Two broad feet of white and pink cloth stretched taut against two perfectly round lumps of rump hovered over the table in front of me. What it led to God only knew but for the moment I was content to stare, the saliva stirring fast in my mouth and my own slab of meat growing harder by the second.
I wasn't the only one staring either; two muscular, dirty men in white shirts, ripped jeans and work boots sat at the table she was humped over, licking their lips as if they were hungry. And maybe they were; after all, Jodi's Juicy Burger was the most popular burger joint in the region. But seeing this glorious piece of ass in front of me I could see why—food be damned!
She straightened and turned to face me. Her work dress was too small or her bust was too big. Either way she was meaty in the two places it counted. I didn't want to tear my eyes off the flesh tearing itself out of her blouse but even when I'm hard up I like to play the gentleman. It was just as well that I did so because her face rounded out the picture perfectly. She was in her forties, rust red hair, wrinkles creeping in around ice blue eyes, lips made up a shade too red and natural eye shadow from a life spent busting that bubbly butt—not to mention too many late nights with rough men.
"What can I get ya, hon?" Her voice was sharp but inviting. It demanded an answer but hinted she already knew it and if you played your cards right she might show it to you after work.
"Um..." The truth was that I hadn't even looked at the menu, just stared past it at the meal I really wanted. "You know what, why don't you surprise me?" It seemed lame, desperate even, and not likely to get me good food
or
service. Still, I'd tip her extra and have some memories to take back to my bed at night.
"Sure thing," she said with a wink.
She swatted my shoulder playfully with her notepad before hurrying back to kitchen. She knew the game and she was the type to play along. Even in diners you don't find that often anymore; too many touchy feminists who think male attraction is degrading. But more men have found rapture in the arms of waitresses than in the arms of God—it's worship of the most tangible, open, and flattering kind.
"God, did you see the ass on her?" one of the construction workers asked.
If God exists, I'm sure he has I thought with amusement. Not only has he seen it but he's seen it bare, raw from rough handed spankings, blushing with pleasure as it bounced on a bruiser of a cock. He's seen it in the shower, wet and glistening and warm with water travelling down its cheeky trail. He's seen it stuffed with a massive glass butt plug as she gripped the rails of her bed with one hand and furiously rubbed her clit with the other, her head thrown back, her body rocking as cries of pleasure bounced off the walls before she collapsed into her soft, threadbare sheets in ecstasy, that glass plug heaving back and forth with muscle-clenching aftershocks.
"Hell yeah I did," the other worker said. With a massive, calloused hand he swept the air in a spanking motion.
I was not surprised to see other men having similar thoughts but it still made me jealous and all the more so because these brutes were the type who got to fuck her. In fact, she might let both of them fuck her at the same time, one splitting her round ass apart with an oversized dick the other getting too red lipstick tattooed to the base of his cock. She'd gag, spit, gasp, slap at the front man's thighs in desperation, tears rolling down her eyes. Her body would shake, every inch of her wound so tight she'd feel ready to burst. And then she would burst, burst with a scream, maybe even squirt all over the floor. And then they'd burst, one shooting cum on her forehead to run down her nose, the other glazing her buns so thoroughly you'd think someone had spilled a glass of milk on them. At last they'd all collapse into a pile, spent and satisfied—for the night at least.
Of course, in the morning they'd go back to their jobs, back to being dissatisfied. Not that their jobs were bad or dishonorable, just that life had suckered them into them instead of sweeping them into something a little more... What, lucrative? Not even that, just something a little more free. They were both trapped, her and the men but at night, as a threesome, they could let their dreams loose.
The kitchen doors swung shut with a thump, snapping me out of my reverie. My red-hot waitress was back, sweat trickling down her neck and into her blouse. In one hand she held a plate with a burger that must have been at least half a pound and in the other she had a tall glass of milk. "Here ya are big boy," she said, "This'll keep you standing up. Just holler if you need anything else."
By then I wanted to holler, holler until I was hoarse with the pleasure of those soft, bulging thighs. She probably knew it too; my face must have been easy to read by then. If it wasn't hidden under the table she could see it in my pants bulge too. Sadly, it was the only part of me that warranted the "big boy" remark. I prefer to think of myself as slender but macho guys like those construction workers usually call me scrawny. Either way I don't get to use my big dick on a real woman often.
"Say girlie, why don't you come sit in my lap a minute?" one of the construction workers asked, spreading his legs apart.
"Oh sugar, I'm long past being a 'girlie'," she replied.
