There’s that smile.
The well-rehearsed one. The performance one. The type of grin I’ve seen in high school plays and on the faces of customer service reps from coast to coast. It’s the smile you’re supposed to wear when you greet a new customer.
You put a bev nap down and rattle off the specials and up-sells.
“Don’t worry,” I interrupt, “I’m not a secret shopper.”
There’s a tiny laugh, a hint of a smile, but you’re down to business. You take my drink order, nothing fancy, just a soda, and you scamper off to one of your other tables to pick up a pile of dirty plates. That kid’s meal basket teeters on the top of your stack and, before you go, the mother demands a refill of her kid’s cherry coke. I see your shoulders drop when you sigh.
You return to my table. My drink is cold, just enough ice, and the glass is sweaty from the hot day. You ask if I’m ready to order. I choose something random. I don’t care. I’m not there for the food, I’m there to meet you.
I had seen you through the window when I passed. I saw your face, your eyes, your figure, the way you styled your hair and wore your uniform. I had to know you.
You ask if I want anything else and you’re surprised when I say, “there’s just one thing.” Your eyebrow raises. You don’t have time for this. You just want to get home. You want to make enough money to make rent and pay bills.
“I think you’re doing an amazing job,” I say, “don’t worry about tables like that. They don’t see you because they hate themselves.”
“Pfft,” you say, “yeah.” You don’t buy it. It’s no consolation, but you thank me for the attempt. I make no effort to hide my gaze as you walk away. And then you look back and catch me. I smile at you. You got me. And I don’t care. I fucking want you.
“Like what you see?” You put a refill down and tower over me like a teacher who caught a kid swearing.
“I do, actually.” I say, taking a sip of my drink, “very much so.”
You tell me your name. I remind you that you told me that already, and that it’s on your name tag, which is just above your hard nipple that’s pushing through your shirt. I introduce myself and offer a handshake.
“Oh, we’re doing that,” you say, surprised, but happy to indulge the formal gesture.
“Can you sit for a second?”
You look around, you can’t find your manager, so you drop into the booth and sit across from me. I get out my phone, I hand it to you, “find your Insta for me.”
You blush as you type, then hand my phone back so I can hit the add button. “Are you kinky?” I ask, boldly.
You tilt your head and wonder how the fuck I could ask you such a thing. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a hope of mine.”
There’s a real smile now. This one suspicious, but flattered. And mostly curious.
“I am,” you say, as if it’s a challenge.
I turn to my shoulder bag and pull out a little box. I put it on the table in front of me. “Obviously, you can say no,” I preface what I’m about to say, “but open the box. And if you wanna play, take it with you. If you don’t, leave it here.”
I push the box across the table. I can’t read your face and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. You lift the lid off the box and look inside. You stare down at its contents, then you look up at me. My face is stern, serious, and my eyes are like daggers stabbing into yours.
There’s another smile. This one is naughty, excited, eager.
You close the box, and take it with you when you go.
You walk back to the kitchen and feel a buzz in your phone. A message from me. “Tell me when it’s ready.”
“K,” you respond, distracted by the food you need to run.
The box is in your apron and it feels so heavy, like it’s going to burn through your clothes. You feel another buzz on your phone. You don’t need to check, you know it’s me.
You dash into the bathroom, claim the first free stall, then you open the box. You remove the little app-controlled vibrator and pull down your panties. You slide it inside and adjust it so it feels just right.
You check my messages, “show me that it’s in.”
You blush, but put your phone between your thighs and snap a pic. You send it.
“Good girl,” I say.
I see you approach a new table. Bev naps down. That fake smile. I buzz the toy inside you and see your body stiffen. I see you trying to hide the feeling as I raise the intensity, as you listen to their drink orders and their questions about the gluten-free options. I chuckle to myself as I watch you.
I ease up on the vibrator and let you take their order in peace.
You give me a sly look as you pass my table. “Food’s almost ready,” you say.
“Thanks,” I say, giving you a sudden jolt as you walk away.
