The Restaurant had emptied out, lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. I’d locked the door, flipped the sign to Closed. My shift was done—except you were still in the corner, table 7, watching me with that steady, dangerous calm. Salt-and-pepper hair, rolled sleeves, expensive watch. Older. The kind of man who doesn’t rush.
I walked over, heels clicking, long blonde hair loose now, skirt riding high on my thighs. Blouse unbuttoned low enough to tease the lace edge of my bra. I stopped right in front of you, close enough for my knee to brush yours.
“You’re still here,” I said.
“You’re still serving,” you replied.
Your hand slid up my thigh—slow, deliberate—pushing my skirt higher, thumb hooking my thong aside.
“Spread.”
I lifted one knee to the booth seat, straddling your lap without sitting, pussy already wet and aching. Your fingers plunged inside me—two, then three—curling hard against that spot until my thighs shook. I bit my lip to stay quiet as you ordered.
You pulled out, slick fingers to my mouth. “Clean.”
I sucked them eagerly, tasting myself, eyes locked on yours.
Then you stood, spun me, bent me over the table. My palms slapped wood, ass up, skirt flipped onto my back. Belt unbuckled, cock thick and hot against me.
“Beg.”
“Please… fuck me, sir. I need it—need you deep—”
One brutal thrust buried you inside, stretching me wide. I cried out. You didn’t pause—pounding hard, deep, table rocking with every stroke. Hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. You bit my neck, growled, “Tight little slut. Been dripping for this all night.”
Your palm cracked across my ass—sharp, stinging—again and again. I pushed back, moaning, clenching around you.
You flipped me onto my back, legs over your shoulders, slammed in deeper. Thumb on my clit, rubbing fast while you fucked me mercilessly.
“Cum. Now.”
I shattered—screaming, squirting around your cock, body convulsing. You kept going, grunting, until you buried deep and flooded me with hot cum, pulse after pulse marking me inside.
You stayed there a moment, softening, stroking my damp hair almost gently. Then you pulled out, adjusted your tie, and walked to the door.
I stayed sprawled on the table—blouse open, skirt ruined, your cum leaking down my thighs—already aching for your next visit to table 7.