Yes, as you pass the time with some other mild tests...

"It's all good," you managed.

Smiling, the waitress testily pressed a hand against her upper chest.

"Oh," you recalled your sudden and veracious ejaculation down her throat. "Sorry about..."

"No, don't apologize," Gabrielle assured, her hands earnestly pushing the air. "This morning I woke up and couldn't shake off the hoarseness in these chords for the life of me. I thought I'd contracted my nephew's strep throat for a minute," she chuckled with relief. "Well, until now, because god, that was just what I needed to clean it out. Aren't you a hero!" Turning to Cara, she chummed, "Mister Barefoot here's quite the samaritan, isn't he?"

Cara looked at you, then at Gabrielle. "He has his moments," winked the co-ed.

"Well," the waitress strummed along, "at the very least, keep 'im close. He might be a good luck charm."

"Right," Cara laughed, pointedly. Glasses clinked from behind as the occupants of the adjacent booth began to leave. "Or he'll just start asking women to blow him," she relayed.

When their laughter subsided, Gabrielle swung her head backward. "Oh. I'll be right back with the bill."

She whisked away on steady legs.

You and Cara sat snugly in the booth, as you thought of the ring, then looked at your lady-friend furtively, her words hunkering through your skull. A quick scan of the place followed. Everybody chit-chatting away, sticking their silverware into mush. Talking small. Browsing social apps.

All this after you, average 'ol John, had just gotten a BJ from one of the waitresses like it was bedtime with the curtains down and a very cooperative audience.

It seemed no matter what you ended up having people do, they would have some baked justification in their head, one asserting that it was within reason... and that you were a helpful party.

You thought for a bit, then slipped the ring out of your finger.

This better not backfire.

"Hey Cara."

The young woman's eyes aimed down, while her hands worked on rearranging whatever was in her handbag. She raised her brows slightly to indicate she was listening.

"What did you think of giving me a massage earlier?"

"Like I said," Cara breathed in, her hands shoveling about in her receptacle, "it was good timing on your part. And since I know it's kinda weird doing it here in the diner... If you want another foot massage at some point, in a less noisy locale, feel free to ask. It's the least I could do, really." She gave a knowing gaze. "Just one, though."

"And the...blowjob, from the waitress?"

Cara looked up, glanced around, then turned back with minute amusement. "Who would have guessed, right? But hey, thanks to you, her neck and throat seem better. That was quite nice of you, John."

She returned, unfazed, to her things. Meanwhile, you gave in to a sigh of relief.

So, without the ring, you weren't going to land on some hitlist later with the rough cold shower of retrospect... this was more than good news.

You resisted mumbling your next question. "And... could you ever imagine doing that? To some random guy in a restaurant? Just, you know, going down, taking out their cock, and suc --"

Cara looked straight at you. "John!"

You tried to keep your cool. "What, what did I say?"

Her hurried whisper was accompanied by downcast eyes. "What do you think I am exactly?"

"Um..." You cleared your throat. "A gifted, talented girl on the road to success?"

A slight red coloring her cheeks became visible. "I don't know if this has to do anything with that mumbo-jumbo you were talking about earlier, but... no weirdness, please..."

You harrumphed.

That was Cara.

As butter with bread as always.

Just as I thought. They still retain their standards... it's just, when it comes to the ring... the context gets turned on its head like...

...like some kind of logical anomaly... or something.

You picked the conversation back up. "Wait. So even after all that, you still don't believe me?"

"No offense, John," Cara brushed a strand of hair over her ear, "but this is the real world. Not... Warehouse 13, or something."

Was it now?

"Cara," you puffed authoritatively, "would it be okay if you took off your right shoe for me to look at?"

"What?" She stopped. "No, why would I do that?"

That's right -- why would she do it, without any reason to do it? It was out of the blue, devoid of incentive.

Underneath the table, you quickly slipped the ring over your finger, then looked back up.

"Please, Cara," eyeing the girl as she pulled out a bill from her bag, you continued, "can you take it off just this once? I'd like to see your shoe."

She exhaled.

"Oh, fine," the young woman relented, setting the dollar on the table. She leaned down to her side, sticking a finger down her right heel and sliding off one half of her pair of flats. "It was getting a little tight, anyway."

You silently celebrated. Who knew why footwear was your theme of the day. Perhaps it was that provocative Nike commercial you watched earlier. Either way, you ran with it.

Cara passed you her shoe, and you studied it as if it were dug from an excavation site.

It's not just vocalization... you spoke, intrapersonally.

If I recall correctly, with this ring, I can do anything I want, to whoever I want.

Which meant...

You grabbed your half-empty glass of water. Then you poured it all over the inside of the shoe.

