Paying for Dinner

Always bring a book. Thank god I remembered this time. I'm not even reading really, but it just gives me a prop with which to ignore the way-too-chummy waiter. He's touched my arm nearly every time he's come to the table. Not my inner arm or near my tit or anything, but still, his fingers have slid twice across the bend in my elbow, slowly enough to make the hair on the back of my arm stand up.

He's not ugly, just overeager. Maybe thirty, swarthy—might be Italian but probably more likely Middle Eastern. He's brought me a third glass of wine "compliments of the house." It's a crappy chardonnay, filled to the absolute top of the glass, sloshing slightly as he sets it down. I smile and put down my book, figuring a free glass of shitty wine demands at least a minute of chat.

Heavy accent, still not sure from where. He asks a question, then while I'm answering his eyes rove from my breasts, down as far as he can see before the rest of me disappears beneath the table. He's glanced at my hand several times; I finally realize it's to check for rings.

Anyway, enough of this. Not that I have to be back at the hotel at any particular time, but I'm tired of smiling politely for this guy. I ask for the check, which he brings with another brush of my naked arm. I wait until he walks away before reaching my purse tucked against my chair on the floor. It's light, and I realize in a panic that my daytimer/wallet isn't in it. Shit, I left it by the phone at the hotel. Cash, checks, credit—it's all in there. I watch the waiter turn the lock in the door, flip the sign to closed, and I think.

When he comes back, I say, "Excuse me, I have a problem." He looks panicked and apologetic, like whatever it is he's hell-bent on making it right. "My wallet isn't in my purse. I must have left it back at the hotel where I'm staying." He just stands looking blankly. I try again, "I don't seem to have my money or credit cards with me. Can I leave my purse with you, go get my money and come back to pay?"

Still, he stands for a while. Then, he smiles a big smile. "Let me ask the boss." He zips through the swinging doors into the kitchen and I am left alone in the dining room, all the other patrons long departed. It has that spooky silence that restaurants have after the music is turned off and customers all gone. Even the smell of food has dissipated and the kitchen is quiet.

My waiter returns and says, "The boss will speak with you, please." He turns back through the doors and expects me to follow him into the kitchen. I grab my purse and tuck my book inside.

The kitchen is immaculate, a shock for such a mediocre restaurant. It's small, with eight burners, two reach-in refrigerators, a big square mesquite grill. Everything is gleaming stainless steel. Standing at the room's center, a man who could be my waiter's older brother sharpens his knives. Maybe forty-five, he's trim and slightly built, his chef whites another anomaly in such a crappy restaurant. He's sliding a ten-inch chef's knife with great skill against the side of the steel. Back and forth, he watches me approach. He's not smiley like the waiter. His face hardly registers any emotion at all.

"You cannot pay?"

"Well, of course I can pay. I just need to go grab my wallet from the hotel."

"No good. Different plan."

I figure he's waiting for me to come up with another acceptable plan, so I start blathering on, trying to figure out something that would work for him.

"Shut up. I have plan." No one tells me to shut up, so my mouth kind of drops open before I start getting pissed off.

"First, you show us tits. Then, we like tits, you bargain with us for meal. Ehoud, how much she owe?"

My waiter gets his copy of my bill out of his apron. "Appetizer, $9. Entrée $28. Two glass wine, $16. Dessert $6. And coffee, I give free."

I'm not exactly getting scared, but I feel a prickle of sweat on my back. It's funny—I'm pissed off, appalled at this jerk. But maybe just a little turned on, too.

"OK, you show us tits, this is for coffee."

"Wait, I thought you already gave me the coffee for free." Shit, saying that was practically like agreeing to his plan.

"That was before you have no money to pay. We waiting for to see your tits."

I swivel my head toward the door and my waiter blocks my way. I think they mean it. No one knows I'm here, and I'm stuck with two psycho Middle Eastern guys in a locked restaurant. I've got my cell phone in my purse, but Ehoud, if that's his name, gently slides my purse down my shoulder and keeps it gripped in his right hand.

Fine, I'll show them my tits and get the fuck out of here. I unbutton the first button of my white silk blouse and stare straight at the chef. I unbutton four more until I can just slide my arms out of the shirt and it drapes down across my skirt. Ehoud moves around a bit so he can see the front of me while I unclasp my bra and let it fall off my shoulders.

No one says anything. The waiter is smiling fiendishly, but the chef doesn't move a muscle.

