Papa's is a small Italian joint we live near. It opened in the late 60's when Paolo and Gianna moved here from Italy, meaning really authentic Italian dishes, not like the big chains. Paolo never has advertised the restaurant, unless you happen to see the listing in the yellow pages, under restaurants (Papa's....555-5309). This has kept the restaurant and it's clientele very small. The only thing keeping them afloat are the regulars, which is basically everyone who walks through the doors. Once you've tasted Papa's, you won't go anywhere else.
The dining area is fairly small, but big enough that even on a busy night there are at least a couple empty tables. Small, square hardwood tables and matching chairs make up the furnishings, lit by candle and electric gas-type lamps on the walls (not the card tables and plastic chairs you would expect in a place this small). This gives it a dimly lit, cozy atmosphere, though not as dark as the bar area.
The bar opens off one end of the dining floor, completely walled in stone like some medieval tavern. It even has wall sconces burning actual candles (the only light besides small fluorescent tubes behind the bar). Right at the entrance to the bar sits an old piano, still holding a nice finish and a beautiful tone. Paolo sometimes comes out of the kitchen to play a few old Sicilian tunes to a 'packed' house (in this case, more than three tables is 'packed'), in between stints yelling at the cooks in Italian. Gianna still plays hostess, and will accompany her husband on certain songs.
So there we were, sitting at our table, sharing an enormous bowl of pasta. Papa's has the best sangria, and Tracey had already finished one carafe and was working on a second. I had a glass or two, but was taking it easy since I had to drive. That was when I saw her.
At the bar, a very shapely woman had suddenly appeared. I was sitting facing into the bar, and hadn't seen her entrance—Tracey probably would have smacked me if I had. This woman had fine olive skin, set off nicely by the red and black print corset she wore. Her large breasts were spilling over the top, I was waiting the entire time to see a nipple(never did). A slinky black skirt rested low on her hips, showing just a sliver of supple skin with no hint of stretch marks or cellulite. The skirt stopped at mid calf, covering the tops of black leather boots with stiletto heels. I imagined thigh-highs, and felt my cock stir a little.
Her hair was dark brown, almost black, with a spray of blonde streaks across the top. It was held up in a bun by two chopsticks, the ends of the hair forming a loose fan across the back of her head. She was sitting at the bar, one foot on the floor, the other hooking the heel on a crossbar of the stool. As she sipped her wine, she slowly turned and scanned the dining area. Her smoky eyes slid back and forth under perfect eyebrows, no expression on her beautiful face. She was a classic beauty, good cheeks and chin, but with smooth cheeks instead of heroin-junkie gaunt. Then her eyes stopped in my direction.
I jerked my head, trying not to get caught staring. I became aware of Tracey talking again, realizing I had completely blanked her voice out mid-sentence while I drank in the sight of this Aphrodite.
I took another bite of the pasta, trying to be nonchalant, mm-hmm'd, and glanced back at the bar. She was still looking at our table, but I realized she wasn't looking at me. Tracey has a beautiful neck, like carved marble, almost aristocratic in it's beauty, and had her hair pulled up to drive me crazy. I realized this woman at the bar was staring at the back of my wife's neck, and then watched as she slowly slid her eyes down Tracey's back. I figured she had an almost three-quarters view from the rear, enough to see a facial profile when Tracey turned her head left. I sat and watched in awe as this very vision of sexuality undressed my wife with her eyes. My soldier stirred again, only this time it was marching upward. I had to excuse myself or I would be stuck here for quite a while. I had no choice.
"Sorry, I've got to go to the men's room." I stood and dropped my napkin next to the plate, silverware clattering as I bumped the table with my thigh.
Tracey stopped mid-sentence, and looked surprisingly at me. I usually wasn't rude to her; I had tried the dickhead stuff with other girls before Tracey, and it just wasn't me.
"Well, go then." She said, and kept eating.
I quickly walked past the entrance and entered the short hallway, hoping nothing was visible yet. I swung the door open, and headed for the sink. I ran the water, and splashed some water on my face. I didn't need to, I just felt like I should do something while I was in there.
Tracey has given me two children, Madeline, who is 6, and Lee, who is 3. Before the children, she was thin and athletic looking, a carryover from her swimming days in high school. After Maddy, she had trouble losing the weight, and was still carrying some of it when she got pregnant with Lee. She got even bigger with him, and had a horrible time losing the weight. Eventually she changed jobs, which gave her the opportunity to spend more time with the kids and go to the gym. Between her diet, lifting weights, and swimming, she had lost all of the weight and gotten back the body she had when we met, just a little more muscle.
She always had big hips, and small breasts. The funny thing is, her ass was amazing even when she was carrying the extra weight. Now that she had lost the weight(about 40 pounds), her ass was smaller, but we had compensated by adding in more squats and deadlifts. Now it was more shapely than I ever remember, but her cute little peaches—which seemed to triple in size with each pregnancy—were now left a little deflated and flat.
She had always been self-conscious about them, and hated shopping since stuff either fit the top or the bottom, but never both. So we had scraped the money together, and had gotten her the boob job to go with her ass. I have always been more of an ass man, and didn't really care if she got tits or not. After the surgery, when they had finally settled into their permanent position, I was a changed man. You could see a difference in her self-confidence, and her body image went through the roof. She started buying clothes to show off her hourglass figure, and was getting lots of male attention. She started worrying I would get jealous—part of the reason we waited so long to get them done—but shouldn't have. I loved watching guys' reactions when she entered a room. I got more than one nod or high-five from complete strangers, which we often laughed about later.
She was wearing a very sexy outfit that night, but still classy. She is about 5'10", and had worked her way back down to a very fit 145. She had a flat little tummy, which she loved to show off. She was showing just the beginnings of a six-pack, with a sexy little line down the middle showing the separation of her abs. In fact, that was her next project: an actual six-pack for summer. Tonight was to be her last big night before she hit the diet and weights a little harder for the next month or two, and she had dressed for it well.
She wore a white button-down capsleeve top, unbuttoned a little low to show off the maroon bustier containing her now-ample chest. A long skirt settled low on the curve of her hips, the hem dancing around her calves. Her feet were wrapped in three-inch heels, not stilettos but close, with the little leather laces which wrapped over her ankles onto her lower calves, tied in the back. I thought they looked ridiculous when she showed them to me in the box, but got instant wood the first time she modeled them for me-though, to be fair, she was only wearing the heels.
