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The Neighborhood Chapter Nine: Cafe au Lay

Shaquille O’Neal is tall; this skirt was short.
Sonja called me at work. She wanted to go out for lunch.

“What should I wear?” I asked her. I was already getting hard thinking about driving around the city naked and maybe skinny-dipping in a public fountain.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter,” replied Sonja.

I was more than disappointed.

“We’re just going for sandwiches, you know. A quick bite then back to work.” Sonja sounded quite matter-of-fact. Well, she was fun to be with, and I did have to eat. Sure, sandwiches.

I picked her up outside her office, which was located in the old Second Precinct building. The skirt was short. By short, I mean Shaquille O’Neal is tall; this skirt was short. But her blouse was quite proper, buttoned all the way up to her neck. Maybe there was no playtime today.

We went to a small café about ten blocks from the precinct. We parked, got out of the car, and walked up to the door. I let her walk ahead of me. That ass was really nice.

Once inside Sonja made a bee-line for a booth in the back. “You get in first, I wanna sit on the end.” Sonja always knew what she wanted, and I always tried to make sure she got it. I got in first.

A waiter, maybe twenty-five years old and Hispanic-looking, brought us menus. His name tag read “Juan Carlos.”

“Hey there, J.C., how’s it hangin’? Sylvia evidently knew him.

“Hello, Sonja,” he replied, gazing at a spot about eight inches below her chin.

“So, how do you like my new blouse?” Fashion-conscious wasn’t the first term that came to mind about this girl, so I looked at the blouse again. The top two buttons had come undone.

“Do you like it better this way?” More buttons were undone. Now I understood why Sonja chose this particular booth. The waiter blocked everyone else’s view.

“How about this way?” By now most of the buttons were undone. Sonja spread the sides of the blouse until about half of her breasts were visible.

“Uhm, I like it. Can I get you something to drink?” Juan Carlos was breathing a bit harder. We ordered Cokes.

As he turned to leave Sonja adjusted her blouse to its G-Rated position. “He’s a nice waiter, always so polite,” Sonja observed.

“Do you come here often?” I asked Sonja. I swear, I had never before used that line on a girl in my life. But everything about Sonja was different. Everything.

“Oh, sure I do,” replied Sonja. “The waiters all know me and like me. Sometimes, I even get to eat for free.”

I’ll bet she does, I thought. I noticed Juan Carlos staring intently at our table, but not making eye contact. I followed what I thought was his line of sight; it led to just below Sonja’s waist. Gosh, what a surprise, her short skirt was hiked up! “No panties?” I asked.

“Now, why would I ever wear panties just to get a sandwich?” Sonja replied. Her smile told me everything I needed to know. She leaned toward me and took my face in her hands. “Kiss me.”

Of course I kissed her. I’d have covered her in chocolate and put a cherry on her head if that was what she wanted.

While we were kissing Sonja’s hands were busy in my lap. When we broke I saw that my belt was undone and my pants were open. And her hand was inside my underwear stroking my baguette.

Juan Carlos returned with our drinks, and stood between Sonja and the rest of the establishment. “What can I get you to eat?” He had pen and paper ready.

“I’m in the mood for sausage,” said Sonja. She let a hand wander to his zipper, then slide down his crotch. “Is it fresh today?”

“Uhm, we don’t serve sausage sandwiches,” said a squirming Juan Carlos.

Sonja withdrew her hand from his crotch and rearranged her blouse. I mean, she really rearranged the blouse. Two buttons and it was sitting wide open with her tits exposed for all the world to see. Except that all the world included just me and J.C. at the moment.

“How about melon sandwiches?” Sonja led one of his hands to her left breast, then to the right.

Of course, her other hand was still in my lap. Except in was no longer in my underwear. That had been pulled aside and my baloney pony was gazing at its surroundings, the meat being molded by Sonja’s right hand. This was way beyond arousal. I decided that it was at least nine rousals.

Sonja glanced at my dick and J.C.’s gaze followed.

