The Diner

It was a night at work like any other. I was nineteen years old, and it was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. I was a waitress in the restaurant in the Westin hotel downtown. A destination for business travelers and convention goers. Hundreds of identical, nicely appointed rooms. Thousands of people coming and going, drinking a little too much in the bar, eating our overpriced mediocre entrees, and flirting with us waitresses because they were lonely and hundreds of miles from home. I was dressed as I was every night, as all of the waitresses were always dressed, in a tiny black dress that clung to my body and had a hemline that was only too long to be called scandalous. Dress code for the waitresses said that we had to wear black dresses with hems above the knee. However, it was a simple truth that shorter hemlines and deeper necklines made for bigger tips, so we all pushed it as far as we could go while still looking professional and not too slutty. There wasn't much I could do in the neckline department. I'm not a very big girl – 5'1" and barely 100 pounds with fine delicate features and tiny A-cup breasts. My dress was open around the shoulders to show off my delicate collarbones, but there was very little point in having it plunge any further. I rarely even wore a bra because there wasn't any point. But what I could accentuate was my hips and my ass. For being so small and slender, I had nicely shaped hips and a round butt that I was quite proud of. So while the other girls often chose dresses that were tight in the chest to show off their ample cleavage but had flouncy skirts, my dresses were always form fitting to draw attention to my best feature.

It had been kind of a slow night. There was a cosmetics convention that was booking up well over half the hotel, but they were getting a buffet dinner upstairs and weren't down in the restaurant. A few other tables of random business travelers and couple girls in the bar who were in here all the time and we were pretty sure were call girls. I brought a couple of overcooked steaks to Table 10 and turned around to see him sitting there at Table 12. He was huge – 6'6" at least and built like a tank. Blonde hair, skin tan and coarse from hard outdoor labor, and green eyes that pierced through me like a laser. He may have weight 250 pounds, but there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. His shirt barely contained the muscles in his chest and his sleeves were rolled up over forearms that were as big around as my thighs and ended in calloused hands the size of small dinner plates. He leaned back in his chair exuding casual confidence as though he owned the hotel, or possibly the whole damn town. He was magnificent. I went over to his table but instead of my usual warm and flirty greeting, my voice choked in my throat and the best I could manage was a stammer.

It was the way he was looking at me. Staring, unblinking, taking in every inch of my body, assessing me as a man might do with a prize thoroughbred at an auction. I stood there awkwardly as he drank me in, his eyes lingering briefly on the small gold cross that I wear around my neck that my mother gave me for my 16th birthday, then rising to stare into mine. I blushed scarlet, the heat racing up the back of my neck and across my face, and my legs trembled slightly. He sat as though he was the master of all he surveyed and I was something he wanted to possess as well. He ordered in a deep voice, the kind of voice that you feel vibrating in your bones even though he spoke softly, his eyes never leaving mine for a second. I blushed again and scurried away. Normally if an attractive man was sitting alone, I'd make a point of sauntering away slowly so that he could have plenty of time to appreciate my ass in motion, but right then I had to get the hell out of there.

The next hour was brutal. Every time I walked into the dining room, even if I wasn't going to his table, I could feel his eyes on me. They never left my body, a fact confirmed each time I stole a glance in his direction. He even watched me while he ate, devouring his meal the way he wanted to devour me. He didn't try to flirt, didn't talk unnecessarily. He just fixed me with that smoldering gaze. I was a wreck. I was flushed and sweating and frazzled. I kept dropping things, getting orders wrong. I couldn't think straight. I was terrified of the man at Table 12. Not terrified like I would be of a rapist, no. Terrified because I was overcome with a desire to let him do to me whatever it was that he was thinking of doing to me. I couldn't understand how he could make me feel like this. No one had ever made me feel like this. Not my boyfriend, surely. Heck, I hadn't even let him go all the way yet because I wasn't sure he was the one. Certainly not some stranger in the restaurant. I had always been a good girl, a church on Sundays girl, but he made me want to be his whore. I could feel myself getting wetter and wetter and I felt certain that he could smell my arousal, which made me feel ashamed and even hornier.

I had to back to his table. He was done with his meal and I had to clear his plate away and ask him if he saved room for dessert. I was scared to do it. I was terrified that he would tell me that he wanted me for dessert. I was terrified that I would let him have me. Finally I worked up the courage to round the corner back into the dining room. He was gone; his chair was empty. A flood of relief tinged with disappointment washed over me. I walked up to the table hesitantly. There were a few bills there, more than enough to cover his meal with a generous tip. It was over. He was gone. I gathered up the money and his dishes and headed back to the kitchen. I needed to get a hold of myself; pull myself together and find a way to finish the shift. I ran the check and headed back to the back storage room, where the ice maker and gas cylinders for the beer were. I just needed a few minutes to collect myself and then I'd be able to get back out there. I was standing there taking deep breaths with my eyes closed when I heard the door open and close behind me.

