Dinner Date

You don't look at his texts.

Not the paragraph-long apologetics, not the strings of emojis — not the pitiful midweek plea that might as well have been carved into a communion wafer. They pile in your inbox like old love letters set aflame before they can be opened. But you do look at yourself, reflection in the dark window of the Uber, lipstick perfect, heels sharp, black slip sliding just so under the loose trench. Wednesday Mass. You’re going to church.

And not to pray.

You push the door open right at the start of the second hymn, and they all see you. Satin clings to you like you came wet. No bra. The red of your panties visible when the candlelight hits you right. There’s something obscene about the click of your heels on the sanctuary floor — syncopated, smug. You sit front row, legs crossed too high, your dress tugging up just enough to promise and threaten. Your lips part, glistening, a soft little smirk curling them as you slowly shift in your seat, the motion calculated — as if your thighs ache to pray apart. The sermon begins in his usual stern rhythm — fire and warning, temptation and the wages of sin. He lifts the Good Book like a shield, reading, "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us—"

You cross your legs slowly, heel sliding over shin, just as your fingers ghost up the inside of your thigh. One brow arches. You let a breathy little sigh escape as if the pew’s too hard for your soft skin.

He falters.

"...deliver us from evil," he finishes, voice raw.

You lock eyes with him, and let your tongue trace your upper lip, slow and wet, like you're tasting the sermon.

He clears his throat, attempts to steady his tone. “We must—” he stammers, “we must guard our hearts. Against lust. Against the flesh... that corrupts.”

You reach down, adjust your heel with deliberate care — hips tilting, dress rising. Your thighs part wider. You drape one arm along the back of the pew, wrist limp, nipples clearly visible beneath your slip. You mouth the word lust back at him.

He swallows, grips the pulpit like it might float him above you.

You smile, slow and devastating.

He falters at "resist temptation," his voice catching like he’s **** on guilt.

You raise one brow. Let your hand slide idly down your thigh, pretend to adjust your hem, but instead drag the fabric up a little higher. You spread your knees wider, open like an invitation dropped on the pulpit.

He swallows. You smile.

When it's over, he finds you outside, breath hitching like he’s the one wearing heels.

You smile like a benediction. “Take me somewhere nice, Daddy.”

The restaurant is too fancy for anything but sin. Velvet chairs. Flickering candles. Your wine costs more than his car payment. You order oysters just so you can slurp one while holding eye contact. The waitress leans close, her ponytail brushing your shoulder as she sets down the wine. You smile up at her, wide and slow, and let your fingers drift just a little too far as you take the glass — they touch her wrist, linger, then trail down until they graze her thigh. "That shade looks gorgeous on you," you murmur, eyes lingering on her lipstick. "But I think it'd look better on my mouth."

She blushes but doesn't pull away.

You shift your leg so your knee brushes hers. Let your voice drop low, confidential, as you ask, "What would you bring a girl like me if I said I was starving for more than dinner?"

She stammers something — but you’re already leaning forward, fingers finding the hem of her skirt. You lift it an inch, then another, stroke the inside of her thigh with a slow circling thumb until she gasps and almost spills the water — and that’s when you catch your father’s eye across the table.

He’s frozen, fork half-raised, jaw slack. Watching.

You wink.

"She's sweet," you murmur. "Bet she tastes like altar wine."

Before he can stop you, you're gone — into the kitchen, your giggle trailing like incense smoke. The chef is thick-armed and dumb, hands dusted with flour and sweat. You press your back against the prep counter and drag him by the waistband, unbuckle him while he fumbles something stupid about getting in trouble. You just smile.

"Then make it worth it."

You pause, thumb tracing his waistband, and tilt your head. "It’s my first time sucking cock," you whisper, voice dipped in mock-innocence. "Don’t you want to be unforgettable?"

You get on your knees between the prep table and the fridge, licking a slow circle around the head before taking him in, inch by inch. You moan low — not because of him, but because you know your father’s watching the clock and wondering. You hollow your cheeks and bob, tongue teasing every vein, until the chef's hands are shaking and his moans crack like glass.

When he finally gasps and spills, you pull back — lips full, tongue out, holding it all. You stand. Walk to the swinging door back into the restaurant.

Just before pushing through, you turn to the chef, spit thick into a clean white cloth napkin — then, with a wicked grin, carry it back to the table. Your father's meal is untouched, steam still curling from the plate. You lean over it, let the cloth unfold in your fingers, and with theatrical delicacy, tip your head.

The spit — heavy, gleaming with what the chef left in you — slides from your lips and onto the center of his dish.

You smile down at it, then look him dead in the eye. "Bon appétit."

