Busty waitress is punished for being late and makes it up by unconditionally serving each customer.
I didn't initially like the restaurant I work at too much. It's located a bit outside of town with a stuffy, lame vibe. The clientele is working class and overwhelmingly male, the decor concept seems to be "grandpa's farm". It's not a place I would have normally hung out -- but pay was all right, it was relatively convenient to reach and most importantly, the schedule fit quite neatly around my lectures.
Once I'd started waiting tables, I surprised myself by actually increasingly liking the place. I was treated respectfully by the guests, most of which I was familiar with after a few shifts; and Mark, the manager was a nice guy. Officially, there was no uniform I had to wear -- but I pretty much created my own. I started off dressing quite casually for the job, not usually bothering to change when I came in before or after lectures. But as I grew more confident, my outfits started becoming more provoking by the day.
With my slim waist and naturally firm, melon-sized, always attention-grabbing breasts, that was not really a challenge. Any tight or lowcut shirt and short skirt would increase my take in tips. But what I craved more than the extra money was the guys' attention. Every now and then, I'd catch one of the guest ogling me, and I'd just know (and love to imagine), how they were undressing me and touching me in their minds.
Once such imagery popped up, I would usually carry it around with me for the rest of the shift, as a phantasy in my mind; and as a familiar sweaty, swollen, wet and sometimes even pulsing feeling between my legs. I enjoyed small-talking with the guests without them knowing how wet and swollen my pussy was. After such shifts, I loved to come home to my vibrator, fantasizing about pleasuring the guest my outfit had impressed. All the better if he happened to be one of the less attractive, perhaps older guests. Somehow, that seemed to give me an extra kick.
After three weeks or so of more cleavage and shorter skirts, my wardrobe started running out of even more extreme options. One of the days I came home from an evening shift with a throbbing pussy and nice, hard nipples, I decided to give the vibrator a break, poured myself a drink instead and went online shopping for a new work outfit.
When it arrived a few days later, I immediately tried on my new topless corest, which acted as a presentation platter for my big tits. I wore it with a sheer white blouse, through which my nipples and even the skin of my breasts were visible if one looked closely. And you really didn't have to look that hard to see the nipples protruding, once I got horny. In case that was not enough, I made sure the blouse only barely covered my nipples. The resulting cleavage was just mouthwatering. I combined that with the shortest, skimpiest plaid skirt I had found online. It was airy and fell playfully around my ass. Fishnet stockings ended a few fingers below the skirt, and I wore those with the usual rather low heals -- I still had to get through a full shift of serving guests in those, after all.
Once dressed, I admired myself in the mirror. I loved the cleavage, the tantalizing chance to
almost
discover my compact ass and my shaved pussy and just the overall femininity of it all. The soft, elastic blouse felt awesome on my tits, but also to the touch of my hands. I could imagine the guests' reaction to this bombshell look -- the vibrator's breaktime was very much over now.
As I got ready to get dressed for work the next day, I considered for a brief moment to actually wear the slutty outfit, then laughed about myself and slipped into a tight shirt (as was normal by now without a bra) and a somewhat less revealing skirt. As I did my hair and make-up, I realized that if I wouldn't wear the new outfit to work today, I would lose courage, and no one would ever get to picture peeling me out of it. I considered that there was no chance I would ever meet anyone I knew in my workplace. What was the risk? To aid my decision, I lifted my shirt to give my nipples a nice little rub -- and finally decided I'd definitely like the extra excitement of the new outfit!
I changed into it, putting the alternative, more modest clothes into a bag to take with me, and threw a light trench coat on to catch my bus. I got in a little earlier and, as usual, entered the kitchen through the back door. Mark looked at me a bit skeptical -- why would I wear a trench coat in summer?
"Mark, I have a suggestion to make to you. I came up with a new uniform concept for the waitresses here."
"So, for yourself?" he replied.
"Uhm, well yes. It's just a suggestion, I don't want to take the restaurant to a place you're not comfortable with. I'll show you, and if you don't like it, I'll get changed real quick".
"Ok, let's see how creative you got," he said.
I took off the jacket, and saw his jaw drop right away. He stared at my cleavage, and I could feel my nipples hardening under his gaze. I stood for a while for him to admire my body, then slowly turned. He'd made a step to the side, probably to hide the bulge in his pants behind the counter. I walked up and down the kitchen for him. When he still didn't respond, I bent over, pretending to pick something up from the floor so he could see under my skirt, then walked the two steps toward him very slowly, and bent over the counter, pretending to hand him a menu, so he could get a closer look at those inviting, heavy tits of mine. Still nothing.
"Well? Too much? Should I get changed?"
"Hm.." he said finally. "I believe this will work. The more prude guests have stopped coming anyway, since your outfits started changing. So we might as well do a bit more to entice the more open-minded ones. I think your outfit will increase my revenue. It'll increase your tips, and there will be some quality entertainment for the gentlemen. Plus, you'll get the attention you seem to crave. I approve the new uniform," he said conspiratorially.
"I'm very glad to hear that," I responded in as seductive a voice as I could and bit my lower lip, still leaning against the counter. "And how do
you
like what you see?" I had tried to flirt with Mark a few times in my first days at the restaurant, but he never responded. I figured he must have a personal policy against workplace involvements, or perhaps I just wasn't his type. Anyway, I had given up my attempts after a short while.
"Turn around," Mark said suddenly and with a commanding voice.
