Dinner is Ruined

"Just keep your cool." I exhaled the words through clenched teeth as I pulled the delicate panties to my snowy hips. Removing my cocktail dress from the hanger hooked over the hinge of the closet door, I stepped into the skirt and tugged the stretchy, formfitting fabric over my hips. As the blue cloth eclipsed the black lace of my skimpy thong, I slipped my arms under the spaghetti straps and straightened the fabric of the front over my breasts.

Turning to the mirror, I assessed my appearance. The hem of the fitted skirt stopped two inches above my knee, flattering the line of my legs. The profile improved as I stepped into a pair of houndstooth pattern, four-inch high heels. My eyes followed the curve of my hips upward across my flat tummy until my gaze settled on the generous cleavage that erupted enthusiastically above the dress's twin scoop cups. The tiny charm that hung between my energetic D-cups on a thin gold chain drew added attention to my breasts. Even without a bra, they stood out boldly from my ribcage despite their size and weight.

I made a half-turn as I smoothed the material over the inviting paired globes of my ass, suspended in shimmering blue fabric. Following the arc of my spine to the pale skin of my exposed back, my look was completed with the loose curls of my rich auburn hair that spilled across my bare shoulders and hung invitingly atop my generous bust. I blushed as I acknowledged that I looked pretty damn hot, then soured as I recalled the occasion for the outfit. "It's just dinner with dad. And mom." I grumbled, grabbing my clutch and turning off the light as I closed the apartment door behind me, repeating "Just keep cool."

After dodging their calls for almost a week, I had finally been cornered into attending dinner to celebrate my parents' anniversary with them and my younger sister, Brandy. I loved my family, but my father was, by any standard, the world's worst restaurant customer. Demanding, impatient, rude, loud, and, to top it off, a terrible tipper, his boorish conduct in restaurants seemed to know no nadir. At my sister's birthday dinner in April, I had covered my face in a napkin as he loudly berated a server for a slight imperfection in the preparation of his steak. As we left the restaurant in our detested, strung-out pack, I stealthily slipped the waiter a fifty, certain without looking that the credit card receipt on the table further reflected my father's incivility.

My cab pulled to the curb just short of the valet stand. Through the windshield, I could see my father giving detailed instructions to the poor college kid tasked with parking his prized Lexus. I sucked in a last calming breath and exchanged a knowing glance with the smirking cabby as I stepped out of the car. My father spotted me as I shut the door and scuttled towards us tapping the face of his watch.

"Sarah! There you are, finally. Hope you didn't tip that guy; he got you here almost ten minutes late..." The driver shot me another glance through his open window as he pulled into traffic. I leaned in and gave my father a polite hug by the shoulders with a peck on the cheek, then repeated the motion with my mother. Standing behind them, Brandy exaggeratedly puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled and rolled her eyes to let me know the evening was already going exactly as I expected. A valet opened the door to the overpriced steakhouse -- it was always an overpriced steakhouse with my father -- as we entered and approached the maître d' stand. The man began to introduce himself as Peter and tried to welcome our party, but my father interrupted him.

"*Doctor* George, for four at eight." My father barked at the patient gentleman. While he refused to give his last name in making reservations, as a psychiatrist, he never forgot to include his title. The maître d' scanned the book, found our name and held up a pleading finger as he peered into the dining room to confirm that our table was ready.

"Oh this is just great! These jokers gave away our damn reservation!" Doctor George growled to our party and any others within earshot. His complaint was not retracted when the man returned a brief moment later with thick bound menus in hand to promptly escort us to our table. I shot a pleading glance at the other diners as we passed, begging an as-yet-undiscovered gift of telepathy to alert these innocent civilians that I too would be among the unwilling victims of my father's behavior. Regrettably, it seemed that my psychic efforts were unsuccessful, as the rest of the dining room continued its buzz without concern for the three women and Doctor George as we were seated in their midst.

Before the maître d' had finished pushing in chairs for my mother, sister, and myself, my father had already slapped his menu shut and decided his order. When the waiter arrived a few moments later to recite his memorized list of specials, his offer to take our drink requests was interrupted as my father spewed out a torrent of appetizers, salads, his and my mother's entrees, and a bottle of wine. While the server, a handsome, tall young black man named Lincoln, struggled to catch up with the list, my sister and I rushed through the menu to make our orders and save the poor guy an extra trip to our forsaken section of the restaurant. I read the look of relief on Lincoln's face as he turned from our table and returned to the safety of the kitchen.

