This is my fourth story in the LW category. For those who have followed my previous work, I suggest skipping to the tags first. If you've liked my other stuff, you may not like this one. Then again, you may. Introduction out of the way, I hope both new readers and my tens of fans all find something to enjoy in this short piece.
The restaurant business is like a roller coaster. The rush hours are adrenaline fueled. The time in between is recovering and preparing for the next onslaught. It's worse when you own the place. That was the case at "Dominic's Bistro," and if you're wondering, I am Dominic.
I'm a bit of a stereotype, an Italian in St. Louis who opened an Italian restaurant on "The Hill." The ups and downs of that life seemed normal to me, since I was raised in a similar home environment. I'm one of those Americans of Italian descent that can't quite get angry at Hollywood for their portrayals of Italians. In fact, I've enjoyed films and sitcoms that resonated with my own upbringing.
I contrast that with the marriage to my wife Tricia. It wasn't a series of highs and lows, it was a steady commitment that grew stronger with each passing year. She provided me the stability I needed in my life. While my business was unpredictable on almost a daily basis, my marriage was my safe harbor. That was the place that gave me the strength to go out to slay the dragons every morning. It was also what kept me from losing my cool on a number of occasions. Any time I felt my emotions were about to override logic in my business decisions, the thought that a rash act would also affect the love of my life stayed my hand.
Tricia is five years my junior. I'm 32, she is 27. She's short, cute, and looks so young she still gets carded when buying alcohol. When we go out, people who don't know us definitely stare. I suspect some of them have considered calling hotlines to see if a runaway is missing. The fact that I have a receding hairline, a clearly broken nose and acne scars, no doubt adds to their apprehension.
The hairline came from genetics. The acne scars came from having acne. The broken nose came because someone fucked with my younger brother. He was bullied, and as the older sibling I had to step up. Bullying my younger brother was my job, dammit.
As I've hinted at, my family is demonstrative. We may argue with each other to the point where things are thrown, but anyone outside the family fucks with us? It's on. Family is the most important thing. And in case you're wondering, no one messed with my bro again.
The bistro had been doing well after the first few years, so well that I began negotiating to open a second location. I was also ready to have a child. Son or daughter, I really had no preference. Tricia and I had several discussions about what our child would look like and act like. We were both thrilled. So we agreed on two things.
First, she'd go off the pill when we found a house in a neighborhood with good schools and a place we wanted to raise kids in. That would be the first and hopefully last house we purchased while the kids were at home.
Second, she'd also quit her job and prepare for us to be parents while I became the sole earner in the family. Tricia is the better long-term planner in our relationship. Things like checking out good baby doctors and finding and making a home baby-friendly were definitely more her forte. I tend to be more of an "in the moment" kind of guy.
We did exactly that about a year ago. My second restaurant was going to happen. We found a house that we loved. Good school district, good neighbors, close to her preferred hospital. The house had a room for several kids, as well as a backyard for pets. Tricia quit her job the moment we moved. We could afford to do it. "The Plan" was being implemented without a hitch.
After we made our move, the only thing we discussed was having that first baby. She didn't go off the pill immediately, we did need to discover the nuances of the neighborhood. That was Tricia's job. My wife is actually the smarter of the two of us. She's a meticulous researcher, and every date on her day planner has a notation. She has to pencil
me
in for things outside of our daily routine.
Hypothetically, if I ever got the idea to leave the restaurant and surprise her at home with flowers and amorous intentions, I'd be as likely as not to find an empty home. If I didn't, she'd be doing something where I'd be an interruption. She'd gush over the flowers, give me a quick kiss on the lips, then tactfully send me on my way back to work. I do say "hypothetically," because after several years I know better.
So while I built the business, Tricia met all the neighbors. She was always looking ahead and every potential neighbor was a potential resource/friend/babysitter. My gal made friends easily. She
worked
that neighborhood, and within a year you would never know we hadn't been there since forever.
Now that everything seemed on track, we set a date for her to go off the pill. It would be after her 10-year high school reunion. That was a bit symbolic. Tricia explained it like this, "That's where I spend one final night enjoying the past, before I close that chapter in my life. The next chapter is us and the kids. That is my next decade of memories, and every decade after that."
Which brings us to the afternoon I had to explain to the staff why I needed to leave. It was Gloria's birthday. Gloria had been with me almost since the beginning, starting as a waitress. She was now in charge of the wait staff, and everybody adored her. Even some of the ones she'd fired. So her birthday was a big deal. The gift I'd bought I'd left at home. I called Tricia. The call went to voicemail, so I left a message. "Honey, I forgot Gloria's gift. I'll see you when I get home."
A successful restaurant is about the people who work there. I have a good bunch. I've been told I pay them more than I have to. That makes up for the time than I paid them less than they deserved. I promised those who stuck with me better wages if we succeeded, and to those that did I kept my promise.
Traffic was a bit heavier than usual, it took me 15 minutes longer to get home than it should have. I pulled into the driveway with a bit of road rage. I hate traffic. It's one of my anger issues I've successfully struggled with and conquered. Mostly. It does simmer, but it doesn't boil over.
After a short walk from the driveway to the front door, I calmly inserted my key, twisted the knob and let myself in. Immediately I heard sounds of passion, followed by very loud dialogue. This was while my nostrils inhaled a very strong whiff of sex.
"Oh Daddy, you fuck me so good."
That was followed by an audible smack.
"Daddy's gonna punish your teasing little twat."
"Spank me Daddy, spank my naughty ass good, but don't stop fucking me."
Beside the entrance to our front door, my golf bag was in a corner where I left it. I decided the 9 iron was the appropriate choice. I did contemplate the symmetry of using a wood, but I was more interested in justice than poetry. I also decided against the driver for similar reasons. Implement of said justice in hand, I slowly walked down the hallway as I approached the left turn that would take me to the living room.
"Does my little girl want Daddy's cock?"
"Oh Daddy, I need it. Fill my naughty pussy."
This was followed by two more smacks. I spun the 9 iron around a few times, making sure nerves wouldn't betray me. Nope. Mjolnir was just as much attuned to my wishes as he ever had been. It was Hammer Time. I realized I was mixing pop culture references, but I was out of my last fuck to give at that moment. My resolve satisfied, I continued my march toward the confrontation.
"I'm gonna cum in that slutty snatch!"
"Yes Daddy, cum in your little girl's hungry pussy. Fill me, fill me!"
This was followed be a shriek, a noise I knew good and well. I turned into the living room to see Tricia completely naked except for socks and sneakers. She was on all fours on the floor getting rammed by someone at least 10 years older than her. That someone was recent transplant to the neighborhood Corbin Wilson. I'd only ever seen him in passing before today. He definitely looked better at his age than I did at mine. Ah well, that was likely to change.
In a heap next to them, was clothing I assumed was his, and her old high school cheerleading outfit. For those interested, the colors are black, white and red. A bit more red than her bare ass was at that moment. A bit. He was definitely hammering her pretty good. His head was snapped back, his hands gripping her hips hard.
"Daddy's cumming, Daddy's cumming in his little girl's dirty cunt!"
