Sitting on the curb while the blonde gets used

It was easy to get the waitress, even if you're banned from the restaurant for life. Just stand outside the window and wave for her attention. She takes the plate she's about to give to the customer, and then runs outside. She doesn't notify any of her coworkers, but it really doesn't look like any of them care.

Your mojo at work, it appears.

It's less easy to fit the three of you in the car comfortably. You can fit, but it's hard to fuck in there, and harder to both eat and fuck.

So you're sitting on the dimly lit curb outside the restaurant, all three of you on a floral picnic blanket that Ashley had apparently packed. You're eating your fancy pasta with the only fork, just watching the others. Your date is next to you, the blonde in her lap, with her chin on the shorter girl's head.

"Who's a dirty slut, huh? Who's a filthy, stupid bimbo, sitting on mama's lap? Who's the perfect toy whore for me, huh?"

One of her arms is around the waist, holding the blonde's body against hers. The other one of her hands is under the waitress's tights, fingering her with what looks like vigor to you. The blonde hasn't said a word to you, not even to ask you what you wanted - she knew without any words at all - or to tell you her name - you have the suspicion that she knows that neither of you would care. For now, she's just a sex toy - one that breathes so heavily it's almost a moan, but definitely not a person.

Your crush stops fingering long enough to grab some delicious, creamy pasta. With the same hand she was using to finger, she just grabs some food and shoves it in her mouth. And then she goes right back to fingering with the same hand.

Is that sanitary? Does it matter?

You don't even care about the wealthy restaurant-goers, who walk past you as they leave. So what if they can see a bimbo getting fingered on the street? Whole world's gone mad anyway, not like anyone cares.

Maybe you would have objected if it had been you and Ashley. Her sitting on your lap, you slipping a hand under her jeans - that would have been different. But you feel as if objecting now would break all the progress you just made. As if you'd reset back to only a few hours ago, when the girl you liked was looking at you like she was a hollow, obsessive shell of herself.

You like Ashley. But you like her because of the things she is, the things she wants, not because she obsesses over you like a sex robot. You like seeing her completely let loose like this.

"Hey. I want to ask you a question. I want to know...", you suffer as you speak. You feel the world closing in on you, causing you to panic. "I want to know if you like me. Not", you say, to forestall what you're sure is about to come, "If you'd like me if I needed it. Not if you'd love me to make me happy. I _need _to know this, and I need you to be truthful. If you don't know, say it. If you need time, say it. Do you love me? Do you love me in a way where if you didn't want to fulfill all my needs, and if you just did whatever you wanted besides that, you'd still love me?"

Chest pounding, you wait for a response.