A moment later, you return with my order. Before you can say a word, I command you, “put it down.”
You do.
“Palms on the table.” You lean forward, hands flat on the table. “Look at me like we’re talking,” I say, as I let the toy buzz on in the highest setting.
“Look at me,” you look right into my face, I look right into yours. I watch your eyes. I watch your breathing. “That feels so good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you whimper.
“Are you all wet for me?”
“Y-yes,” you say.
“Good.”
I turn off the vibrator. I let you retreat for a moment and deal with your other guests while I eat my meal.
I shock you with sudden bursts here and there, just to keep myself at the front of your mind. You glance at me whenever you can, you see the way I watch you; you know that I need you.
I push my empty plate to the end of the table and wait for you to clean it up. “Anything else?” you ask as you swing by.
“What’s on the dessert menu?”
You gesture to a table tent and tell me which one’s your favorite. I turn on the vibrator as I order, and I tell you to hurry back.
I don’t turn it off when you walk away. I keep it buzzing in you; I keep it pulsing inside, keep it charging through your body and stimulating every nerve.
You return to the table with my check.
“Sit down,” I say, scooting deeper into the booth so you can sit beside me. I turn the vibrator all the way up, put my hand on your thigh under the table. Your hand creeps over my leg, to my lap, and you feel how thick and hard I am under my slacks. “Good girl,” I whisper into your ear, “you’re such a good girl for me.”
You smile. This time a pleased one, a content one.
“I want you to cum for me,” I say.
You just nod your head, biting your lip as you feel the toy pulsing inside, as you feel my hand gripping your thigh. I see you pinch your eyes shut. I see you bite hard on your lip. I feel you claw into my thigh. You’re cumming, and you’re doing everything you can not to show it.
I hum into your ear, satisfied, and tell you you’re so fucking hot. You sit there for a moment to catch your breath.
“That guy doesn’t look happy,” I say, noticing a grumpy manager glaring at you from the kitchen doors.
“Shit,” you say, standing up, “I got shit to run.”
You stagger away from my table, dabbing sweat off your forehead.
You run a tray of food to some of your other guests and feel a buzz from your phone. You find a message that says, “you may remove the toy and return it to me.”
Before you can pocket your phone, another message appears, “And you must give me your panties.”
I see you dash into the bathroom. I smile, knowing that you’re obeying every word of mine. I look down at my phone, ready to send another teasing message.
“Everything okay here,” the manager says, standing over my table.
“It’s perfect,” I say, “she’s the best waitress I’ve had in a while.”
He chats with me for a bit, but I’m sure he knows I want him to leave. I see you lingering near the bathrooms, waiting to return to my table.
He lumbers away. You check your other guests before stopping by and giving me the little box. “Thank you,” you say, wearing a sincere smile that makes me melt.
“You’re welcome,” I say, letting you go.
I watch you walk away and then open the little box. Your panties are stuffed inside, still warm. I feel a rush of excitement course through my body.
I crash into the bathroom, claim the first stall. I unfold your cotton panties. They’re cute, but practical. Definitely what you wear to work and not a date. I check the middle, they’re soaked and milky with your wetness. They smell amazing.
My cock is throbbing. It’s eager. The precum is leaking enough for me to use it as lube when I stroke it for you. I press your sloppy panties onto my tip as I erupt. My cum flows out in thick streams, flooding all over your mess. I let it pool, then smear it around before balling them up again and stuffing them back into the box.
As I exit the bathroom, I scan the restaurant and spot you at a new table.
You’re taking their drink order as I pass. “I think you dropped this,” I say, handing you the box.
“Thanks,” you reply, as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened.
You scamper into the bathroom and find a message from me. “Show me that you’re wearing them.”
You open the box, find the sloppy panties. You close your eyes, rub your clit a little, and then put them on. You take a pic for me, showing the soaking wet spot pressed so firm against you cunt that I can almost see through it. You send it.
“Good girl,” I reply.
You pull on your jeans, tighten your apron, and return to work the rest of your shift.
