Love Me Tender (Then Crank Up the Dial)
Pairing: dom!Paige x sub!reader
Genre: uh vibrator, a bathroom, and your little shit girlfriend, this is just literal porn
Description: It’s supposed to be dinner. A quiet, romantic, Valentine’s Day reservation. But nothing about is quiet—especially not when she’s got a remote in her hand, a smug look on her face, and complete control over the vibrator tucked between your thighs.
Spoiler alert: you won’t leave the restaurant dry—or alone.
WC: 4.3k
Notes: i’m unwell.
The smooth silk of your dress clings to you, hugging the shape of your thighs where you sit stiffly in the restaurant booth, hands folded in your lap like you’re prim and proper. Like you’re not unraveling. Like you’re not shaking, just barely, under the heat of Paige’s gaze.
She’s across from you, fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of her wine glass, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She’s in a suit—tailored to perfection, navy-blue, the crisp lines sculpting along her broad shoulders, the deep V of her collar teasing a glimpse of collarbone. Paige has always known how to command attention without trying, without forcing it—she owns it, the same way she owns the court, the same way she owns you.
Under the table, pressed between your legs, is a slick, buzzing little secret. Her secret. The vibrator nestled against your clit hums at the lowest setting, teasing, thrumming against your pulse. Paired with the stretch of the plug buried inside your ass—God, you’re already at the edge of insanity.
The worst part? She hasn’t even touched the remote yet. Not properly, at least. Just enough to remind you it’s there, enough to make every shift of your hips a risk, every movement a battle between relief and torture.
Your breath hitches as she tilts her head, watching you closely, fingers tapping lightly against the remote resting beside her plate. Her nails are short, painted clear, effortlessly clean—the same hands that have spent hours palming a basketball, wrapping around your throat, spreading you open like she has all the time in the world.
“You’re quiet,” she murmurs, taking a slow sip of wine. “Something wrong, baby?”
Your jaw clenches. You want to glare at her. You want to fight, but you can’t—because Paige loves this part too much. Loves the way you squirm, loves the way you bite your lip bloody just to keep from moaning in a public setting.
Her foot slides forward under the table, nudging against your ankle, teasing its way up your calf, slow, lazy.
“Tell me,” she says. “Or do I have to turn it up to get you to talk?”
Your nails dig into your palms. The thought of her cranking the setting higher—no, no, not here.
You clear your throat, forcing your voice even. “I’m fine.”
Paige hums, unconvinced, swirling the wine in her glass before setting it down. “Mmm. Liar.”
Your heart stops—or maybe it kicks up, your pulse hammering in your throat as she casually picks up the remote, thumb hovering over the dial. Your muscles go rigid, every nerve locked in anticipation.
She doesn’t press it. Not yet. Instead, she leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.
“Let me guess,” she murmurs, eyes flicking down toward your lap. “It’s starting to get a little unbearable, isn’t it?”
Your thighs clench, heat flashing through your body. Fuck. You shouldn’t—shouldn’t react so much to just her words, but she knows you too well. Knows how to slip under your skin, how to make you burn with just a look.
Paige smirks, and then she finally presses the button.
A sharp, sudden jolt slams through you. The vibration spikes—no longer a subtle tease, but a deep, rolling pulse against your clit, strong enough that you jerk in your seat.
Your fork clatters onto your plate. Heat immediately rushes to your face.
“That’s better,” she muses, tilting her head. “So sensitive tonight, baby. Maybe I should’ve gone with something stronger.”
Your breath comes out in short, uneven gasps. The plug stretches tight inside you, every pulse of the vibrator amplifying the heat coiling low in your stomach. It’s too much. Too much and not enough, because you need to move, need to grind down, but you can’t—not here, not in a fucking restaurant.
“Paige,” you hiss under your breath, barely managing to keep the desperation from your voice.
She quirks a brow. “What?”
“Turn it down.”
She laughs—low, deep, like she enjoys your suffering. “Turn it down?” Her gaze flicks to your lap, her smirk sharpening. “But you’re already soaking through your dress, baby.”
Your stomach plummets.
Your hands fly to your lap—fuck, fuck, she’s right. The silk fabric, already thin, has betrayed you, the dark spot between your thighs a damning proof of your arousal.
Paige hums in satisfaction, setting the remote back down, not bothering to lower the setting. Your whole body trembles.