A busboy arrived with glasses of water and a basket of bread. As he moved around the table and tonged rolls onto each of our plates in turn, I watched as his eyes repeatedly stray to Brandy. My younger sister was the prettier of the two of us, blessed with the tall, slim build of a model with long, blonde hair to match. While my plump breasts, hourglass profile, and deep red hair garnered my share of interest, it was almost always my little sister who attracted this sort of attention when we were out together.

My father cleared his throat as he ripped a roll in half and the busboy scurried off, uttering a fleeting "Enjoy your meal." My sister twisted her mouth into a strained, thing smile, as my father broke into his usual line of dinner table questioning and discussion: job (me), school (her), modeling (her), work (him, him, him, him). His self-important monologue lasted through the wine service, during which time he didn't so much as glance in Lincoln's direction. However, I noted Lincoln as his gaze fixed not on Brandy, but me. Or rather, Lincoln fixated on the swell of my chest as he filled my parents' and sister's wine glasses, and as he circled to mine, seemed as though he might tumble into the soft, welcoming chasm of my cleavage. I giggled quietly and blushed, holding up my glass as he poured. Our eyes met and he recognized he'd been caught.

"That's... a lovely necklace, miss." He stammered awkwardly as he wiped the lip of the bottle with a napkin and placed it at the center of the table. As he turned to leave, I noticed a long bulge tracing the inner hem of his thigh. Brandy excitedly got my attention, silently mouthing "He likes you" as she winked. Mercifully our salads arrived, allowing my crimson blush and Brandy's giggling to go unnoticed by our parents.

As dinner went on, my father was shockingly satisfied with his entrée, and was even civil toward Lincoln and the restaurant staff. As a result, the rest of the family -- and, though unbeknownst to them, the other patrons in the dining room -- was able to enjoy our meals and the night seemed like it might end pleasantly.

Lincoln returned with the dessert and coffee service, placing each plate before us, then making a second circuit of the table while pouring coffees. Brandy resumed her quiet teasing, pursing her lips into kissy-faces as my parents obliviously stirred and sipped at their cups. Waving my hands to stop her antics, my wrist caught the handle of a spoon, knocking the utensil to the floor. The spoon clattered noisily on the polished wood as I reflexively lunged from my seat to pick it up in my embarrassment. As I moved, the front of my dress dipped away from my upper body, widening the gap between my chest and the fabric exposing my hanging tits to anyone paying attention. Lincoln was paying attention.

His mouth hanging agape, Lincoln tried to set the carafe on the table as he moved to help me, but caught the lip of a plate with the edge of the decanter. The unbalanced pot tipped, spilling scalding coffee onto the tablecloth and all over Lincoln's legs.

"Oh my god, miss, are you all right?" Ignoring his own discomfort, Lincoln had a napkin at the ready in case I had been touched by the spill. I gaped silently at the mess, my eyes passing from the brown slick on the table to Lincoln's face to the soaked crotch of his pants as I tried to find my voice to acknowledge that the scene was my fault. My father had a different opinion, and was not rendered similarly mute.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you?!" He bellowed across the table as he stood. My mother carefully replaced her cup on the saucer, a dreary look of bewilderment and quiet gloom on her face. "Of all the unprofessional, moronic fuck-ups... Does anyone in this place do their job right?!" The dining room had gone silent except for my father's shouted abuse and the quiet resting of utensils on plates.

"I'm sorry, sir. It was a mista-" Lincoln tried to apologize as his expression mixed horror and obvious discomfort from the hot coffee on his legs.

"You're goddamn right you're gonna be sorry!" my father refused to relent. "This dinner is ruined! I want to speak to your manager! Or anyone in this place who isn't completely incompetent!" He roared not specifically at Lincoln, but at the restaurant as a whole. Lowering his dejected eyes, the waiter slunk off towards the men's washroom, leaving the gallery to self-consciously trickle back to life as the busboy hurried over to tend to the mess. As the next young man hurried to contain the spill and gather the displaced dinnerware, my father's ire turned on him.

