The Graceless Waitress

"I'm sorry! I'm not very good at my job," I profess for the third time tonight, as I clunk another beverage down and send it sloshing over the rim onto the table. Most people won't admit when they're bad at something, but my innate clumsiness has become my shtick at this nightclub. I've found that if I pair an apology with an adorable pout, and flash some cleavage as I clean up my spills, the tips don't suffer. In fact, some patrons seem to find it rather endearing.

Several of my coworkers -- tan, statuesque, with perfectly coiffed hair and flawless skin -- go with the "cool bitch" vibe, but that just doesn't work for me -- petite, freckled, and completely unable to keep strands of my dirty blonde hair from falling onto my face. So instead I've cultivated a "cocktail waitress-next-door" persona: cute enough to be eye candy when serving drinks, but not so hot as to be unapproachable. The kind of girl a regular dude might get lucky with if he plays his cards right, right? Ha, fat chance. The majority of men I serve are dull, dumb or douchebags; the only leg spreading they'll see from me is in the form of sprinting out the door at the end of my shift.

A couple hours later, it's well after midnight, and the place is packed. A group of guys settles down at one of my tables and I sense high tip potential -- they're a decade or two out of college, well dressed, moderately intoxicated, and hungrily ogling the females in the vicinity. I smile broadly at each one as they order their drinks (gotta make that personal connection if I wanna earn that cash!), and then I get to you.

Unlike the others, you don't mumble into the menu, barely acknowledging my presence; or order into my chest like a drive-thru speaker. You meet my eyes warmly and pause -- only for a second -- but somehow long enough to make my skin flush. I mean, it helps that you're good-looking, and I'll admit that I'm a sucker for a masculine beard; but tons of attractive guys come in and don't stir quite the same reaction in me. The moment passes, you place your order, and I move on to the fellow next to you.

I return shortly later with a platter held high, darting through the crowd with atypical grace. I whirl the tray down as I approach your crew and start distributing alcohol to an appreciative audience. I get to your drink and you look at me the same way you did before: like you know a dirty secret about me, and you're delighted by it. Reaching to hand you your glass while still captive to your gaze, I woefully miscalculate my grab. The liquid doesn't just splatter on the table; it shoots over the edge, drenches your lap, and dribbles onto the guy next to you as well.

My practiced reaction comes automatically: "I'm sorry! I'm not very good at my job." I find a napkin and bend over the table to soak up the spill, aiming my tits in your direction while arching my back to give your friends a good view of the curve of my ass; the hem of my dress rising to an indecent level. Glancing at you, I grin, and am pleased to see you return the facial expression. I vigorously rub the wooden surface to give my assets a shimmy and tell you that I'll fetch you another drink right away.

I straighten and begin to turn when you hook my wrist with your forefinger and chide, "Not so fast. You're not done cleaning up."

I squint downward, puzzled. I'd become pretty adept at mopping up my messes quickly, and this table was now bone-dry. You gesture at the darkened cloth around your crotch and raise an eyebrow at me, "What are you going to do about this?"

Ah. Yes, of course. I see the game now. Get the cute waitress to put her hand near your dick so your friends think you're hot shit. Part of me wants to tell you to fuck off, but another part of me thinks you're sexy, and I still want my fat tip, so I'll play along for a bit.

"Oh, yes, sir, let me get that for you, sir," I proclaim in an overly subservient voice. I take a fresh napkin and press it firmly on your upper thighs, lingering just long enough to elicit a few horny hoots and cackles out of your group. I step back, drop into a curtsy and turn again to leave.

You rise and grasp my wrist more firmly. I pivot and find myself standing very close to you, suddenly feeling very small against your broad shoulders. You look down at me solemnly and utter, "I'm serious. These are completely soaked through."

I retort, "Well, I'd be happy to dry you off further, sir, but unless you're willing to drop trou in front of everybody, I don't know how that's gonna happen."

Your face relaxes and you chirp, "I'm glad to hear you say that! I'm pretty sure this club has private rooms, doesn't it?"

I blink quickly and swallow. "Yes, but those are more for..." I trail off.

You scoff, "This place claims to have great customer service, and here you are, spilling drinks on me and telling me that there's nothing you can do about it?"