She leans back, taking her time, pretending to glance over the menu like she hasn’t just reduced you to a mess in the middle of a five-star restaurant.
“You’re such a good girl for me,” she murmurs, not looking up. “Sitting there, taking it.”
A shudder runs through you. Your mind is a blur, the pleasure cresting just enough to drive you insane but never enough to push you over.
Paige knows exactly how to keep you suffering. You sit there, legs squeezed so tight your thighs ache, hands clenched into useless little fists in your lap, every muscle locked as you fight to hold yourself together. To keep from breaking.
Paige is relaxed. She sits back against the plush leather of the private booth, legs spread, hand resting lazily over the remote, thumb idly circling the dial but not pressing it. Yet. Just teasing. Just reminding you that she’s in control.
Your breath is ragged, shoulders trembling as you try to not fucking whimper in a public setting.
A waitress approaches—blonde, pretty, her uniform perfectly pressed—and for a second, just a second, you think Paige might have some mercy. Might turn the toy off while she places her order.
You should know better.
"Have you decided, ma’am?" the waitress asks, her voice smooth and polite.
Paige hums, tapping her finger against the remote like she’s thinking. Like she’s deliberating. And then—oh, fuck—she turns the dial up another level.
A sharp, intense pulse slams through your clit, the vibrator kicking up into a deep, rolling rhythm that has you jerking against the seat, nails digging hard into your palms as you bite back a strangled moan.
Paige doesn’t even look at you. She’s calm, unreadable, as if she’s not watching you come apart right in front of her.
"I’ll have the filet mignon," she says smoothly, voice completely even, like she’s not currently wrecking you under the table. "Medium-rare. And she’ll have—" Paige pauses, finally looking at you, eyes dark, lips quirked.
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Your chest rises and falls too fast, breath shaky, helpless, as the relentless vibration works you open, thrumming deep through your clit, pulsing against the plug inside you. It’s too much, too good, but not enough—never enough—because Paige is keeping you right there, dangling on the edge, teasing, tormenting, watching you drown in it.
"She’ll have the salmon," Paige finally says, answering for you.
Her eyes are locked on you, watching you struggle. Watching you break.
The waitress scribbles it down. "Any drinks?"
"Mmm," Paige hums, pretending to think—and then, just to be a bitch, she cranks the setting higher.
A sharp, punishing jolt tears through you.
Your body locks, your breath catches, a tiny, choked whimper slipping out before you can stop it. The waitress doesn’t notice, but Paige does. She loves this, lives for it.
"Just water for her," she says smoothly, shutting the menu. "She’s already a little… flushed."
Your whole face burns, thighs trembling as you desperately try to keep your breathing under control.
The waitress nods, stepping away, leaving you alone in the private booth with her.
Silence stretches. Paige leans forward, eyes glinting, her fingers slowly tracing the outline of the remote like she’s considering ending you right here, right now. Her voice is low, sultry, dragging over you like silk and sin.
"Did you just whimper for me, baby?"
Your breath stutters, muscles coiled so tight you might shatter, the relentless, pulsing vibration burrowing through you like a second heartbeat—no, stronger, crueler, because your heart doesn’t make your knees weak, doesn’t flood your core with helpless, dripping heat. Paige watches you like a wolf watching prey, that smirk just bordering on smug as she twirls the remote between her fingers.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Such a mess, and I haven’t even gotten to the best part.”
You swallow hard. Your thighs clench—useless. The silk of your dress is ruined, clinging to you like sin, like evidence. The heat of the restaurant, the murmur of distant conversation, the candlelight flickering between you—it all feels unreal, like you’ve been removed from normalcy and placed in a purgatory of her design, one where every breath, every twitch, is hers to control.
The waitress is gone, the order placed, and yet Paige still hasn’t granted you relief. If anything, she’s enjoying the game too much, savoring your trembling hands, the way your body betrays you with every involuntary shudder. You feel it in the way she leans back, lazy, her legs spread beneath the table, confidence dripping from her like fine wine.
“What’s the matter, baby?” she taunts, her fingers flexing over the remote. “You look like you’ve got something to say.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes. Not when she shifts slightly, boot nudging between your ankles, forcing your legs apart just enough to remind you who’s in control. Not when she presses the remote’s dial forward another click—just one. Just enough to send a fresh wave of torturous pleasure rolling through your oversensitive core.
Your breath shatters into something between a gasp and a choked moan. Your fingers fly to the edge of the table, gripping hard, knuckles white.
