No, Steven risks getting caught

You don’t. You bite down on the inside of your cheek until you taste copper, your fingers digging into the table’s edge. The pressure is geological, a tectonic shift building in the cradle of your hips, fed by the wet, frantic rhythm below. Andrea’s enthusiasm is a terrifying thing, a conversion of her shyness into pure, single-minded hunger. Her nose is buried in the coarse hair at your base, her throat working around you with a determined, gagging persistence that sends shockwaves up your spine.

A strangled, choked sound escapes you, part protest, part surrender. The release isn’t a wave; it’s a detonation. Your body arches, back straining against the cheap chair as a torrential flood pulses into her waiting mouth. The sheer volume is impossible, a violation of biology.

Andrea gurgles, a sound of surprised delight, but she doesn’t pull away. She drinks, swallowing convulsively as your cum overflows her lips, painting her chin, her throat, drenching the front of her band shirt in warm, sticky white. It soaks through the fishnets on her chest, pools in the hollow of her collarbone. Still, she keeps sucking, milking you with a frantic devotion that prolongs the agonizing, exquisite sensation.

It finally ends. You slump, spent and trembling, as Andrea emerges from beneath the tablecloth. She is a mess, gasping for air, her makeup smeared and her face glazed. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand, staring at the result with dazed, worshipful eyes. “Wow,” she breathes, the word thick and soggy.

That’s when you see the other patrons. The invisibility is gone. A man at the next table stares, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth, his face a mask of pure revulsion. A woman clutches her child’s shoulder, turning the boy’s face away as she shoots you a look of utter contempt. The waitress stands frozen by the counter, her tray held limp at her side.

Silence has fallen over your corner of The Grind, broken only by Andrea’s wet, happy panting.

Horror floods your veins, icy and immediate. You scramble to stand, your muscles uncoordinated, fumbling to haul your sodden, still-massive cock back into your jeans. The belts are a tangled nightmare. You can’t fasten them. “Oh, god,” you mutter, holding the denim closed with one fist.

“You should go,” Inara says softly from her chair, visible only to you. She examines her nails, utterly unconcerned. “They’re deciding whether to call security or just the police.”

You stumble away from the table, leaving your untouched coffee, your legs unsteady. You half-walk, half-jog through the food court, a spectacle of disheveled panic. The weight of stares presses on your back like a physical ****. You can feel dribbles of cum cooling against your inner thigh. The only positive thing is that the other guests still don't seem alarmed at Andrea; all of their negativity is focused on you.

“Steven! Wait!” Andrea’s voice calls from behind you, bright and eager. You don’t turn. You shove through the mall’s glass doors into the evening air, the humid night slapping your feverish skin.

“Call me!” she shouts after your retreating form, her voice carrying across the parking lot. It’s not a request; it’s a demand, laced with a possessive hope that chills you more than the disgust.

You finally reach your car, fumbling the keys twice before unlocking it. You collapse into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut on the world. The engine starts with a roar. In the passenger seat, Inara materializes, her form crisp in the dashboard’s green glow.

She inhales deeply, as if smelling rain. “Now,” she sighs, contentment in her voice. “That was a proper punishment.”