I stammer a bit, caught off guard by your shift in tone, "Well, I just... I mean, I don't... those rooms..."

You persist, "You'll take me to one, and dry me off thoroughly. My buddy that you spilled on, too." I gulp, and nod uncertainly. You gesture to your friend to follow us, and I start leading the way.

This is ridiculous, I think, as I head towards the private area. Why am I taking these men to the "special entertainment" section of the club just to dry them off?

I peer into an unoccupied room and step inside. The two of you enter and you latch the door behind you. The space is small, dimly lit, and lushly decorated; a wide, plush bench traces the perimeter of the room. You stand on one side and your friend sits on the bench across from you, leaving me in the middle.

I tense, unsure of where this game is going. "So what can I do for you, sir?"

You smile at my continued use of the word 'sir' -- albeit sarcastic -- and shrug, "Well, like I said, these pants are soaked and need to be removed."

I wait, assuming that you are going to do just that. You remain motionless. "Well?" I huff.

"You got them wet," you reply, "You take them off."

My mouth gapes, but I snap it shut and smirk, "Yes, sir." I move toward you and roughly tug you off balance by the belt, trying to regain some power.

You catch yourself mid-stumble and gently clutch my jaw. "Careful now," you caution, "You don't want to have to remedy another customer situation, do you?"

Pulling my face away, I bare my teeth at you; then begin unbuckling your belt. I unbutton and unzip your trousers, and tug them to your feet. My face comes within inches of your groin and I can't help but examine the bulge on the way down. It seems to become larger as my gaze lingers and my breath caresses the thin fabric encasing it.

I pick up the napkin that I had brought with me and begin patting the damp area on your legs, deliberately avoiding your more intimate parts. You brush a tendril of hair from my cheek and admonish me, "We're going to be here a long time if you don't face the problem, head on."

I grimace at the pun and decide to punish you for it, pressing the napkin directly onto your crotch in what I intend to be a fierce and unerotic fashion.

To my surprise, the bulge grows and stiffens under my hand, and I instinctively grip it, wanting to feel exactly how large and firm it is. I forget myself for a moment, rubbing slowly up the long cylinder until I reach a bell-shaped outline under the damp cloth.

I then remember where I am and release my grasp, dropping the napkin at the same time. I jerk backward and stand up. "I think, sir, that's as dry as I can get it," I spurt, attempting to regain composure.

You tilt your head and sigh, "Well, then, we have a problem. You see, it's soaked through my underwear, so you'll have to remove these as well."

I freeze. "Really?" I whisper. You nod.

I allow myself to step back toward you, unsure if I'm more surprised at your audacity or my compliance. I hook the sides of your waistband with my thumbs and pull downward as I kneel again. This time, it's not just an intriguing bulge I'm facing, but your fully engorged penis.

I feel around the floor for my napkin and lift it, only to have you snatch it from my hand. You shake your head, "This won't do any good. It's not about being wet at this point, it's about being sticky."

I tear my eyes away from your marvelous member and peek up at you, "I didn't bring anything to clean something sticky."

You run your index finger along my lips and murmur, "Oh, yes, you did."

My breath catches as I finally come to grips with what's about to happen. I bite my lower lip and glance back at your cock, drawing closer. My tongue darts out to touch the bottom of the shaft with small, tentative licks. You are indeed slightly sticky, and the sweetness of the spilled drink combined with the saltiness of your skin is enticing. I reach up and grip near the base to steady it as my tongue widens and my laps become bolder. I gradually work my way upward, making sure to thoroughly cleanse all around your rod. You groan quietly and move your hips forward as I approach the top. Very deliberately and thoroughly, I lick the head without letting it enter my mouth.

When I am certain that there is not a single spot of stickiness left, I pull back a few inches and declare smugly, "I finished the job, sir."

Your eyes flash at my impudence, "That's not for you to determine. You're going to have to do some deep cleaning."

You push my head back to your dick, butting it up against my lips until I part them; the moment you feel an opening, you plunge inside. Each thrust sends you slightly further into my mouth, your massive size blocking my breath as you push down my throat. My tongue slides all around your shaft and I pull your muscular thighs toward me to ensure you are fully enveloped from tip to root.

