This is a story I wrote a few years back…when my husband and I frequented a restaurant where the staff was about as yummy as the food. We went there often, wined, dined, and were treated more than well. Our discussions about our favorite waitress and waiter often spawned pillow talk and certainly led to some intense imaginings. This was the literary result of those thoughts, over a long period of time.
Now, unfortunately, those perfect servers have gone into the world, away from our small town. But they are still good material for fantasy.
It was an ordinary night, dinner out at our favorite Italian restaurant. We liked the place for lots of reasons, an excellent wine list, rich food, decadent desserts; the delicious wait staff was an added bonus. I’d been frequenting the wine bar there since before we’d even met, eyeing the Botticelli boy behind the counter…his slicked back brunette ponytail, chiseled jawline, the clean lines of his white shirt and black slacks. Hazel green eyes, trained to flirt just the right amount with the customers, made me lick my lips, thighs tightening. It was always where I went, for a voluptuous glass of zinfandel and an eyeful of sexual inspiration.
After my husband and I met, we continued going there, for the food, for the ambiance, for the beautiful waitress with the beautiful name and curvaceous behind. I’m sure he couldn’t decided which was better, watching her walk toward us or watching her walk away. The view was equally exquisite both ways.
While I’ve always found women in general beautiful…I’ve never considered myself bi-sexual. Maybe curious, but not really “willing” to do much beyond fantasize or talk about my husband’s fantasies involving me and another woman. But years of talking was leading us closer to a reality I wasn’t positive I was ready for.
On this ordinary night, we walked in through the front door. At the bar, as usual, thank god, was my Italian eye-candy. Dark brown hair, athletic physique, not too thin, but youthfully lithe, possibly 25 or so. I picture him hairless, smooth, like a carefully hand-crafted sculpture, worthy of his own fountain in Venice. Next to him, pouring a glass of wine, her hands gently cradling the neck of the bottle, was our “dream girl”. Auburn, shoulder-length waves, intense green doll-like round eyes, framed in long, black, made-up lashes. Alabaster white skin. Both of them lit up to see us (we were regulars and always guaranteed a fat tip).
“Hi, guys; how are you?” Her slow voice, sweet as dripping honey, welcomed us.
“Good, how about you?” I replied. “Just came in for a bite to eat; we’re starving for some great Italian food.”
“Well, right this way; let’s find you a place to sit down.” Her full hips swayed back and forth, making the bottom of her dress sway around her shapely calves. “How about a booth in the corner?”
“That’ll be fine.” I went up the steps and followed her to the back of the restaurant, knowing that my husband’s eyes were jumping from ass to ass in front of him, two brunettes in black dresses, a fantasy unfolding his in mind.
“Do you know what you’d like to drink?” Her lips spread across her teeth, forming a welcoming smile, her eyes sparkling and inviting. It’s what made her good at her job, her easy way with people, her charm, her classic approach.
“What do you suggest tonight?” We counted on the wait staff’s opinions of the new wines…they helped us try new things and knew our tastes well enough to usually lead us straight the perfect pick. “Tonight we have a gorgeous Cabernet from Yakima Valley…deep and full-bodied…would you like to try it?”
“Sounds great.” She walked away, hips and dress dancing toward the bar at the front.
“I see you eyeing her behind.” My husband was never very discreet about his desires. Not that I minded. I’m a secure woman who knows my man is happy and content just where he is.
“Yeah, I’m imagining that sitting on your face.” I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. It was always the same, his girl-on-girl fantasies. Far from making me uncomfortable, they usually just made me laugh. I’d kissed my best friend in college once just to see how it felt…soft, slippery, not at all my thing. Then later, I’d had my first honest crush on a fellow female grad student, fully knowing it’d never go anywhere, safely imagining things (and occasionally writing about them) in my mind. This was the first time since then I’d come anywhere near thinking a woman was “enough of everything” to turn me on.
My husband knew I found her attractive, which probably turned him on even more. So there we sat, indulging our greatest pleasures: eating rich, fattening food, drinking a bottle of sexy cab, and enjoying the service in so many ways.
We’d come late in the evening and stayed late, as was our custom, so by the time we were finishing our dessert and the last of the wine, we found we were the only customers left in the restaurant. The “beautiful boy” came to take our plates and inquire to any final requests. I was feeling warm and relaxed at this point, full and a bit hazy from the wine.
“Can I get you anything else?” He smiled and looked directly at me. I have no idea what made me feel it necessary to add, “You in a take-home container.” I laughed, and blushed, wishing I could take it back…what on Earth pushed that juvenile pick-up line out of my mouth…no more wine for me. I looked straight at my husband, silently pleading with him to get me the hell out of there before I said something else to embarrass myself and make it impossible for us to ever return to our favorite dining establishment. But he simply raised his eyebrows at me and smiled to himself…red wine did naughty things to me, for which he was grateful. Cole, my young waiter, simply smiled a somewhat devious smile and said, “You flatter me.”
He took our plates and left us to finish our wine. As the wait staff finished cleaning up, I enjoyed my night cap of port and my husband sipped another glass of wine. Our waitress, Harmony, returned with our check and an invitation, “A few of us are heading over to my place to hang out…I just wondered if maybe you’d like to join us?” It really wasn’t that odd. We’d been hanging out at this restaurant for years, and since we live in a small town, we ran into the wait staff regularly at other events and had mutual friends. So, we decided it was a good idea to accept. My husband, smiling like a fiend, asked her where she lived. As she wrote down her address and drew a simple map for us to follow, her hair fell across her face and her dress draped loosely across her breasts, baring her ample cleavage. Seeing my husband’s gaze, I kicked off one shoe and placed my bare foot between his thighs, pushing my toes gently into his dick, which was not quite hard, but certainly not flaccid. He breathed in a bit, and he quickly glanced over at me but gave away nothing as he continued his short discussion with her.
“We’ll just follow you, there,” he said.