"I like tits. I suck left tit, Ehoud right tit. This pays for appetizer."

"No way. I didn't agree to any touching."

"This is deal."

I'm mad, but getting definitely turned on. They both move in a little closer, waiting for my answer.

"Alright, but only for a minute, and it's for the entrée, not the appetizer."

"OK, the minute. But not entrée, appetizer."

The chef moves in before I answer and leans forward, sucking my areole hard into his mouth. I feel his teeth nipping at my nipple. His left hand reaches around the side of my small breast and tugs it, guiding more of my flesh into his warm mouth. Ehoud stands, watching closely, his right hand snaking down and swiping once across the crotch of his pants. He leans in and kisses my right nipple, gently, tentatively, then licks up my right breast with a flat, wet tongue. The chef is still locked on, like he's in mortal combat with my left breast, while Ehoud is circling my nipple with his tongue, his hand gently cupped at my waist. Finally, I push them both back.

"It's been a minute."

They both look flushed, and when I look down I see the outline of the chef's hard cock against his checked pants. Ehoud's hard-on, if he has one, is hidden behind his apron.

"Next you pay for wine. One glass, you suck me. Second glass, you suck Ehoud."

"Wait a second. I'm not sucking you guys off. That's waaaay more than I bargained for."

"What, you have money to pay now? If not..." and with that, he zipped his fly down and fished out a fat, stumpy cock. He held it in his fist and looked down at it, then up at me, with the first, slight smile of the evening.

I don't know why—it certainly wasn't being polite and paying for my two shitty glasses of chardonnay—I dropped to my knees, my right knee grinding the cup of my new pale pink demi-bra into the kitchen floor. The chef moves in toward my face, his cock still clutched in his hand. He guides it into my mouth and takes his hand away, briefly throwing his head back and just enjoying the feel of my mouth encircling his dick. Gathering spit in my mouth, I slowly begin to work up and down his shaft, my hands on my own upper thighs. Ehoud seems uncomfortable at first, not wanting to look at his boss's dick as it disappears in my mouth. But he loses sight of whose dick it is, and his mouth opens slightly, almost mimicking the movements of my mouth along the shaft. I reach up with one hand and grasp the dick at its base, sliding the head out of my mouth and slapping it hard against my lips and cheek.

"You like that?" The chef doesn't answer, just moves his hips to line the dick back up with my mouth. His hands bury themselves in my hair in back, grabbing hanks of long blonde curls like reins on either side. We go on like this for a few minutes, until I feel him get harder and the underside of his dick pulse a little. There's no way I'm taking this guy's load in my mouth for a lousy glass of wine. I stop, push him away as forcefully as my petite 5'4"-frame allows, and say, "Time for my waiter."

The whole thing repeats itself, but this time the chef keeps his dick out and strokes it while he watches carefully. Ehoud's legs tremble slightly as I begin to suck faster in a rhythm. His cock is prettier, more slender and long, with a velvety-smooth fat head. I suck it a little longer, partly to be mean to the chef, and partly because it's a better cock to suck. When I feel the waiter is close to cumming, I let the head out of my mouth with a little, audible "pop."

I stand back up, grabbing my bra in my right hand. I put the straps over both shoulders before the chef grabs my left wrist. Not hard, but hard enough to seem serious.

"Now we talk entrée, or first dessert?"

Alright, this guy's had his fun. I'm not going any further with this. What, he thinks I'm going to bend over and take it in the ass for a dry veal chop and some mashed potatoes?

"I think I've done more than enough to pay you for my meal. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to leave." I snatch my wrist out of his grasp and finish putting on my bra. As I do that, I feel Ehoud move in behind me, his cock warm and a little damp against the back of my skirt. The chef pushes up against me in the front, his hands yanking on the hem of my skirt. I push away from him, and then in turn am pushing back against Ehoud and his hard cock.

I pause to collect my wits for a moment, and the chef has my skirt slid up over my hips. I smell garlic on his breath, garlic and cigarettes, but somehow it doesn't repulse me. Now, because my skirt is all pushed up, I feel Ehoud's cock flat against my ass. He's begun moving against me in back, his arms now snaking around the front of me and grabbing my bra-covered tits.

"OK, smart girl. It is entrée. Save sweet for last." And the chef laughs a low rumbling laugh as he slides his index fingers under the waistband and leg band of my panties. I expect him to slide the panties down, am waiting to feel the rutch of satin and elastic down my thighs. Instead, he yanks his arms violently in either direction and my panties rip right through the middle.

