Dessert

I wrote this little ditty, changing the location a bit, in the basement library room of the Fair View Lodge in Mesa Verde National Park while waiting for my turn on the hotel's computer that had an Internet connection. I tapped out the story while watching a mouse scurry from under one bookcase to the next. I'd just returned from dinner in the inn's Metate restaurant, where I saw a chattering matron getting less attention from her boy toy than he was giving a flamboyantly obvious waiter. Hope you enjoy the bit of fluff.

*

It had been a grueling six-hour drive from their last stop on Sheila Worthington's nostalgic sweep around the region in which she had grown up before leaving for New York, a chorus line, and then a succession of well-heeled husbands, all of whom heeled over themselves during the past parade of decades.

As Dominic maneuvered the Jaguar around the last hairpin turn and turned into the long upward-incline drive up to the resort hotel that wound around the peak of the mountain overlooking a large lake and several lakeshore communities, Sheila sighed and said, "Let's go ahead and eat at the hotel restaurant right after checking in. When I get to the room, I want to sleep the sleep of the dead."

"Sounds good to me," Dominic said, forming a charming smile on his pouting-lipped chiseled face and tossing a black curl out of his eye. And indeed it did sound good to him. He'd felt like he'd been on a tight leash for several days of the trip now. Sheila was OK, and she paid him well to drive her on this trip—and for other driving services—but, boy could the old babe talk. She'd yakked incoherently for the last two hundred miles about people he barely knew—and felt little loss at not knowing well—at the tennis club where she'd picked him up, dazzled him with an overstuffed pocketbook, bedded him, and planted him in her pool house.

When they approached the hostess desk at the restaurant, the host gave them a well-trained gaze and assessed them as money and boy toy hunk. He could see that the woman was nearly spent. She was tall and thin and had been quite a looker twenty years earlier, but now her high-fashion clothes looked a bit rumpled, her heavily applied makeup was beginning to droop, and not every starched hair on her head was behaving. And the hunk, a steamy Latin who looked every bit the nicely muscled tennis pro he really was, looked tight as a stretched rubber band and ready to spring in some direction or other in frustration. He'd also given the host an up-and-down look of speculation that the host had long ago identified as possible sexual interest.

Dominic's eyes met those of the host, while Sheila rattled off somewhat catty—but quite accurate—comments on the over-the-top Western style décor of the restaurant perched high over the lake below, the vistas provided being the establishment's best feature—and the host gave Dominic a knowing look that permitted Dominic the slight escape valve of being able to roll his eyes in a "women, what can you do with them?" fashion.

With a thought not only to the preferences of his fellow workers but also, he thought, to the preferences and needs of this Latin stud standing before him, the host picked up two menus and a wine list and said, "Come with me, please, I have just the table for you."

It was a very nice table by the window overlooking the vista—which Dominic latched his attention on while Sheila talked about the impossibly spoiled frou-frou dog her friend, Maurine, had just acquired. "You'd think that anyone with white rugs and white furniture—all white décor—would think twice about getting a high-strung Pomeranian that . . ." Dominic didn't so much see the mountainside tumbling charmingly below him to the edge of the lake as that, looking out of the window, he didn't see Sheila with her mouth flapping as she devoured a hunk of pita bread like a cougar having its last meal. And this, of course, was why he was gazing so intently out of the window.

"Wine, beer, or me?"

"Excuse me?" Dominic said, as he turned. There was his waiter standing beside his chair, talking down just to him and smiling. Sheila was lost in her rambling of all of the cleaning supplies Maurine had tried thus far without success.

For the first time Dominic noticed their waiter, who he now remembered as the young man who showed up after the host had said, "Sandy will be your waiter. He'll take good care of you," and then had smiled and wafted off.

Sandy. Yes, Dominic could see where the lad had gotten that name. He was a redhead, although it took Dominic a minute for the "he" to register. The voice had been male, if a bit squeaky, but looking closely at his waiter now, Dominic could see that the rest of it was some sort of question mark. He was small of body and wore black tailored trousers and a tuxedo shirt with a ruffle. And he was standing there, hands on hips and slightly bent at the side that Dominic thought of as a "Bette Davis" stance. All he needed was a long cigarette holder in one hand and he'd slip all the way over into the Tallulah Bankhead pose. His face was made up. It was subtle, but he unmistakably was wearing red lipstick. His hair wasn't long on top, but it was slicked back in an obviously carefully considered "do," and there where long curls over his ears at each side. He was looking at Dominic with an "I just could eat you up" expression in his eyes.