Paige’s eyes glint.
“Careful,” she warns, tilting her head. “People might hear you.”
It’s too much. You can feel yourself unraveling, every nerve raw, every second a stretch of unbearable tension. And she knows. Oh, she fucking knows. The bastard. The sadist. The woman who holds you together and tears you apart in equal measure.
Paige leans in, slow, deliberate, resting her chin on her palm like she has all the time in the world. Like she’s not currently dismantling you one pulse at a time. The flickering candlelight between you casts shadows across her sharp jaw, highlights the smug amusement in her eyes as she watches you tremble on the edge of something devastating.
“You’re shaking, baby,” she murmurs, voice syrup-thick, low enough that it curls around your spine like a touch. “That bad, huh?”
Your nails bite into the tablecloth, your breath a wrecked thing in your chest. The vibrator’s merciless now, the setting just high enough to keep you right on the brink, never letting you tip over, never letting you breathe. It’s a calculated cruelty—Paige knows exactly how to play you, how to keep you strung out, how to turn you into a mess of heat and need with nothing but a dial and a smirk.
Her boot slides further between your legs, pressing, just barely, but it’s enough to send a fresh bolt of pleasure lancing through you. Your thighs clench around nothing, your body an open wound of want, so fucking desperate it’s humiliating.
“Paige,” you whisper, half a plea, half a warning.
She hums, tilting her head, pretending to consider. “What is it, sweetheart? You want me to stop?”
Paige sees the truth before you can even think to lie. Her smirk sharpens, and then—she has the audacity to stretch, to feign casual boredom as she flicks the remote again. Just a little. Just enough to send another sharp pulse through your clit, enough to make your body jerk, enough to make your mouth fall open on a silent gasp.
She watches you drown in it. Watches your shoulders shudder, watches the way your legs twitch under the table, helpless against the cruel, endless tease. And then—she sighs, setting the remote down with an air of finality, like she’s lost interest. Like she’s done playing.
Your stomach drops, panic cutting through the haze of arousal, because no—no, she can’t just leave you like this, can’t just push you to the edge and then fucking abandon you in the middle of a restaurant.
“I think you need a moment,” she says, smooth, detached, like she’s commenting on the wine selection instead of completely wrecking you.
She leans back, stretching her arms over the booth, legs spread in that infuriatingly casual way, radiating dominance, confidence, control. You can feel it from across the table, the weight of her ownership, the unspoken demand curling thick between you.
Your pulse hammers. Your thighs tremble. The ache between your legs is unbearable.
Paige cocks a brow.
“Well?”
It’s not a question. Your breath catches. A second passes. Then another.
And then—your legs move before your brain catches up. You force yourself out of the booth, every step shaky, every nerve raw. The vibrator is still on, still buzzing insistently inside you, and it takes everything in you not to stumble, not to let your knees give out under the weight of your own need.
The air of the restaurant is thick, suffocating, heat curling in your chest, your head. You barely register the dim lighting, the hushed conversation around you, the clinking of silverware against porcelain. All you can feel is the slick, throbbing ache between your legs, the torturous pulse of pleasure rolling through your core.
You don’t have to look to know Paige is watching you.
The moment you step into the hallway leading to the bathrooms, the noise of the restaurant fades, leaving you in a quiet, empty stretch of dimly lit space. Your breath is shallow, ragged, your body vibrating with tension.
The second you slip into the bathroom, you brace yourself against the sink, gripping the cool porcelain like it can ground you. Your reflection stares back at you—flushed, disheveled, pupils blown wide with need. You barely recognize yourself.
The door creaks open behind you. Paige steps in. Then locks it. Her boots strike the tile slow. Measured. She stalks toward you like a huntress with the kill already bleeding in her claws. You don’t move. Can’t. Your fingers clutch the sink, trembling, white-knuckled, and that treacherous little hum still buzzes in your core, low and deep and maddening. Your thighs are soaked. Your knees feel like they’re not yours. And Paige—Paige is silent as she comes up behind you, a shadow in navy and control.
You meet your own eyes in the mirror—wide, desperate, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any color left. Behind you, Paige moves closer. The heat of her body rolls off her in waves, a living furnace pressed just shy of your spine.
“You’re a mess,” she murmurs, her voice just a breath, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Look at you.”