Your frenzied pace makes me think that the end is near, when you suddenly extricate yourself. "You're doing an excellent job," you murmur, "But there are some things here that make me a little uncomfortable."

I furrow my brow and frown, "What do you mean?"

You release an exaggerated sigh and say, "Well, for starters, do you think it's fair that I have to stand here pantsless, while you are fully clothed?"

I reply sweetly, "I don't have any pants on either," gesturing at my bare legs.

You chuckle and proffer, "I took off two articles of clothing. You do the same."

Recalling my decision before work not to wear a bra given the tightness of my dress, I scowl, "But I only have on two articles of clothing!"

You plop down on the bench, clasp your fingers behind your head, and wait for me to follow your instructions. I again want to tell you to fuck off, but your biceps look incredible in that pose and my resolve weakens.

I reach to the bottom of the dress and tug it up and over my hips and shoulders, writhing to get the fabric to stop clinging to my body. I discard it onto the floor and cross my arms over my exposed chest.

I pause, and you prompt, "Okay, that was one piece of clothing..."

I glower at you for a few seconds before proceeding. I struggle to tug my thong down while keeping my tits covered, and eventually realize I'll have to use both hands. I pull my panties to the ground and step out of them, careful not to catch them on my stiletto heels; my pert breasts jiggle slightly with my movements.

I straighten and stare at the wall over your shoulder, feeling vulnerable. You spend a long minute looking me up and down, and coax softly, "Come here."

I take tiny steps toward you, your face now in line with my torso. I cover my pubic area as I see you examining me closely there, and you force my hands to lay by my sides. "You must be very clumsy," you chide.

Even though I know I am, my response is fiery, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

You reply, "It looks like you spilled on yourself as well. It is very wet here."

My anger shifts to embarrassment and I start to back away. You grasp my ass to prevent me from escaping and use your other hand to run a finger along my slit, making small circular motions as you reach the front. I gasp and you retract your finger to examine it. Sure enough, it glistens with moisture, and I can smell my own arousal emanating from it. I watch as you rub your slick digit along your throbbing erection, which somehow seems even more inflamed than before.

"Before we figure out what to do with your mess," you continue, "We have another matter to deal with." You gesture behind me.

I have completely forgotten that your friend is here. He has been sitting quietly on the bench across from us, and I notice that his hand is on the bulge in his own pants. He taps it and remarks casually, "I think you know the drill."

I pull away from you and approach him. After scrutinizing his clothing, I exclaim, "I barely spilled anything on you! Just a few drops!"

Sighing, he says, "I guess we can skip the preliminaries then."

I purse my lips. "What does that mean?"

He unzips and I shake my head at his brazen move. "My clothes aren't that wet," he replies, "But there is one sticky part I need you to take care of."

I almost hiss at him to take care of it his damn self, but then he crinkles his eyes and grins at me. Curse him for being so cute, I think, as my anger recedes and the words fall away, unspoken.

He frees his dick from his zipper and I'm instantly enthralled by its turgid girth. He sees me staring and beckons me closer with it. I fall to my knees in front of him and wait for him to assume a standing position.

"I'd prefer to stay seated," he says, as he clutches my shoulders and pulls me back up. He sees me gearing up for a retort about his laziness and cuts me off by adding, "Customer service, remember?"

I close my eyes briefly, inhale deeply, and fall back into the game. "Yes, sir," I respond, placing my hands on either side of his lap, bending over at the waist, and lowering my face toward his penis.

I start at the head this time, making long strokes with my tongue downward. I pinch my lips open and shut along the right side of his shaft as I suckle, trace my tongue along the base, and make a similar path upward on the left side. I take just his tip into my lips and tighten my cheeks so that they rub along the sensitive ridge. He utters a soft, "Oh, yeah," and I sense that he wants me to take more of him into my mouth.

So of course, I don't: I want some power back. I stand tall and say, "Given the minor amount that I spilled on you, sir, I think that's enough."

He pouts at me, "But I want the deep cleaning, too."

I shrug, causing my chest to bounce, and proclaim, "I can't give you that treatment in this position. It involves movements that... require more support. How about I sit while you stand?"

