“You are looking after table eight. Yes?”

It was not a request and the gap between his eyebrows furrowed. Jack glanced at her, the mystery woman from last week… that woman.. and back again, alone. We worked together for two months, and I thought I had seen every nuance of his personality in those deep hazel eyes. Every facet was as unique as the blue-brown mood stones I lost myself in. This was different and instinctive… primal. My insides fizzed at the possibilities.

Heat prickled my cheeks, “Yes, Jack? Table eight?”

His smile bared those flawless white teeth, “Of course, Madame.”

A cheeky grin followed; God, he was good at riling me.

“It’s Mademoiselle. I’m not married.”

Too late, he was a blur of sleek lines, making a beeline for the brunette with endless legs in a slinky black dress. The same day of the week, the same time, nine o’clock. I hoped for his sake… and mine, that history would repeat itself.

“Maitre D’,” I muttered, and my shoulders slumped, only for a moment.

There were easier ways to earn money, and I returned to my admiration of table eight.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

I did lend the restaurant some authenticity. My training was in France, this was a French restaurant, but the location was wrong. Located between two commuter towns that served London, they threatened to swallow up this ancient village enclave. We attracted its well-heeled residents and those looking for a special occasion.

It was little more than a bistro that served Provençale cuisine, nothing to frighten most palates or expectations. Situated in a rambling Georgian house, it was a hotch-potch of architectural styles, added to during the centuries of its long life. It had a certain charm that could not be manufactured or imitated. Inside, it was welcoming and tasteful. Subdued lighting and candles on tables provided an intimate ambience with muted fabrics and oak parquet floors. The scent of food cooking and soothing French chanteurs helped define our sense of style.

Tonight was our usual midweek clientele, couples and not the larger bookings we endured at the weekend. We gave our guests space to breathe and be themselves. Our service was the same: friendly, warm, and never boastful; we let our food do that.

So far this year, we had four marriage proposals, three accepted… that one was awkward. There were the usual wedding anniversaries, dozens of those, and countless first, second, or third dates, some with champagne. A dead giveaway that he was getting lucky that night.

Jack was the youngest of our staff, perhaps the most capable, and he had a gift for this. Well, he might think so. Those bewitching eyes were attached to a handsome young man who understood the value of his scarcity, and he would make them crawl over broken glass for that. It was this arrogance that made me quiver inside for him.

And myself? I was always this way, petite, blonde with wavy hair, but now on the wrong side of twenty-five. I liked to wear them down with my expressive brown eyes. They were the windows to my corrupted soul, sirens to those I admired. Yet, I practised my expression of fay innocence to perfection. Enough men told me I was attractive; it did not go to my head. Yet finding love, and I would settle for less, was difficult when I worked such unsociable hours.

A black pencil skirt showed off my figure, and a slim-fitting blouse did the same. I made an effort, but only a little makeup – on the lips, not the eyes, never both. That was reserved for somewhere else, and no one had seen that for a while. Underneath, my secret was one of my very few creature comforts. Nothing felt better against my sex and breasts than silk.

I was not playing ball with Jack. But, if he made those moon eyes at me again, I had made my decision. He should have every exit memorised because I would eat him alive. Perhaps he liked to live dangerously; perhaps he had a death wish; maybe it was just a game hoping I would make the first move so he could turn me down. At the very least, he flirted with me, making me homesick. Worst, at home, I would fuck myself silly like last week.

Jack was born in the wrong country; he would love France. There, everyone flirted, even the chaste priests… and not-so-chaste ones. Do not ask me how I know. Hell… he would adore France so much, he would not see anything except a succession of bedroom ceilings and plenty of eager flesh.

Right now, on table eight, and the way she toyed with a loose lock of hair, he was going to add another bedroom ceiling to his collection. It was later now. Most of our guests were either finishing their main or onto dessert; a few were enjoying coffee. This was the time I loved the most. From my pedestal desk, I could watch the guests and wonder.

The young couple at table twelve were holding hands, which was sweet. This was the anniversary of their first date, he booked it, and I was hopeless for a true romantic. She looked at him and glanced away for a moment, a test to see if his eyes waited for her. They did, and she knew… I did, too. He was very much in love with her.

Some of our regulars were at table three, an older couple with little to say to each other. It was indecipherable until he looked up from his plate, and she smiled with a twinkle in her eyes; he reciprocated. They were content in silence. Again, they were still there, holding on, taking whatever life kept throwing at them. I wanted to be like them when I got to that age… with someone… as yet unknown.

Back to table eight, she was sun-kissed, slender, with brunette feathered hair down beyond her shoulders. Intensely feminine and easy to look at, I could imagine her with a striking man as her partner in crime. It was a crime that she was alone.

