Service work 2.

We entered the restaurant a tad disheveled, looking like a couple who just knocked boots on the hood of a car in the garage across the street.

Normally we are well-coiffed and benefit for our efforts, enjoying the reciprocity extended by finer venues, like prime seating.

Lesson learned, show up with your dress askew, an areola peeking out, and a glistening cum trail dribbling down your inner thigh, and you’ll end up right where you should be. Noted.

Despite making the reservation well in advance, we were seated at high top at the edge of the bar area, kinda no man’s land, that service questionable dead zone between the bar patrons and the diners.

Hubby didn’t seem to mind, which seemed unusual for him. He enjoys the finer things in life, like me. So, I was expecting a much different response to such an obvious snub. Apparently, the oversized load he shot into me took the fight out of him.

Since we were bar patrons now, we chose to sit on the same side of the small round top facing the raucous crowd in bar area. Not wanting to wait for service, hubby waded into the crowd to order drinks from the bar.

The dimly lit blob of boozy humanity absorbed him and he disappeared.

I used my time alone to adjust my dress, tuck away my wayward nipple and comb my fingers through my hair. Looking good, I hoped, no one would be the wiser.

Dress like slut, act like slut, and you can set your clock by it, within minutes of sitting down, two gents appeared at my table, and began to chat me up.

In my haste leaving the garage, I left my clutch in the car. I know how this could be perceived. A women wearing only a smallish, semi-sheer cocktail dress and nothing else, arrives at a swanky bar with no ID, no money or a phone.

I smiled at them and instinctively tugged at the hem of my dress, which landed mid-thigh.

They leaned in, because it was loud? Or because they could smell my vapors? the aroma of freshly deposited semen, my own juices, and dried sweat, the elixir of hormones that awakens in men the competitive biological urge to displace his rival’s DNA with his own.

Heightening their arousal, no doubt, were the comingled bodily fluids wicking their way into the fabric of my dress. I hadn’t had time to visit the loo, so the evidence of my recent deviance was literally pooling on the seat between my thighs.

To spare everyone their time and potential embarrassment, I assertively interjected that hubby was at the bar ordering drinks.
Ear to ear grins broadened across their faces, making their disbelief evident.

In an instant two contradictory emotions crashed over me, like two giant waves colliding from different directions.

My heart sank from humiliation and my pussy sparked at the unspoken intentions conveyed by these two suitors. Goosebumps rippled across my skin and my nipples crinkled into sharp tacks. Again, I tugged at my hem, and now added the top of my dress, holding back my heaving B-cups, to my demonstration of shame.

I scanned the room, backlit with table top candles, my eyes darting from face to face, hoping not to be recognized by someone we knew.

My mind’s eye flashed to the scene on the hood of our car, hubby selfishly satisfying himself at my expense, taking my selfless marital services for granted, leaving my swollen pussy brimming, yet unfulfilled.

The fire in my loins was beginning to burn more intensely, steaming my juices and expelling more of his. I could feel heavy dollops of viscous fluid rolling out of me, clinging to my pussy lips before obeying the laws of gravity, and joining the fallen soaking my dress.

Suddenly, as if a switch was thrown, I ceased to care.

Instead of tugging my hem downward, I slid it upward, past mid-thigh, and closer to my hip crease. I leaned in conspiratorially, resting on my elbows, slyly pinching a fingerhold of my dress above my waist, and pulling it downward revealing more of my breasts, until I could feel my nipples barely restrained by the taut fabric. Strapless has its purpose.

They glanced down. The revelation was hard to miss. My areolae looked like setting suns over top of dress.

Our eyes met again. Unspoken messages flashed between us. Only minutes had passed since I arrived and I was already seriously considering leaving with these two.

Breaking our intense stare, I searched the bar for hubby. Being tall with a mane of flowing locks has its advantages, and I spotted him quickly.

I patted the seat next to me, instructing the more assertive of the two to sit, they would have to settle it themselves, since I was indifferent.