Sickened by my father's deranged lack of civility, I brusquely stood from my chair as I tossed down my napkin and quietly excused myself. My parents were still commiserating at the injustice that had befallen them and my sister was staring at her espresso brownie with embarrassed intensity, so it was doubtful if anyone noticed me as I left.

With a peek over my shoulder back towards the preoccupied dining room, I opened the frosted glass door of the men's room and found Lincoln's muscular form bent over the sink, intently scrubbing coffee out of his black pants. He caught sight of me in the mirror as I entered, my heels clicking on the gleaming tile. His eyes were glassy, holding back frustrated tears. He sighed heavily as he tossed a soiled towel in the basket and turned to face me.

"If you've come here to scream at me, too, I'm really sorry about the mess at the table. I'll pay for your dry cleaning bills." He leaned tensely against the counter, his head low and his hands grasping the edge as he braced himself. I observed his chest and arm muscles flexing under the white dress shirt.

"I didn't come to yell." I continued walking deliberately towards him. "It was an accident that wasn't your fault in the first place, and anyway, it didn't get on me." I flashed my best attempt at a disarming smile. "Don't worry about my father. He can be an ass and I'm sorry for how he treated you." Lincoln's jaw and shoulders tensed again as he turned back to the sink, grabbed a clean towel, and resumed scouring his stained pant leg.

"Here, let me help you with that." I said, drawing close to him as I took the towel from his large hand. I leaned past him to reach the sink; in my four-inch high heels, I was almost even with him as he slumped against the counter. Wringing out the wet rag, I crouched in front of him to inspect the damage. "You shouldn't be scrubbing it like that. You need to dab the stain. Here, lean back against the sink."

Pressing the damp cloth on his slacks, I could feel the sinewy leg muscles contract and flex beneath my fingertips. "See? I think it's starting to come out now." I patted the towel along his inseam, soaking up the stain and tossing the soiled rag into the basket. "Hand me another clean one."

He twisted his torso to reach the stack of clean towels. I could tell that from his vantage point, his gaze went directly down the front of my dress. Taking the clean, moist hand towel from him, I returned to dabbing at the patch of coffee. Glancing up, I caught Lincoln fixate again on my exposed breasts.

"Isn't that what got you in this scrape?" I asked with a coy smile, pressing the damp rag against his inner thigh. His nostrils flared as he drew in a heavy breath. Beneath his slacks, I felt his penis jump in response to my touch. "You don't think I actually believed that you found my necklace that interesting, do you?" I concentrated my patting along the length of his cock, staring intently at the growing bulge beneath my fingers as I spoke.

"Even though it wasn't your fault, you should know that my father isn't going to tip you after that disaster." I paused in my dabbing and glanced up to gauge his reaction; the tense frustration -- now with an edge of anger -- had returned to his jaw, but was countered by a gleam of hopeful lust in his eyes. My fingers resumed their patting, tracing the outline of the thickening glans. He let out a long, slow breath as I caressed his shaft with right hand, my free hand drifting to his belt.

"So if he isn't going to reward your superb service," my fingers plucked the leather band free from the prong and frame, "I guess I'll have to find a way to compensate you." The button of his pants popped open and I slowly unzipped his fly, the rise of his slacks fell open to reveal the swollen black boxer briefs beneath. My right hand abandoned its kneading, joining my left as I pulled his pants to his thighs then yanked down the front of his briefs. With one more tug, Lincoln's ample ebony erection sprang loose, waving and swaying inches from my face in its exhilaration to be free.

Tucking the elastic waistband behind his egg-sized testicles, I sized up the considerable challenge I had brought upon myself. Grasping the base of the monster with my suddenly miniature hand, I squeezed his shaft just below the head between my other thumb and forefinger. Lincoln braced himself against the edge of the counter, sucking in an anticipatory deep breath as he gazed down at me expectantly. Settling to my knees, I held my breath and took the plunge.

The bulbous head of his cock stretched my plump lips, battering across my tongue and striking the back of my throat with a weight I had not faced before. I sputtered around his girth, coughing as my hands and mouth fought to control the energetic, meaty cylinder. Emitting a string of small, distressed sounds, I adjusted my jaw as his glans shifted in my throat until it rested heavily, but more comfortably, upon my tongue. Stroking his rigid shaft with my left hand and gripping its base with my right, I began to pull my tightly puckered lips along the length of his engorged, rigid rod.