You do. God, you do, even though shame burns hot under your skin. She places her hand over yours on the sink—solid, sure, hers—and leans in just enough that her front brushes your back. It’s not a question. It’s an assessment. A challenge. A reminder.
“You walked through a five-star restaurant dripping into your fucking heels,” she says, dark amusement threading through every word. “And no one knew. No one but me.”
Your breath catches, a soft whimper escaping without permission, and she grins—teeth sharp, cruel delight dancing at the edge of her lips. The hand not bracing you pins your hip, pulling you back into her. And then her thumb dips between your thighs, presses firm against the soaked silk clinging to your cunt.
“Still buzzing for me?” she teases, rubbing in a slow, maddening circle, the pressure enough to make your legs wobble. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked. That little toy’s been working overtime, huh?”
You nod, desperate, a choked sound breaking in your throat. You want to beg. Want to scream. Want to come and die and live again all in one breath. Paige just chuckles.
“Oh no,” she purrs, her lips brushing your neck. “You don’t get to come just because you need it.”
The hand at your hip tightens. She lifts the hem of your dress slowly, dragging the silk up your thighs, exposing more and more ruined skin until the cool air kisses your slick folds and the faint metallic glint of the plug winks in the mirror. Her eyes meet yours in the reflection, hunger coiling deep in the burnished gold of her stare.
“You get to come,” she whispers, “when I say you come.”
She drops to her knees. Your hips jerk as her hands spread you open, rough palms skating up the insides of your thighs. Her mouth—God, her mouth—is hot and brutal when it lands on your clit, tongue pressing firm against the vibrator’s head, the added pressure making your knees buckle. She moans into you, devours like she’s starved, licking and sucking with calculated cruelty, the vibrations driving deeper under the intensity of her touch.
You’re gasping, broken little whines spilling from your lips as her tongue works you open, the plug inside you shifting with every tremor, every pulse. Her grip bruises your hips, nails digging crescent moons into your skin as she pulls you back onto her face like she owns it. Like you’re not allowed to escape.
You don’t want to. You want to come. Want to shatter.
She stops.
The silence hits like a slap. Your body trembles, needy, on the very edge of ruin—and Paige just stands. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes glittering with something feral. You watch her in the mirror, desperate, wrecked.
“On your knees,” she commands.
You drop. The floor is cold tile against your knees. Your thighs are twitching, trembling, drool slicking the corner of your lips just from the aftertaste of her tongue on your cunt. And Paige stands tall above you—tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease her inked collarbone, her strap already bulging thick beneath her slacks, ready.
She unzips. You whimper.
“Open wide, baby.”
Your mouth drops before she finishes the sentence. Tongue out, lips parted, already drooling down your chin, desperate for it. Paige fisting your hair is the only warning you get—then she feeds it to you in one slow, deliberate thrust. Her cock hits the back of your throat before your reflex even wakes up.
You choke.
“That’s it,” she growls, holding you there, her hips flush with your lips, her grip tightening until your scalp aches. “Fucking take it. You’ve been gagging on my attention all night, haven’t you? Look at you now—on your knees, plugged and soaked, and I haven’t even made you come yet.”
Your throat spasms around her, spit spilling free, dripping messily down your neck, your chest. She starts moving—slow thrusts that build, in and out, in and out, then faster, harder, until your head’s bobbing like a toy on a string, her grip controlling every inch. Your mascara smears, tears spilling as she fucks your face without mercy.
“Sloppy little cockdrunk whore,” she snarls, slapping your cheek with the flat of her hand when you gag too hard. “You like being used like this? Don’t answer. I know you do.”
Your eyes roll. Your throat stretches. The tip of her strap punches into your resistance with every brutal thrust, and still you moan. You moan around it like you love being used, like you need it deeper. Paige’s eyes flash with something dark, primal.
She spits. Right in your mouth. Doesn’t stop fucking your face even when the mess dribbles out again.
“Swallow. Good cumslut always swallows.”
Then she yanks you off. Just enough for a ragged breath, your tongue lolling, chin and chest shiny-wet, and before you can suck in oxygen—
SLAP.
Her palm cracks across your cheek. You whimper once again, drained.
“God, you’re pathetic. Can’t go five fucking minutes without drooling like a bitch in heat. Get up.”
Your legs barely obey. The plug’s still inside you, throbbing in time with your clit, the toy still buzzing—a wicked low pulse that’s kept you riding the knife’s edge of orgasm for so fucking long. She shoves you hard against the stall door, yanks your wrists behind your back and holds them with one hand, the other dragging your dress up again.