Cara looked up as she removed a pebble from her sock and flicked it away. Then she noticed your mini-baptism act, and pressed her lower lip against its better, gazing upon her now dripping shoe. "Well, what do you know, I was just thinking how much that bother needed a wash... turns out you had the same idea, huh, John?"

As she spoke, you had another. Gripping her glass, you leaned your body forward.

"Have to say, I didn't notice how rusty it looked until seeing it at this ang--ERHGP!"

She was interrupted by a crackling splash. Gasps substituted her even-toned sentence as she sputtered out sinews of water from her mouth and tried to blink her eyes open. Your stomach lurched.

"Sorry!" you instinctively back-pedaled, setting her now weightless glass back down on the table as the drenched Cara coughed into her hand, one eye closed shut. "Crap! That... was that too much?" A question you weren't sure was directed to who as you realized just how messy the table looked now. Cara included.

Her hair, face, and upper torso were soaked wet. Swiveling her face from side to side, the young woman pulled her dampened strands over her scalp and rubbed her eyes dry. Her shoe was still in your hand, which you were squeezing with probably more energy than necessary. But the air was quickly defused. You watched as Cara sucked in her chest, lifted her head up, and coyly smiled at you. "Now that was exactly what I needed at that moment! Seeing you give my shoe a shower made me want to splash some of that on myself, just to wake up a little. And what do you know, it looks like, by coincidence, you thought me a little dry yourself. Are you reading my mind, John?"

Oh, much, much worse than that. You kept that to yourself though.

She shivered and rubbed her arms up to her shoulders, laughing a little. "Oh, that's c-cold!"

You joined in, half amused, half as bewildered as you prepared for. "I know, right? Did I get you good?"

"Oh yeah," Cara said dryly, as she turned forward, wet hair clinging to one ear. "But boy, that was icy, even if refreshing..." She flapped the folds of her blouse a bit, which you noticed was starting to reveal the petite outline of the bra underneath. "You rascal... that sure came out of nowhere, didn't it?"

You were about to stammer out something lame, probably. But the complete absence of bitterness in her eyes just made you shift in your seat as she took a handful of napkins and began to wipe her face dry with them.

This cosmic alignment of the stars was as oddly power-stirring as ever.

So powerful you felt like you could rule the world or something.

Play with it.

Do anything you wanted in it.

Yeah...

"Here it is, guys, sorry it took so long."

A different waitress from the ones you've met with so far came to your table with the receipt. You looked up at her, a woman of early 30's trimness and a fashionable face, and felt electricity course through you. Without warning, you took hold of her sides. Then you turned her around and, with one strong swipe, gave her behind a healthy swat, feeling the flesh of her ass ring through her casual trousers from your palm.

Immediately, she swung her head back to you. But this time, you suppressed your instincts -- to cower, retreat, acknowledge the impossibilities of the world that you had once considered cement. No, you trusted in the ring. This time, there was no going back.

It would find a way.

Bzzt!

Suddenly the sound of a dying hiss summoned both of your attention and you looked down to see a sizable hornet twitching on the floor. Before you could blink, a guy from the table across was singling it out with a finger. "Look! That kid just saved that rear of yours from a mean stingin', lady!"

The waitress, whose nametag read Molly, gasped and looked up to you, her facial features twisting into a warm ripple. "Oh my god, thank you so much," began the first in a string of thanks before finally she explained, "Seriously, I've always had a phobia of those things. I don't know what I would've done if I found it there on my, on my... y'know."

Upon voicing that it was no problem and another gratified string of thank you's, the situation quieted down and she went to clean an abandoned table. You noticed a few stares in your direction. That of respect, the kind you gave to someone who held the door for a blind vet. Soon after, Cara grabbed your attention.

"So, ready to go?" she asked as she combed the last few licks of her hair, then slid her brush into her handbag and pulled her hair back with a band while looking at you. She then suddenly scrunched her face and succumbed to a pippy sneeze.

"You don't want your shoe back?" It was held up in eye-level, and easy snagging range. However, the young college girl only shook her head.

"I was going to donate these to Salvation Army today. You could take that one."

"But..." One eye drifted to the door then back. "...you're gonna have to walk, you know."

"I know that," Cara snapped.

"With one shoe on."

"Well, yes," she folded her arms, "don't fret." She rummaged through her handbag for a bit before finally, she took out a pair of flip-flop sandals. "I actually came with these because I knew those flats would probably show its wear later. This just gives me an excuse to get comfortable sooner."

You try not to stare, inconspicuously closing your jaw with a hand. When did she bring those? Had they been there all this time? When, where, willy, wonka!?

Then again...

Not knowing was probably for the best.

"Anyways," the girl re-composed herself, sandals back in the bag. "Let's go."