The other tables were ignored. I was admiring her as if my eyes were magnetised. Lithe limbed, very elegant in their movement, with a precision that matched her upright poise. She was too tall to be petite, too slender to be womanly. A slight tilt of her head signified her interest in my direction, and my throat hitched as the thought drowned my mind. She locked those ice-melting eyes onto Jack when he brought her dessert. Tarte Tatin, I had to give it to her, a delicious choice for a delectable woman.

Her dress revealed a generous honey-tinted decolletage and the cleft of her fulsome breasts. There was no way Jack could resist those, and his eyes would dip in admiration. Perhaps, he met his match. I hoped so. It was about time a woman, any woman, got their revenge on our fresh-out-of-university lothario. He turned tail, and she was checking out the buns of his behind. Our eyes met, a moment of fellowship as we smiled knowingly, and she returned to her dessert. My heart swelled; I knew something Jack did not.

Of course, his façade slipped before my eyes, too. I was an intruder to his thoughts and party to their conspiracy. It was not natural for his age; he should be blushing. No, he grinned as wide as the Cheshire Cat. He did not care that I knew it, too. The bastard made my insides tremble, and I thought he was walking up to me. Maybe he would gloat, and possibly he would torture me again. My eyes revealed my desires, stole my breath, and my heart skipped beats. At the last moment, he veered away at right angles around an imaginary corner. With a side glance, he chuckled. I was too young for hot flushes, yet, I was stewing in my juices.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Retrieving coats and jackets for our guests, with assistance if needed, this was the goodbye-and-come-again part of the evening. They left happy, with full tummies; some had more wine in them than needed. Gallant to the very end, the gentleman from table three helped his wife with her coat. That melted my insides. Thrusting twenty pounds into my hand, he thanked us for a beautiful evening as his wife beamed.

The couple from table twelve looked furtive, and I wondered if they had stolen some cutlery… it happens. No, I knew that look as she tugged on his hand. Hurrying him out of the door, I doubted they would make it home to consummate their evening. How passionate it was to be taken like that. In the back of a car, moonlit field, or in an alleyway, and risk being caught.

I scanned to see table eight, our last guest, drinking coffee with her half-eaten dessert untouched.

It was an early finish, just ten-thirty, and expected for a Wednesday. I counted the tips in the kitchen, and we had almost thirty pounds each. It was my house rule; we shared these with everyone. Thanking them for another excellent evening, Mindy, our other waitress, had her coat on. The chef, with his staff, headed out of the back door. Jack would present the bill to table eight; he was more than capable.

The serving door flapped back and forth. The carpeted corridor felt soft and springy on my feet which were starting to ache. The distant muffled sound was irregular and familiar, and a soft gasp confirmed what I suspected. The sudden rush of hot blood made my ears ring. Peering around the corner, I saw another dessert on the menu.

Jack… and for us, history was repeating itself. Table eight was on her knees, and her elegant fingers stroked it in a languid spiral motion, slurping on his length with a tongue like an eel. Those wide eyes looked up, holding his erect shaft and poised to strike again. Like him, it was a handsome penis, not so large, generous in girth, with a mouth-watering curve. It was something to slide onto and have it all.  I knew it held the promise of immense satisfaction. From the same spot, I peered from the shadows; all the candles, except theirs, were extinguished. It threw flickering tones of shadow and light over their bodies.

What had ached all night blazed brightly. I had to do it and fished under the hem of my pencil skirt and made it into a belt. Dropping my flimsy silk panties, they rested on my ankles. My whole being was on edge, and it had to be appeased. The image of them rattled loose so many old emotions, so many past experiences. Like last week, their hold over me was the lyrics to my life story; I was gripped by their power. Two fingers spilt my essence, the swollen button caressed for addictive lightning bolts that soothed my ravaged mind.

She pulled on the dress, and it stretched to reveal her teardrop breasts. Ample enough to cushion Jack’s erect cock between them, and he rutted them, much to her delight.

The tension swelled within; I wanted them both as my languid fingers became the nimble method of sating my lust. I could not be too forceful; the rise of sticky sounds might alert them to my presence.

Of course, our resident pervert had not tidied away the butter dish; it glistened on her finger and disappeared between his legs. That moment as it wormed into him, weighed on his eyelids like lead. He fought to mute his gasped moans and bucked with a newfound eagerness. Taken in hand, slippery with a little butter, she made him do all the work with pursed lips of amusement.

Her delighted eyes became beacons to reveal her pleasure. I bit my lip to hold it back. Jack’s age counted against him; he was swollen and rigid, with those heavy balls eager to vent his climax. With a playful smack, his erection swayed like a bough in a storm.  Amused, she rose onto her haunches first, her dress like mine around her waist, without panties all night. I craved to see her sex and the mesmerising curves of her hips and ass.

His shaft swung there, twitching with need as she stood behind him. I thought they would fuck, but no, she took him in hand and brought his hand to the cushion of her sex. Unable to blink, my wrist was a blur as she fed his fingers between her dewy folds and directed his shaft to her half-eaten dessert. Stroking him, that digit in his ass had found its target. If it was possible, I was never more devout to make it so. I willed him to explode as I was so close too. Her deft touch revealed her experience; I yearned to have my tongue inside her as she broke his will.