Dominic looked over to Sheila, but she had moved on to rambling about the mistake her friend Dorothy had made in the choice of a tennis outfit or her latest husband. Dominic couldn't gather which it was, and his noncommittal mutterings of ascent seemed to satisfy her and keep her motor running.

Throughout the service, Dominic could tell that the waiter, Sandy, could hardly keep his hands off him and, indeed, he did brush by awfully closely from time to time.

But it wasn't just the waiter, Sandy. Quite frequently, far more frequently than even a famished camel would require, another waiter came by their table, water pitcher in hand, offering to fill Dominic's full glass, with a broad smile or taking away plates one by one when he could have managed all in one trip. This young man was more substantial and a good bit less swishy than Sandy was. He was a tall, well-built black guy, probably a couple of years older than Sandy—and not more than five years younger than Dominic himself.

He was wearing one earring, and his moves were those of a dancer—not nearly as pronounced and given to a fling of the hips as Sandy's were, but in a manner that Dominic knew well—and that he found arousing, having frequented a certain gay club often in relief from the duty his pocketbook required of servicing middle-aged women—and men—at the tennis club.

Dominic could tell just by the way that the young black waiter looked at him, that he was interested as well.

And keyed up as Dominic was—all this time on the road with Sheila and no opportunity to pursue the variety of sex he was addicted to—made Dominic go hard and begin to fantasize what he'd like to do with one of these waiters—or both.

At the end of the meal, both Sandy and the black waiter's assistant were standing there, by the table, while Sheila was taking time out from her monologue of society in the town she'd said she wanted to escape for a while, to mull the , finally deciding on the crème brȗlée.

Sandy turned to Dominic with a smile. "And you, sir? What would strike your fancy? We have a special on strawberry shortcake and also on chocolate cake."

"I'm not sure I can decide," Dominic said, with a winning smile of his own. "They both sound so enticing." Both amused and aroused, Dominic had caught on to the double entendres the waiter named Sandy had been dropping. The black waiter's assistant hadn't said anything during the meal, but Dominic was all the more intrigued by him because of that.

"Oooo, I love your accent," Sandy gushed. "And such a rich, deep, masculine tone. Are you from Mount Olympus?"

"No. I'm Spanish," Dominic answered with a laugh. "We don't have a Mount Olympus. Our people are earthy, not heavenly." He could double entendre too, Dominic mused.

"Oooo, that makes me tingle; it just takes my breath away." Sandy preened, fanning his face with a dessert menu. "Well, if you can't decide, then by all means have both, sir. And after dinner may I recommend our side rooftop terrace for an after-dinner delight drink and gazing at the stairs in our clear sky here. It's really quite private."

"I'm much too tired for anything after dinner," Sheila said.

All three men turned and stared at her. There had been no warning that Sheila had cut off her monologue and was now paying any level of attention to what they were saying. She had made her statement with a completely innocent face, though, and hadn't followed up with anything but her own preference for sleep rather than any after-dinner activities, so the two waiters dropped back a step and went invisible, leaving it to Dominic to pick up the conversation with her.

"Well, we'll just get you settled in the room then, and I'll bring my laptop back to the library they have here and check my e-mails and do some catching up," Dominic answered with a concerned voice. "You get your rest, Sheila. We have another 250 miles to drive tomorrow afternoon."

Less than twenty minutes later, Chocolate Cake knelt between Dominic's thighs on the rooftop terrace and gave Dominic's nicely proportioned cock expert suck, while Dominic held Strawberry Shortcake at his side, a hand on Sandy's buttocks with fingers snaking into his channel and his other hand stroking Sandy's pert little cock.

Sandy was making little high-pitched babbling sounds, which Dominic stopped by taking the little waiter's lips in his, forcing them open with his tongue, and swabbing Sandy's tonsils.