And then her mouth is on your ass. Her teeth bite your cheek, her tongue licks the base of the plug.
“Oh my god—Paige—!”
Her chuckle is low and mean. She spits again, this time between your cheeks, letting the wet drip down the base of the toy. Then she licks it—slow, nasty, devouring. Her tongue circles the plug, and then presses against your hole, licking around it, fucking into it until you’re moaning like a fucking animal.
“Filthy little anal slut,” she breathes, slapping your ass so hard you jump. “You want me to fuck you here instead? Make you come with nothing in your pussy at all?”
You shake your head. She slaps you again.
“Wrong answer.”
Then her fingers slip between your folds. One slap to your clit, and your knees buckle.
“Look at this fucking mess,” she murmurs, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds. “You’re gushing and you haven’t even come. Ruined your panties, ruined your dress, ruined yourself. Just a broken, desperate little thing waiting to be bred.”
You whine. Your voice is gone. But your body screams—hips jerking back, needy for anything, everything.
“Beg for it,” she growls, pulling your head back by your hair. “Beg for your orgasm. Beg like a fucking bitch.”
“Please, Paige—please—fuck, I need to come—I’ll do anything—”
“Anything?”
She steps behind you again, lines the slick cock up with your soaked pussy. The stretch hits instantly, wide and mean and so deep your eyes cross. She doesn’t give you time to adjust. She just slams in. Hips crashing into yours. Your voice breaks on a scream.
Then—she twists the vibrator inside you higher. The plug pulses. The cock rams deep. You explode.
You don’t just come—you implode. Screaming, sobbing, squirting all over the floor, her thighs, your own. She holds you down by the hair as your legs collapse, fucking into your orgasm with vicious, unrelenting force. You scream her name, voice ragged, throat raw, body twitching.
She doesn’t stop.
“Oh no, baby. We’re not done.”
One hand grabs your throat, choking you just enough to feel your pulse stutter. The other slaps your clit. Over. And over. And over.
You squirt again.
“That’s it,” she growls, voice right in your ear. “Give me everything. You’re not leaving this bathroom until you’re empty.”
Your knees are still shaking. Your slick coats your inner thighs, streaked down to your calves, puddled on the floor under you in obscene splashes. The plug’s still in. The vibrator’s still buzzing, just low now, like a sick little reminder of everything she just did. You can barely lift your face from the cold, come-smeared tile. Mascara tears painted down your cheeks, lips swollen, your cunt raw and twitching from being fucked through three—four?—mind-shattering orgasms.
Paige is fixing her collar like nothing happened. Cool. Composed. Buttoning up her shirt with smooth fingers, wrist flicking her tie back into place, slipping her belt through the loops like she didn’t just break you over her strap and leave you leaking like a used toy. The scent of sex clings to the air thick as heat. But she doesn’t even look mussed.
You finally find your voice—barely.
“P-Paige—”
“Shhh.” Her tone slices through the haze. Calm. Cold. Final. “You’ll clean up when you’re back at the table.”
She slides the remote into her pocket with a quiet click that still makes your thighs twitch, and crouches down just long enough to tug your ruined dress down your hips again. Not fixing your hair. Not bothering with your makeup. She wants them to see. Wants you walking back out into that restaurant wrecked, ruined, dripping like a whore who just got used in a public restroom and liked it.
She leans in, breath brushing your temple.
“Get up, baby.”
You do. Fuck, you do, legs wobbling, cum still leaking with every step. The plug shifts. The vibrator hums. You shudder. Your cunt pulses around emptiness.
“You’re not done yet,” she says, brushing invisible lint off her slacks. “I’ve still got dessert coming. And so do you.”
She reaches over, grabs your chin, makes you look up at her. Her thumb brushes your spit-slick bottom lip—then presses in. Makes you suck. You moan, automatic.
“Good girl.”
Then she turns. Unlocks the bathroom stall. Walks out. Just like that. No looking back. No waiting. Not even a final command—just the click of her boots as she strides back toward the table, calm as ever, as if she hadn’t just turned you into a dripping, shaking, breathless thing.
And now it’s on you. To fix your hair. To wipe your mouth. To walk out there soaked, flushed, plug inside you, vibrator still on, heels clicking through your shame.
To follow. Like a good girl.