Unfolding my legs and parting my knees slightly, I tugged at the center of my hem, revealing my neatly shorn pubic patch.

A hand dropped to my thigh and began massaging my quad, climbing its way closer to my pussy lips with each squeeze. The loser of my impromptu game of musical chairs now regretted his lack of assertiveness, instead of being a participant, he was relegated to the audience.

The winner’s boldness was about to be tested. His ascending hand had reached the top of my thigh.

My skin was ablaze with sensations, as nerves sparked at his encroaching fingers. My pussy was in overdrive, wringing its juices in preparation for whatever my cum.

His hand slid off my quad and dove between my thighs, cupping my lips, probing my folds. He was surprised by my wetness, and how saturated my dress had become.

In a futile attempt to disguise what was going on at our table, he leaned in to me, nuzzling my neck and partially obscuring other patrons’ views from the front.

His wingman evidently knew the drill too and immediately repositioned himself on my other side, dropping his far elbow to the table and leaning in, creating a teepee of torsos, what was happening inside was anyone’s best guess.

Effectively shrouded, two fingers found my greased opening, dripping and welcoming, and began banging me in earnest. Audible alternating smacking, popping and sucking sounds matched the cadence of his penetrations.

Somehow my nipples were freed. Dipping my gaze to investigate, I found my dress pulled down below my breasts, and the full profile of my perky upswept B-cups on display.

The loser took solace in twisting and pinching my distended nipples, shooting bolts of pleasure down to my pelvis with each manipulation, heightening the sensory overload of the thrusting fingers in my gushing pussy.

Concerned that our intimate posture may draw unwanted attention, I extended my arms around both of them, cupping each far shoulder and hugging them inward toward me, sealing any gaps in our human teepee.

I felt other arms adding to the group hug, creating an unexpected team huddle at the edge of the bar.

Now even more obscured from view, the emboldened loser pulled my dress farther down below my belly button. I was back to wearing the wide belt in the garage.

Two sets of fingers aggressively fondled my nether region, stabbing at my opening, jousting for priority, sometimes inadvertently sharing it.

My arousal was peaking; I was beginning to tremble in expectation of my impending orgasm. Blood surged to my pussy, increasing its heat and sensitivity.

I was losing myself in pleasure, the feeling I get when I’m skiing, the exhilaration just beyond the edge of control.

Fingers finally found their rhythm and instead of fighting one another, they worked in unison. With no reprieve and near constant stimulation, I climbed the ladder of sensation and like circus performer was ready to jump into tiny pool below to the roar of my adoring fans under the big top.

Which fingers, I couldn’t say but someone triggered my orgasm, which came on like a tsunami. My pussy walls convulsing, clenching, pumping, like a power lifter mid-set.

Exhausted, my chin fell to my chest. I heaved contentedly. And heard myself moaning with satisfaction.

Piercing my afterglow, teeth clamped down on a tormented nipple, abruptly pulling my breast from my chest wall, like a ferocious dog thrashing against a rope toy, shocking me back to awareness.

In no world, would this go unnoticed. My head popped up from our huddle to assess the scene.

Ignoring the ongoing mauling of my nipple and torment of my breast, my head spun on swivel, expecting the worst but hoping for what, I couldn’t conceive of it.

Another set of teeth latched on to my other nipple, and bit down, pulling me under, like a drowning swimmer.

Reflexively, my body curled inward like in the midst of a sit-up, pulling my head back down into the huddle.

Exhaling in relief, I arched my back, pushing my breasts outward, like the phoenix rising from the ashes, I rose up, arms extended.

New hands found my tattered titties, others began clawing my naked back, pulling me under again. And the original two were pulled off their perches and new players were substituted.

Popping up, I found my hubby with his back to me, two drinks on the table behind him, part of the wall of jacketed men completely encircling the round top, shoulder to shoulder, some two deep, some turned outward, some turned inward, loud and raucous, drawing so much attention that other patrons tried to ignore them.

It was a bachelor party, and they mistook me for the entertainment.

Service delivered, service received.