The Server

They were my Friday night regulars. For the past nine months, without fail. A table of three, husband, wife and teenage son. Mark, Jo, and the little shit. Mark had that sharp, useless look about him, so I assumed he was a lawyer. Jo was sexy and elegant, but looked as though she hadn’t felt that way for years. He was probably busy litigating his paralegal or dictating his PA. Most likely both. They barely spoke, and when they did there was a sense of distance between them that only time or hurt could have instilled. But she was stunning. Every time I saw her my heart raced and a rush of blood went straight to my cock. I caught myself glancing at her when perhaps I shouldn’t, but Mark's head was always in his phone and he barely noticed her, let alone me. 

Jo hadn’t felt my eyes, so no lines had been crossed. Yet. Our interactions were all above board. I was friendly without being overly flirty. I’d read them the specials, get them their drinks, Negroni for him, glass of Prosecco for her, without being asked. She appreciated the attention to detail. I could sense it. I’d look at what she was wearing. Always in black or white. Never any color. Always so well put together. Classy, never slutty. I knew she was a regular at the Pilates next door. I’d watch her go in, all serious looking, almost sad, and I’d notice the softer expression and glimmer of a smile after an hour of stretching, sweating. Even to Pilates, always in black. My mind would wonder and wander. Was she mourning the death of her marriage? Their sex life? His lifeless cock?

Jo had infiltrated my mind. I hid my desire like the full moon hidden beneath a billow of clouds, but it was real. When I looked at her I wanted to do bad things. Mark had neglected her needs, and I wanted to satisfy them. I imagined what their bedroom would look like. Decadent and luxurious. Silk sheets and decorative pillows. Mark would have a reading chair in the corner of the room, facing the king size bed where little to no love was being made. That’s where we’d tie him up. In the corner, to that big luxurious chair. We’d gag him with one of his fancy Italian ties. He’d be helpless, forced to watch every second as I’d show him how his wife deserved to be treated, held, and fucked. 

Jo and I would stand in front of him, fully clothed…

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