Each groan announced a mighty spasm; without stroking him, her finger was doing all the work. Ropes of it glazed the Tarte Tatin, luscious, vibrant pearly white, and so much. Spent, he crumpled forwards, holding onto the table’s edge as if it secured him to his mortal realm. Pressing my hand over my mouth, I exploded inside like a million firecrackers at once. All my senses were alive, as if every second felt like minutes. I had my resolution, deluged with salvation as all my hopes for tonight … for this week, were released in those precious moments.

Jack was bereft, emptied of his vitality and panting for recovery. Our vixen from table eight took her dessert fork and reached over; my incredulous eyes were torn. The cleft of her behind and its sensuous curves revealed her naked sex. I seared the image into my mind, and I had never yearned for something with such passion. I had to watch as she broke into the glazed dessert and carried it to her mouth.

She purred as the cat that got the cream. My fingers prised it from me, another climax, and so debilitating, I held onto the wall as it rattled through my legs. My body was made of rubber, unable to resist her elegance as she transformed from a wanton creature back into a model of demure beauty. Her dress restored, she opened her clutch bag and dropped money onto the table.

“Keep the change,” delivered with such husky tones, I wanted to climax again.

Jack said nothing and gestured with a weary nod of his head.

I had to steal myself away, silent as a thief. My resolve, like my fortitude, had returned. I gazed into the toilet mirror, and that impassive look hid my lust, even if my florid cheeks revealed my post-orgasmic state.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Jack tidied away table eight, and I let him leave. He could not look me in the eyes and did not torture me like last week. Like then, I watched them; now, his tail was between his legs. Or rather, he had a throbbing glow of relief and liquid butter up his ass. As if my desire for her was not enough, her treatment of him was now a treasured memory.

Pulling the door shut, the snick of the oiled barrel turned. With that, it drew to a close another encounter with the woman from table eight. I doubted that Jack would be so eager next time, and perhaps I might have a chance if she visited again. Dismissing the melancholia that she would not return, I held onto the hope instead.

I was tired, grateful it was a mild evening, and the moon was full and fat. It cast a waxy light over the shingles of the driveway and surrounding hedges, dark as verdant sentinels to hide me. The silence was almost deafening as tiny pebbles crunched under my feet towards the coppiced pathway. It was a short walk home to my solitary life and one-bedroom flat.

From behind an oak tree, it startled me to halt. It was her, illuminated like a spectre in milky grey. Her head held proud, peering down at little with a powerful sense of resolve that melted away my concerns. That torrid heat assaulted me once more; I dared not wish as it radiated through my sex and swept all my faculties away.

“Hello.”

I stammered at first, “Hello.”

Every footstep counted the short seconds. It was impossible to process anything except her beauty as my gaze flickered to her lips. Her amused smile greeted me with those intense, passionate eyes. My body sang with need; in my mind, there was no other conviction except to give her everything she wanted. I crumbled when she placed her hand on my hip, and those eyes, black as night, ransacked my thoughts. Everything was sexual, her touch, and I could cry as the distance between us narrowed. With her lips, I pressed mine there, too, as if I needed them like water to drink. Her purr of approval incensed me to give her my very best. She tasted of caramel and apples, perhaps a hint of his essence lingered, but I craved hers more.

We broke; the dam had burst and was too much to endure. I was a wreck, shivering for more.

“I’m Lucy.”

I was still gasping.

“Ines,” emerged from my breathless mouth.

“Well, Ines…” and she smooched my helpless lips again, “perhaps we should take this to my house? It’s not far.”

“And not in my restaurant because….”

Those pillow lips captured my being, and we folded into each other’s arms. The tip of her sensual tongue goaded my need into action. The heat of her sex pressed against my thigh. Compelled to direct her, she had to writhe against me. Yet, her hips would not relent.

“Soon,” she purred.

My mind was swimming, “Did you come here for him or for me?”

Overwrought, this first thought burst from me. My soul felt so weak it needed this comfort.

“For you. First, he needed to learn a lesson. I noticed how he made you burn. That was unkind of him.”

I nodded pensively, “Yes, it was.”

“And you are attracted to him?”

“Yes.”

Lucy purred, “If he is good, perhaps we could share him. Of course, we would have to seduce him first.”

The thought raised a nervous smile, “Perhaps.”

“I knew you were there watching us and last week, too.”

I blushed.

She held my chin and tilted her head quizzically, “How are you now, Ines?”

I had to swallow, “I am burning for you.”

“I am, for you. And it is a flame that will never go out.”

I gasped, her lips touched mine, and we exchanged these unmistakable emotions. With that, our smiles widened as she made those moon eyes at me.