He swallowed hard. “We have a nice chick breast. I mean chicken breast. And it’s fried cunt style. I mean country style.”

“We’ll have two of those, please,” ordered Sonja. “Thanks.”

Before he had turned away Sonja’s tits were back under cover and her left hand was mindlessly playing with her Coke. Her right hand was mindfully playing with my cock. It was inevitable that one would fizz before the other. I shuddered as my semen drenched her hand and my lap.

After cleaning up as much as I could (we had to ask Juan Carlos for extra napkins – lots of extra napkins), Sonja wanted to switch to the inside. Her turn for a lap dance.

We switched places. I figured that unbuttoning my shirt and opening my pants so the wait staff could ogle wasn’t likely to be rewarded; no waitresses, all waiters.

Juan Carlos brought our sandwiches and refilled our Cokes. He looked disappointed that we had switched places. Well, he’d already gotten a bigger tip than most waiters receive. I tore into my sandwich with one hand and into Sonja’s snatch with the other.

Sonja, as ever, took charge. With one hand in her lap guiding my fingers as they walked through her pink pages, she slid the other hand inside her blouse to tease her nipples. I had to stop eating from time to time to feed her bites of her own cunt fried chick breast, or whatever the sandwich was. We took forever to finish lunch. I’d been told before to tarry over a good meal; to tarry in the hairy and make merry in the airy (and barey) canary of my girlfriend was worth as many hours as it took.

The check was for $20. I left J.C. another $20 as a tip. And vowed to eat a lot more sandwiches.

In fact, we returned there about a week later. I had gone back in the interim to test the food, and to talk with the owner. He knew about Sonja’s play dates with the waiters and liked the plan.

When we got to the sandwich shop Sonja rushed to the back booth. I caught up with her in time to take the inside. Sonja skipped a couple of the preliminaries and had my pants unzipped in seconds.

“Hi, I’m Marilyn and I’ll be serving you today. What can I get you to drink?” The woman was in her mid-sixties, tall, thin, and topped with a pleasingly-arranged cloud of white hair.

The confusion was evident on Sonja’s face. “Where’s Juan Carlos?”

“Oh, honey, he’s at his citizenship classes.” Marilyn was smiling sweetly. “My son, Brad, always lets them off with pay to go to those. He considers it his civic duty. And, the ones who become citizens usually stay on and wind up in management.”

The waitress continued. “I’m Brad’s mother. Whenever someone’s off for citizenship classes I cover for them without pay. It’s my civic duty; I also own half the restaurant.”

I ordered Cokes for both of us and asked for a minute to go over the menu. I also zipped my pants.

“What’s this shit?” asked Sonja. “I want Juan Carlos!”

Fortunately, Marilyn couldn’t hear her because by then she had retreated with our drink orders. However, Brad had shared the script with his mother. I caught a reflection of her in a mirror. She was stifling a laugh.

“How about we get a chicken sandwich,” I offered. Sonja had really enjoyed the last one. I think.

“How about we get a different waiter,” replied Sonja. She gestured for our waitress.

“Ah, Miss, uhm, Marilyn, could we have a, you know, a male waiter?” Sonja did not deal well with frustration.

“Honey,” said Marilyn, “this is an equal opportunity place of employment. You do not get to pick your wait staff’s gender, hair color, race, religion or anything else.”

Marilyn then set her hands on her hips. “Miss, I co-own this place and we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. Your attitude is an affront to our liberal traditions and I don’t like it. Any more of that and I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

We ate the chicken sandwiches. In stone-cold silence. On our way out the door Brad wished us a good day and asked how the prank had gone. Sonja was livid.

“You bastard! You’ll pay for this.”

I think she was actually ready to hit me.

“Sonja, I already paid in advance,” I told her. I gestured to Marilyn. “Meet my answer to Marty. Except I’m not going to post a video.”

That’s the day I learned that Sonja did not have much of a sense of humor. No sex for three days. But it was worth it.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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