. "Make sure she always has plenty to eat," I told him. He gave me a knowing smile and I returned to out table. Her glass was empty, so I ordered her another. Then the train left the station.
The waiter did his job well and started Pamela off with a big plate of deep fried appetizers and some rich, creamy sauce for dipping. She dug right in, like she was starved and ate with obvious enjoyment. I ordered us a bottle of wine. While we waited, I took a soft bread stick, split it down the length, opened it out and buttered it with three little pats of butter. When I handed it to her, she bit into it and gave me a very sexy look and a groan/moan of pleasure. She ate half of it and then held it out to me and I took a big bite of it. She watched me eat with a very sexy look on her face and then finished the rest of the breadstick herself. The waiter brought me a dinner salad and brought her a plate of tiny sandwiches made with a selection of pates, cheeses and olives.
"Oh, I love these," she said, digging in and eating one after the other. "How did you know?"
"Lucky, guess," I said.
Her portion of breaded chicken breast was twice the size of my own and had four times the rich creamy sauce on it. She sate it all with a dozen more bread sticks I prepared for her. Each time she ate one, she gave me one large bite and then ate the rest herself. She ate everything on her plate, even using bread sticks to wipe up the last of the rich sauce from her chicken.
Then the train arrived at the winery. I helped Pamela up and out of the train. Then we got out of the train, we were struck by an overpowering array of delicious aromas: fresh-baked bread, chocolate, sweet pastries, and fried food.
"Oh, My God," she exclaimed, taking a deep breath, "I think I'm in heaven!" She was very eager and excited.
We wandered forth into a food bazaar of perhaps a hundred different vendors. Everybody had samples and Pamela didn't miss a single one. Each time we'd come to a stand, she'd get me one of the samples and feed it to me and then get a couple for herself. Often, she'd engage the person in the stand in animated conversation about their particular delicacies and her smiles and attention would earn her an extra big sample. Whenever she really liked something, I bought some for her to take home. I bought her several pounds of several kinds of fudge, a dozen different selections of rich, sweet pastries, several kinds of cookies, two big box of fresh filled donuts, and of course a couple bakers' dozen Danish.
Pamela was walking much slower as we made our way back to the train, in response to the warning whistle. Her dress, which had been loose fitting and a little large on her when I picked her up, was tight across her middle now. My own belt felt quite tight around my middle, but I didn't mind. She looked good enough to eat as I followed her up the narrow circular stair back to our table. She collapsed across the table from me and I raised her feet to my knees and massaged her feet. She leaned back and gave me a thankful look, closed her eyes and napped for a few minutes.
Pamela Dumpling
She caught my eye the very first time I saw her. I looked across the crowded restaurant and there she was, biting into a Danish pastry. She had a look of total pleasure on her face, oblivious to everything going on around her. She was pretty skinny -- too skinny for my taste -- maybe 130 lbs on her petite frame, with just a suggestion of roundness to her cheeks. I looked away, so I wouldn't be accused of staring at her. She was very pretty. When I glanced back in her direction, someone had gotten in the way and I could only see her auburn hair when she leaned back in her chair.
As I made my way out, I saw that she was sitting alone. She was looking around the room in that way pretty girls do when they're impatient for their dates to return to the table. I just had to speak to her.
"Hi," I said, "my name's John. I couldn't help noticing your lovely smile. It lit up the whole room and made my lunch much more agreeable."
"Hello, John," she said, smiling broadly at me, "my name is Pamela. I'm pleased to meet you." She leaned forward as she introduced herself and her blouse strained to contain her large breasts. I thought one of the buttons was going to give way. Also, her stomach, though not large, rolled delightfully under the tight fabric of her skirt.
"Pamela, I don't want to seem too aggressive, but would you be free for dinner some night this week?"
"As it happens," she purred, "I have no plans for this Friday night."
"That's fantastic," I replied. "Where can I pick you up and what time's best for you?"
"Do you have a card and a pen?" she asked demurely. I gave her two of my business cards and my pen. She wrote her address and phone number on one and slipped the other into her purse. She handed me the card with her address on it, saying, "Around seven-thirty, at this address?"
I inspected the address and her phone number and nodded. "I'll be there promptly at 7:30." She held out her hand for me to shake and I decided to be continental and kiss it instead. It was very soft and had a delicious perfume. She smiled and looked just a little flattered and confused.
I made my exit swiftly, just before her date got back. She flashed me a smile as I looked back at her. I couldn't wait for Friday.
It was only Tuesday and I couldn't get her out of my mind. I kept seeing that picture of her face as she ate the Danish. I looked through the paper and selected from among a variety of movies, shows, and other entertainments. I really didn't know anything about Pamela, except that she liked Danish pastries. I tried to analyze her by what she had worn to the restaurant, but didn't get much further than business casual, a little tight across the chest. I ruled out anything too strenuous.
Then I saw it. The dinner train was having a special - in addition to the usual dinner, scenery, and winery tour, there was a bakers and confectioners bazaar at the winery. She liked pastry and it would give me a chance to see her sampling all kinds of sinful delights.
When Friday finally came, I equipped myself with my best suit, flowers, and a big box of assorted Belgian chocolates. Her address turned out to be a typical small house for the neighborhood. The yard was a little shabby. I wondered if she lived with elder parents. Five minutes early, I ascended the stairs and rang the doorbell.