My tiny mouth strained and my cheeks bulged comically as I dragged his dick through my tightly-wrapped lips. While my lips and hands squeezed and massaged his swollen shaft, inside my mouth, I bathed the head of his penis in my warm saliva as I devotedly swirled my tongue around the bulging glans. The effect of the vigorous churning of my tongue on his stiff rod was unmistakable, as his cock twitched and bounced enthusiastically in my mouth.

Gradually, my movements began to fall into a rhythm, with both of my hands stroking downwards on his shaft, flaring out to brace myself against him as they reached the base of his rod. My mouth followed closely behind my hands, tracing his lengthy member with my gathered lips until his tip lodged in the back of my throat and I could fit no more of his rigid tool into my mouth. I held him at the point of deepest penetration as long as I could, tears welling in my eyes as I choked on his cock's massive head. Finally, I released my mouth, gasping for deep, grateful breaths while vigorously stroking his saliva-glazed prick with my delicate fist.

As my head bobbed on his engorged cock, my loose, auburn curls spilled over my shoulders and obscured my face. Lincoln reached down, brushing the thick locks from my eyes and gathering my hair into a ponytail at of the back of my head. Gripping the tress tightly in his left hand, he began to direct the speed of my mouth's plunges onto his erection. Gently at first, but growing progressively more aggressive and impatient, his hips began to buck to meet my mouth on its downward trajectory, my pace dictated more noticeably by Lincoln's grip on his handle of red hair. With my head bobbing rapidly on his cock, the charm of my necklace flew wildly on its thin chain, slapping between my breasts each time it reached the end of its arc.

Lincoln's free hand wandered down the smooth skin of my pale face, his wide palm tracing along my jawline and the pumping bulge in my cheek, then passing beneath my jaw across my throat to my shoulder. His long fingers met the blue polyester strap of my dress and brushed it aside, casually sending the band cascading down my arm. The scoop cup of my dress slackened and slipped, the fabric tipping to expose my left breast. Momentarily unwrapping my left hand from his engorged shaft, I ducked my arm from under the strap, repeating the motion with my right arm and folding the front of my dress down to bare my curvaceous rack.

In an instant, Lincoln's right hand engulfed my heavy orb, cupping my nipple in his expansive palm as he dug his fingers into the fleshy, firm meat. The contact with my sensitive nub sent a tingling rush through my body, and I groaned around his girthy cock that filled my mouth. He quietly shushed me, his eyes briefly leaving the spectacle of my mouth and tits to sneak a glance at the frosted glass of the door.

Freeing my mouth, I kissed down his shaft until my lips met the crease where his cock met his scrotum. Pecking gingerly along his balls as I continued to stroke his cock, I spoke, my voice hoarse and creaking from the sustained strain on my throat.

"You're worried about someone walking in on us?" I tenderly kissed along his testes and flirtily ran the tip of my tongue along the underside of his sack. He nodded hesitantly, releasing his hold on my makeshift ponytail, but refusing to let go of my tit as I stroked him with my right hand and continued to lightly tease his stones with my lips and tongue. His eyes darted frantically from my lips on his balls, to my naked tits, back to the bathroom door, then finally to the handicapped accessible bathroom stall at the end of the far wall, opposite a trio of urinals. I peered over my shoulder, following his gaze.

"Do I look like the kind of girl who would fuck in a bathroom stall?" I asked incredulously as I gazed up at him from my knees. Lincoln's confused, desperate expression was priceless as I stood. Wide-eyed, he watched me push my panties down my legs, step out of the delicate thong, then bend to pluck it off the tile. Tucking the bit of black lace into the pocket of his dress shirt, I spun away from him and, without a look back, walked across the bathroom to the stall.

I heard him trying to hurry behind me, slowed as he clutched his unfasted pants. Shutting and securing the stainless steel door behind him, Lincoln quickly crossed the narrow pen and pushed my bare back to the cool metal partition. Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to mine for the first time, his steamy mouth opening into mine, his broad tongue darting and wrestling with my own. His large hands mashed my bare tits, squeezing the meaty packs in a passionate, forceful grip.