I yearn to see how desperate he is for more; to force him to pay for his earlier brashness; to make him change his position for my comfort. He hesitates, as he knows this is supposed to be a power game, but I can see him tense, about to relent and rise from the bench. I smile.

I feel you come up behind me then and I stiffen. Your heated skin presses into my back and I realize that you've removed the rest of your clothing. You brush my hair from my shoulders and murmur into my ear, "No need for anyone to move. I can support you in that position."

Your friend relaxes into his seat, thrilled at the rescue. I shiver as your warm breath touches my neck. You put one hand in my hip crease and press the other on my upper back to make me bend again over your buddy's cock. You hold me firmly by both hips and command, "Suck." Wordless, I obey.

With you holding me, I no longer need to support my weight with my arms, so I grasp his hefty dick and press the end into my mouth. He arches his hips at the same time, sending it much deeper than I had anticipated. I gag a bit and pull back, but the sudden intrusion into my gullet has left me salivating intensely. My fingers are now covered in moisture and I begin sliding them up and around his pole. I allow him to enter my lips again, lowering and raising my head repeatedly to match the caress of my fingers.

I feel you start to mirror my rhythm behind me, pressing your hardness against the crevice where my butt meets my thighs. I widen my stance a bit, and your cock pushes forward, distributing my wetness up your shaft. I spread my legs further so that you are no longer just rubbing along my slit, but pressing into it. I moan as your tip bumps up against my hot hole and slides in just a centimeter or so. I'm dripping wet, but also tighter than you expect. You thrust again and again, each time achieving more depth.

My hands are still gripping your friend's penis, but I stop sucking it to emit tiny "oh's" of pleasure. You direct me to continue my cleaning job in a husky voice as you pulse into me. I try to comply, but you feel so good inside me that I have trouble focusing on my task.

Your partner helps by guiding my head back onto his dick, controlling the up and down motion while I stroke him simultaneously. My moaning becomes muffled and thrums against him each time he enters my throat, eliciting some moans from his side as well. You move your hands up to my tits, squeezing them and flicking your thumbs across the tips while pulling me harder onto your body. The pace from all three of us is frenetic, and I assume one of us will soon lose (or win, I suppose, depending on your perspective) this game.

But you halt the progress again, removing yourself from me while jerking me away from your friend. My hardened nipples poke you as you turn me around to face you.

You clear the mussed hair from around my eyes and announce, "You've earned yourself a reward for your excellent service so far."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Oh?" I inquire.

"Yes," you respond, "I've decided to grant your earlier request."

I reflect back to my prior comments, but can't figure out what you're referring to. You continue with a wide grin, "You can sit now." You nod at your friend, and I hear rustling behind me.

Before I realize what's happening, you press me backward as I feel his hands take me by my narrow waist and lower me down. I gasp as I feel his rigid member slide easily into my sopping pussy. He begins moving my hips back and forth on his lap and I glance down to see that his pants now encircle his ankles.

You move toward me and run your fingers up the back of my neck, nestling them in my hair, and then slightly close your fist so that you can control the position of my head. I look up at you and allow my jaw to drop -- I know what's coming next, and I crave it.

You whisper, "It's time to finish that deep cleaning," and hungrily plunge into my mouth. I suck and lick as much as possible in the fleeting moments where you withdraw far enough to allow me to get some air. I feel my ecstasy peaking and spread my legs to the outside of your friend's, placing my hands on his knees so that I can angle him more deeply inside of me.

He reaches up to feel the heft of my breasts, lifting, separating, and squeezing them together several times. While pinching a nipple with one hand, he drops the other hand to sensually rub my clit. The combination of sensations becomes too intense and I cry out as I climax, but your fierce thrusting transforms the noise into a drawn out whimper.

The slippery sounds of flesh on flesh, and flesh in flesh, fill the room for several minutes, sprinkled with our soft grunts and groans, our breaths and moans.

It's not much longer before you interrupt this orchestra to state, "You've done such a good job cleaning me off that I don't want to get sticky again." You step back as you pull me up off your friend, who sneers at you for taking away his fuck-toy.

"Kneel and open your mouth," you direct me, as you start stroking your slick purple dick. I get on the floor and your buddy stands beside you, rubbing himself in similar fashion -- he no longer looks upset.