Strawberry Shortcake panted and whimpered as Chocolate Cake reached over and pulled his trousers and briefs off his legs and then held Dominic's cock erect and steady as Dominic lifted Strawberry Shortcake up and turned him around and swung his leg over Dominic's lap. Together, Dominic and Chocolate Cake settled Strawberry Shortcake on Dominic's cock as Sandy writhed and babbled a range of contradictory short, breathy statements: "slow, slow, slow, hurry, all of you. Oh god, god, oh god. You'll kill me. Yes, yes, yes."

Together, Dominic and Chocolate Cake, with Dominic palming and spreading Strawberry Shortcake's butt cheeks and Chocolate Cake holding Sandy at his waist, lifted and lowered him on the full length of Dominic's cock until he stopped writhing and started to moan and beg for the fuck.

Dominic stood then and walked slowly around the terrace, raising and lowering Strawberry Shortcake on his cock, while the young redhead clung to his midsection and groaned and gasped—and, in short order, fountained his ejaculation.

Then Dominic gently lowered the red head to the deck of the terrace and turned, strongly erect still, not himself in flow, not yet satisfied, opting now for chocolate cake for dessert.

Chocolate Cake stood and turned fully toward Dominic, smiled, leaned his rump back on a terrace table, and started to unbuckle his belt.

Dominic strode deliberately toward Chocolate, giving him time to drop his trousers. And, that done, he moved faster, grabbed Chocolate roughly—as Chocolate laughed a hearty laugh—turned him belly down on the top of the table, used one hand to establish purchase of his cock head inside Chocolate's gaping hole and used the other hand to lock one of Chocolate's arms behind his back.

"Yes, yes, Fuck me hard!" Chocolate cried out in a rich baritone—the first thing Dominic had heard him say all evening—as Dominic slammed his cock up inside Chocolate's wide channel. This was the tension reliever Dominic wanted. This was what would unwind him from all those miles on the winding mountain roads today "yes maming" and "no maming" Sheila's inane conversation.

And Chocolate Cake, well muscled and sturdy and robust, cried out that he wanted him rough and deep—and with pneumatic force. Dominic leaned his torso down over Chocolate's back, CC threw his free hand back and laced it around Dominic's neck, and they turned their faces to each other in a deep kiss as Dominic pumped, pumped, pumped.

Strawberry Shortcake moved behind Dominic and grabbed and squeezed his butt cheeks and helped maintain the rhythm of the fuck. Chocolate Cake also was helping, essentially fucking himself on Dominic's cock with long backward thrusts of his hips.

All three cried out as Dominic came. He backed up and plopped down in a chair, while Chocolate Cake turned and lifted Strawberry Shortcake up, laid him down on his back on the table top, slapped the little red head's legs aside, thrust his own hard cock inside the channel Dominic had so recently reamed for him, and started to fuck him with a frenzy that had the little red head sliding back and forth on the surface of the table. After a short breather, Dominic approached Chocolate from the rear again and Dominic fucked Chocolate Cake while fucked Strawberry Shortcake, bringing on a triple ejaculation.

Sheila was already asleep when Dominic came into the hotel room and climbed into bed that night. But half way through the night she was rested enough to nudge Dominic onto his back and fondle his cock and balls enough for him to attain an erection in a half-awake state, and then she mounted him. Exhausted, Dominic let Sheila drive.

The next morning, a now-fully alert Sheila, a sleepy and nearly hobbling Dominic in tow, arrived all cheery smiles and gushing accolades in the hotel dining room for breakfast.

Once again a more-than-eager Sandy was their waiter, backed up by a big-smiling black assistant waiter.

As their breakfast was coming to an end and Sheila was babbling about how she wanted to change the curtains in her living room, Sandy leaned down and said sotto voce to Dominic, "Would you have time after breakfast for some dessert, sir? The roof terrace is a great place for dessert and coffee in the morning." Chocolate Cake was standing behind him, looking ever so hopeful.

Dominic raised his eyes, a response on his lips that no doubt would be a classic, but that has been lost to history.

Sheila suddenly stopped running at the mouth, and in a clear, steady, not unfriendly tone, said. "I wouldn't suggest two this morning, dear heart. If you must, I'd suggest just the chocolate cake. It looks more substantial. I was rather hoping we'd indulge in our own dessert of fine old port and cheddar cheese when we returned to the room—and what I was served last night was a little limp from too many sweets."