He was standing there, towering over me, a wall of muscle and lust. My eyes played over his body and I found myself staring at the enormous bulge in his pants, wondering what he could possibly have in there that was straining the fabric so. He crossed the few steps toward me quickly and I should have screamed. I should have cried rape and tried to fight him off. But then his massive arms were around me, his mouth was on mine, and I was on fire. His tongue was in my mouth, claiming it as his own. His huge hands swept over my body, over my back, my butt, my hips, and everywhere they touched it was like an electric current running through me. He broke away from my mouth and bent to my neck. When I felt his teeth graze against my skin my pelvis began thrusting at him of its own free will.

He spun me around so that I faced away from him and pulled him tight against me. I could feel the bulge in his pants pressing into my lower back. He ran his hands all over my torso, over breasts, over my belly, holding me against him and kissing my neck. I was totally powerless to fight back, totally under his sway. He lifted the hem of my dress up around my waist and slipped his huge fingers down the front of my panties, cupping my sex. Part of me, that tiny piece of me that wasn't lost in the moment was shocked to hear me begging between moans, "please!", "yes!" He laid a finger the size of a sausage across my clit and slipped it inside me, rubbing me and penetrating me. I exploded and fluid gushed everywhere, all over his hand, down my legs, and onto the floor. I played with myself sometimes in bed at night but it was never like this. I screamed a scream that I felt sure the entire hotel could hear as the orgasm rocked through me. The last vestige of my will went with it; I was totally his plaything now.

He pushed me forward firmly so that I bent over with my hands on the ice maker and my dress still hiked up around my waist. With one motion he ripped my panties off, the fabric shredding and tearing, and tossed them into the corner. I stood there on trembling tiptoes, my bare bottom stuck up in the air, open and ready for him. My breaths were coming in fast little pants as I heard his zipper. There was no more foreplay, no tentative exploring. He thrust himself completely into me with one swift motion. My vision exploded in white with a combination of agony and ecstasy. God, he was huge. I thought he was going to rip me in two. He kept thrusting – fast, long, deep strokes, each one smacking into my cervix and knocking the wind out of me. I felt sure he was going to bust right through and that massive cock would come out my throat. I was on a plateau of constant orgasms now, with no break between one and the next. His balls slapped against my clitoris like a punching bag and he just kept thrusting harder and harder, and I kept right on coming harder and harder.

My legs couldn't take it anymore and they buckled under me. I was going to fall. But his hands were grasping my pelvis and holding me up. He straightened up and kept going, my toes dragging back and forth across the floor with his movements, struggling to just hold onto the edge of the ice maker. This wasn't lovemaking. You couldn't really even say that he was fucking me. He was taking me, possessing me, owning me, using me. Then I felt his thrusts quicken and become a little more ragged and I knew he was close. He gave a mighty thrust all the way inside me and growled, more like an animal than a man. I could feel his huge penis spasming inside me and I felt the warm sloppiness as thick ropes of his semen blasted into my uterus. Like everything else about him it was larger than life and it felt like a fire hose was pouring into me. The thought of his cum flooding into my unprotected womb made me come even harder. Soon he stopped thrusting and I felt his penis soften slightly inside me. He pulled out and I felt an unbearable gaping emptiness as he did so. He let me go and I collapsed to the floor in a heap. I was dimly aware of the sound of his zipper and then the sound of the door. He was gone and he never so much as said a word.

After a few minutes I came to my senses. I was a mess. Somehow I made it to the ladies room without really being seen, which was something of a miracle since I could barely walk. I cleaned myself up as best as I could but without any underwear I couldn't keep his semen from flowing out of me and running down my legs. I called the manager in and told that I was sick, that I'd come down with something, that I had been throwing up and needed to go home. She didn't question it for a second, I was such a wreck. I got out of there and caught a taxi for home. As I was riding in the backseat of that cab, legs crossed tightly together to keep from leaking all over the seat, I started wondering what I was going to tell them. What I was going to tell my wholesome Midwestern Christian parents. What I was going to tell my sweet boyfriend who I had never let see me with my panties off. How I was going to explain to them about the child growing inside me.