She opened the door and gave me the same broad smile. Her eyes lit up when she saw the flowers, matching the blue of her very becoming dress that looked about a size too big for her. She invited me into the entry, where I waited until she'd dealt with the flowers. I revised my earlier estimation. The place looked very much like she was the only resident.
When she came back, I gave her the chocolates and again she thanked me and blushed. I helped her into her coat and we went out. She paused for a moment over the chocolates, and quickly slipped them into her coat, with a furtive glace at me to see if I'd seen. I pretended I hadn't.
"Where are we going, John?" she asked, as we descended the steps toward my car.
"I thought we'd take the dinner train," I replied, opening the door for her.
"Oh, I always wanted to do that, but never have until tonight," she commended, settling herself on the seat.
I went around the car and saw her slip a chocolate into her mouth. I took my time starting the car, being careful not to speak too soon, before she'd had a chance to chew and swallow the large chocolate she'd put in her mouth. I asked her if she was ready and she nodded.
As I drove, she chatted about nothing in particular intermittently. I told her some about myself. When I embarked on one of these monologues, she'd sneak another chocolate. When she was on the verge of stuffing the fourth piece in her mouth, I put my hand on hers and said, "Please, allow me." I took the chocolate from her soft hand and placed it gently in her mouth while I waited for the light to change. "I like women who like chocolate," I declared. She took the box of chocolates from under her coat and thereafter, while we talked, I would occasionally pick a piece from the box and feed it to her.
I'm sorry," she admitted on her tenth piece of chocolate. "I've been starving myself all week. I so wanted to make a good impresion. But I just can't help myself. I love chocolate."
"Believe me, Pamela," I offered, "you are making a wonderful impression. There's nothing I like better than a girl who can't help herself."
Just then, we pulled into the parking lot for the train and after I parked, I took one more piece of chocolate and fed it to her slowly and deliberately. She chewed it slowly and luxuriously, enjoying every it bit of it. Then I got out and opened her door. "They have a wonderful menu on this train," I said. "I do hope you're not too full."
"Oh no," she said with feeling, "I'm never too full. I'm still famished." Then she added in a deeper, slightly comical voice, reminiscent of the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street, "Feed me."
I stopped, turned, embraced her and gave her a kiss on the lips, which she returned with passion, holding me close and not holding back at all and pressing her body against me like it was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world to do. Like we'd been lovers for years. She tasted wonderfully chocolaty.
We walked hand-in-hand to the train and boarded it. I ordered us each a cocktail as we waited for the train to start. I excused myself and found the waiter on the way to the restroom. I gave him $20 and told him he'd earn another $30 if he made sure my date had extra generous portions and was always supplied with plenty of bread and butter. "Make sure she always has plenty to eat," I told him. He gave me a knowing smile and I returned to out table. Her glass was empty, so I ordered her another. Then the train left the station.
The waiter did his job well and started Pamela off with a big plate of deep fried appetizers and some rich, creamy sauce for dipping. She dug right in, like she was starved and ate with obvious enjoyment. I ordered us a bottle of wine. While we waited, I took a soft bread stick, split it down the length, opened it out and buttered it with three little pats of butter. When I handed it to her, she bit into it and gave me a very sexy look and a groan/moan of pleasure. She ate half of it and then held it out to me and I took a big bite of it. She watched me eat with a very sexy look on her face and then finished the rest of the breadstick herself. The waiter brought me a dinner salad and brought her a plate of tiny sandwiches made with a selection of pates, cheeses and olives.
"Oh, I love these," she said, digging in and eating one after the other. "How did you know?"
"Lucky, guess," I said.
Her portion of breaded chicken breast was twice the size of my own and had four times the rich creamy sauce on it. She sate it all with a dozen more bread sticks I prepared for her. Each time she ate one, she gave me one large bite and then ate the rest herself. She ate everything on her plate, even using bread sticks to wipe up the last of the rich sauce from her chicken.
Then the train arrived at the winery. I helped Pamela up and out of the train. Then we got out of the train, we were struck by an overpowering array of delicious aromas: fresh-baked bread, chocolate, sweet pastries, and fried food.
"Oh, My God," she exclaimed, taking a deep breath, "I think I'm in heaven!" She was very eager and excited.
We wandered forth into a food bazaar of perhaps a hundred different vendors. Everybody had samples and Pamela didn't miss a single one. Each time we'd come to a stand, she'd get me one of the samples and feed it to me and then get a couple for herself. Often, she'd engage the person in the stand in animated conversation about their particular delicacies and her smiles and attention would earn her an extra big sample. Whenever she really liked something, I bought some for her to take home. I bought her several pounds of several kinds of fudge, a dozen different selections of rich, sweet pastries, several kinds of cookies, two big box of fresh filled donuts, and of course a couple bakers' dozen Danish.
Pamela was walking much slower as we made our way back to the train, in response to the warning whistle. Her dress, which had been loose fitting and a little large on her when I picked her up, was tight across her middle now. My own belt felt quite tight around my middle, but I didn't mind. She looked good enough to eat as I followed her up the narrow circular stair back to our table. She collapsed across the table from me and I raised her feet to my knees and massaged her feet. She leaned back and gave me a thankful look, closed her eyes and napped for a few minutes.
