Still Serving Under the Table

I continue to serve.

One year on and I've served so many. A cycle of men come through.

At first it was electric. But now, let's be honest, it's a performance. A mathematical formula - insert x and you'll always get y.

My life has become repeating evenings. I honestly couldn't say if it was different men, or the same handful, rotating through.

I came here to serve. And I have. I came here to earn, yes. But I also wanted to learn. To excel. But now, I've gone from fine dining to fast food routine.

Which is why the tremor of excitement I feel when I see you is more than just attraction. It's more than an interest in your big curves and your nice legs. It's like a spike of current that runs down my spine. I feel a chill settling around my knees.

We do see ladies here, occasionally. Typically, they sit, watching their lovers get serviced. Very occasionally they engage by kissing his lips or stroking his chest. Once a woman got down here with me to take her man's load.

But a woman alone, through the dark doorway, down the steps to the lounge? We never see that. It is extraordinary. It's also amusing. All the men here, normally so bold, so demanding, so cruel. They are shading their faces. Embarrassed, I guess. One is holding a menu over his server's head. As if he could hide.

I love you already. The way you move forward, with purpose. A tiger. A shark. You are speaking with the old lady and glancing around at the servers. By now I know, if I want to be called, if I want to serve, I should meet your eyes with a smile. Not forward. Not demanding, but engaging and tempting.

And your answer, when it comes, your wide smile, is everything I hoped for. Your eyes are on mine, not the full body scan that I'm used to.

Madam goes to seat you in a corner, but you shake your head as you speak, gesturing with a jerk of the chin. So it's to the central table I'm being summoned. The one with no cover, open for everyone to see. Just this. This bold, this outrageous decision makes me your slave.

Having caught you with my eyes and soft smile. The routine is to keep my eyes down. Humble, subservient. A true server. But as I am settling below, you raise my chin with your fingers. You look directly in my eyes, but somehow also right through me.

You say, "Be a good girl now... I'll give you a tip."

It's been months since I felt much, at all, about service. Since a thrill of excitement at a strong chest or hard cock. But now. Just one sentence. The lightest touch. And I'm practically panting. I can feel the wetness running to my thighs.

'Yes madam', I answer, looking back down.

As your cocktail's delivered, I run my hands up your thighs. Pushing up under the hem of your dress. Your skin is soft. Smooth and inviting. After so many rough, hairy men, I want to live in these thighs.

You lift slightly as I rub up and down, allowing me access. Bringing me in.

I breathe on your inner thigh and run my fingers along. I kiss here and there. And I hear your soft sigh and realize -- it's gone silent around us. Just a faint, distant slurp or lick from one of the girls giving service. It seems like the men are barely breathing.

I reach up to your waist and catch up your panties which are lacy and black. And I run them down, past your warm legs, and help you lift each high heel through. Then I kiss my way back up and with some soft licks of my tongue taste the salt on your skin.

As I approach the place where your legs meet, where my true service begins, I catch the smell of you. Musky, yes, but compelling. Before I place my tongue on your pussy, I blow softly. It's a trick I've grown used to with countless men.

"Just lick me." you command.

It doesn't sound like anger or impatience. More like, a statement of fact.

I lick and you sigh. So softly, so sweetly. The taste of you is essential. Rich and alkaline. But I'm not here for me. Or not only. Your hand settles in my hair. You call me pet. You call me a good girl, a sweet slut, a whore, as I use my flat tongue to explore you.

As a rule, I don't talk to the men, except to say "sit like this" or "move this way". But for you I am vocal: 'I love it madam.' 'You taste so good.' 'So sweet, so.... so addicting... so warm.'

'Yes madam,' I respond, 'I am your slut... I am your whore.'

You run your fingers through my hair by my scalp: "that's a good girl... that's a good whore... lick my clit now. Come on."

Although you are commanding. And I truly feel commanded. You aren't silent like I sometimes get with the men. You sigh, you moan, you practically growl.

Your voice is more urgent now. I feel you. You're wetter. Your hands pull me in. I place my mouth on your clit now. Sucking. Using a hand to caress above your pussy. My eyes look up to find yours. And when they do, yours are focused, intense, hungry.

I raise my hand to your entrance and you nod. I enter you with two small fingers, moving them in and up, trying to meet my other hand on the outside, looking for that textured point inside that will thrill you. And still I lick. I suck. I taste.

You've become urgent as I've explored with my fingers. Commands that were sentences become words, and then words become sounds.

"Do it."

"Lick me."

"Faster."

"Right there."

"Uhng."

"Uhh"

"Yessss"

"My. Uhh. Whore."

Your juices are on my lips and on my chin. They trickle down my neck.

Our prices assume 20 minutes will do it. With the men some take longer, some much quicker, but it balances out. I'm lost in the moment, but it must be 30 minutes now, because I hear the bell signaling me from the back. And I think to myself: 'madam, if it were just me, I would stay here all night... but I have bosses and finances to consider'.

So I redouble my efforts. I'm growing more certain I can bring you across. My fingers fuck up, into your pussy. The hand above reaches down a thumb to help my tongue on your hard, hot clit. And you are panting and moaning.

I'm guessing the men have completely forgotten their servers. The only noise in the lounge is my licking, my fingers in your pussy, your moans. And then.

And then.

You gasp with a sharp clear breath. You hold it in, and then push out with a loud groan.

And you cum. You are cumming. Cumming and cumming and cumming. Pulling me hard. My nose now pressed into the wet. The moment is electric and, I can't know if it's true, but to me, you come for more than a minute, panting, sighing. Your legs shake.

As you settle, I sit back with a smile. My face is wet, my lips are sore. I am happy.

I think: 'I've done it madam. I've shown you what I have to give, what I am, and it was enough'.

Your breathing slows. I kiss you right on the pussy. I help you back into your panties and smooth down your dress.

My habit, my routine, is to look down now. To show who's the servant. The men like that and it improves the tip. But you -- you lift my chin again and pull me up. Up to a kiss which surprises me because my face is still wet with you.

"You've been a good kitten," you say. "A sweet slut, a perfect fucking whore"

Then you kiss me again. Deep and intense. I feel your hand on my breast, welcome and firm. And then the scratch, as paper is pushed into my shirt, settling over my hard little nipple.

You whisper: "You can spend it, whore. But you might want to keep it. It will smell of me."

You return to your cocktail and I'm forgotten. The usual noise of the club starts to return. I can feel the electricity running through the men now. The servers will be busy tonight.

As I return to my place and await my next service, I know my world is changed. For the better, I hope.