Then you sit, prim and proper, tuck your napkin into your lap, and begin eating like nothing happened. You smile and say "isn't that a nice meal he prepared for you daddy? I think you should eat it."He slowly does, and you watch him eat and swallow bite after bite.

You excuse yourself during the appetizer course, slipping past the velvet curtain toward the restrooms. The hallway hums with low jazz and flickers of candlelight. You duck into the men’s room, heels sharp against tile, and find the busboy washing his hands. He looks up — young, wiry, wide-eyed — and doesn’t move when you lock the door.

You step forward, body flush to his, your thigh sliding between his like a slow sin. Your lips graze his ear, tongue flicking the lobe. "Rip it from me," you whisper, voice ragged. "I'm soaked with it, aching for it—my cunt’s never been filled, and I want it ruined while Daddy's out there chewing steak, trying to taste good while the last of it slides out of me, and pretending I'm still his good little girl. Food won’t taste right for him, not with the ghost of my moans echoing down the wine glass, not with his jaw working over meat while I’m in here getting speared open like a fucking offering, and not while he knows somebody came on it.. Take it. Make me what he said I already was."

He doesn’t answer — just grabs your hips like a starving man clutches bread, spinning you toward the stall. Your palms slap cold tile as he pulls your ass back, one rough thrust impaling you, making your knees buckle. You gasp, jaw slack, dress bunched up like a discarded ribbon as he fucks you fast, frantic, like he’s trying to erase decency with every stroke.

You brace against the partition, each thrust knocking moans from your lips like confessions. But it’s not enough. You push off, drag him by the shirt across the slick tile to the sink, knocking soap bottles aside as you bend over, cheek to porcelain. “Harder,” you snarl. “Make it nasty.”

He obeys, slamming into you, your breasts pressed against the counter, mirror fogging with your breath. And then—

The door creaks.

The waitress enters, head tilted, calling soft for the busboy. Her eyes widen when she sees you bent and filled, the squelch of each thrust loud and wet. But she doesn’t run.

You turn your head, eyes meeting hers. “Lock it,” you say, voice hoarse. “And help him make me into what I’m not allowed to be.”

She hesitates—then steps forward, door locking with a click. Her fingers go to the buttons on her blouse, slow, deliberate, lipstick red as sin.

“Good girl,” you purr. “Let’s see if your mouth works as well as his cock.”

She drops to her knees without another word, lips parting, eyes wide and wet like she’s praying with her mouth. You grab her hair, guide her in, her tongue lapping where he’s still inside you, tasting the filth, the heat, the ruin. Your gasp turns to a moan as she sucks greedily, spit slicking your thighs, her nose bumping where his cock still drives into you, relentless.

“Don’t stop,” you snarl, voice feral, riding both their mouths and hips. “Get in deeper. Taste what I gave him. Fuck me with your face.”

The boy lifts your leg higher, angling harder, your slick noises echoing off the tile. The waitress moans against your cunt, hungry, needy, hand buried between her own legs, fingers working fast. You grind against her tongue, against his cock, your body shaking from the sheer decadent overload.

“I’m coming,” you growl, head back, vision gone white. “Both of you—don’t you dare stop. I want my climax written on your fucking tongues.”

And when you come, you scream. It bounces off the walls, raw, electric. He grabs your waist tight, grunting, and drives in to the hilt—twitching, pulsing, spilling everything deep inside you, stuffing your cunt full of heat. You feel it flood and drip, his breath ragged against your spine. The waitress moans into your slit, mouth catching his spend as it seeps out, licking it up like sacrament. Maybe she peaks too, shaking against the tile, her fingers lost in her own soaked mess.

You stay like that—used, gaping, dripping—until the mirror clears again and you see the mess you've made of all three of you.

The silence hangs like steam as you gather yourself. He helps pull your dress down over your hips, fingers shaking. You slip your panties back on — soaked, used, a secret pressed tight to your skin — then smooth your hair, smear the smudged lipstick until it looks intentional.

The waitress straightens her blouse, steals a kiss from your shoulder. The busboy tucks himself in, still glassy-eyed. You catch your reflection in the mirror — flushed, ruined, divine — and laugh a little under your breath.

“I’m a good girl,” you murmur as you open the door, cheeks red. “I don’t know what came over me…” Then you pause, lips twitching. “But I do know who came in me.”

When you come back to the table, your hair’s a mess and you’re glowing. Your father won’t meet your eyes.

“Let’s go,” you say.

You take him to the woods. The moon cuts silver through the trees, and your breath fogs in the night. You turn and face him.

“You still wearing what I told you to on stream?"

He doesn’t answer fast enough. You grab his belt, yank it open, and check. Her lace. Your color.

“Good boy,” you purr.

You push him down. Straddle his face.

“Now,” you say, voice syrup-thick. “Clean out the queen.”