Now I'm pissed and I ball up both fists and slam them against his biceps. He's solid for not a big guy; my efforts don't faze him and he tucks the ruined pink panties in the pocket of his chef's jacket.

He speaks to Ehoud in some guttural language. Arabic? I don't know. Ehoud answers back, all the while rubbing his cock up and down the crack of my ass. They both push in closer, the chef pushing my thighs open with his knees. Ehoud is leaning forward, kissing the side of my neck, but I can't pay attention to that. I can only look down at the chef's stumpy dick as he tries to angle it between my legs. Ehoud pulls me back against himself, my arms pinioned by his as the chef's cock is buried in my wet pussy. He grunts as he slides it in, his hands now on my hips, pulling me tight against his cock. He starts to fuck, standing up, bending his knees and straightening a little to get his cock further inside.

Ehoud has been busy. He's unclasped my bra again and it dangles in front of me, while in back he has slicked his cock with his own spit. It slides up and down easily now along the crack in my ass. I wish I could say I was still mad, or still trying to get away, but this fat cock is distracting me, and the thought of the second one joining the first is getting me unbelievably hot.

The chef barks something to Ehoud and I feel the waiter angle his longer cock between my legs. He pushes forward, needing to bend me forward a little to find his target. I'm pushed into the chef, my arms find his back as I feel Ehoud's dick push into my pussy. It's awkward at first, everyone moving in a different rhythm. I feel like any second one or both of these dicks is going to pop out of me. But then they find a pace, with both of them pushing in at the same time, all four of their hands pushing me downward to meet their dicks. Then they pull back, the heads just inside the opening of my pussy, stretching the lips with their combined girth. I'm starting to make noise—little whimpers and sighs I don't seem to have control over. They, however, are silent.

My feet barely touch the ground as the pace quickens. The chef seems to be frustrated with how this is going. He says something else to Ehoud, and they both pull their cocks out of me. I can't help it, I feel bereft, standing there panting in the middle of the kitchen, a sheen of pussy juice glossing my upper thighs.

The chef spins me around and bends me forward in one motion, my face back near Ehoud's hard cock—not a bad place to be. I slide his dick back in my mouth. I don't know this guy from Adam, but already his hard-on feels familiar in my mouth, this time tasting of my own mild pussy. As I reach out to cradle his balls in my left hand, I feel the chef enter me roughly from behind. No ceremony, just a yank back on my hips and he's in. Never too swift at doing two things at once, I concentrate on the warm, glossy head of Ehoud's dick as it slides down my throat, forgetting the dick pummeling my pussy; or I focus back in on that thick cock and the one in my mouth is temporarily forgotten. Still, they both begin the more frantic pace that precedes cumming.

Ehoud lets loose first, ropes of cum nearly choking me. I pull back a bit, my mouth just around the head, catching the salty load along the middle of my tongue. Before I have time to swallow, I feel the chef pull out. He lets out a short, strangled yell and pinches my ass hard—I'll have a bruise tomorrow—and I feel the warm spray of his cum across my ass cheeks.

By the time I've stood up and turned around, the chef has his cock tucked back in his pants. Again, his face is expressionless. The cum on my ass, which felt warm only moments ago, has already started to chill. I still haven't orgasmed yet, this party's not over. I glance back at Ehoud and he, too, has tucked that pretty dick away.

"And for dessert?" I say, breathlessly.

"Yes, dessert. Is here." The chef takes the jaggedly ripped panties from his pocket, steps over to me, then wipes them the length of my pussy. We both look down at the panties, the pale pink of them darkened with my pussy juice in blotches. The chef brings them up to his nose, sniffs once, then tucks them back in his pocket. He taps his pocket, says, "Here. I not hungry now—have dessert later." And he laughs.

I feel dismissed, embarrassed. Grabbing a rag from the countertop, I wipe it quickly across my ass, tasting cum in my mouth as I smooth my skirt down. I pull my bra back up my arms, latch it quickly in back, then pull my shirt back up my arms.

Ehoud and I, without saying a word, go back through the swinging doors. He unlocks the front door, holding it open for me as I button my top button and sling my purse over one arm. I'm not even going to look back as I walk to my car; fuck them both. I get in and lock the doors. Leaning my head back against the headrest, my fingers snake under my skirt and find my wet, panty-less hole. By the time I've finished, the restaurant is all dark, locked up for the night.