A Waiter for my Wife - Sex Stories

A Waiter for my Wife

... taking her leave of the other guests. "I think I'll skip dessert."

That's the easy part. I watch her sweet behind disappear out the door and I watch it some more as she stands around waiting for the elevator. I plan my next move. He's still on the clock for at least the next half-an-hour, plus however long he's expected to clean up for. That makes it tricky. Still, these events are surely catered for on a temp basis. He'll likely risk a rollicking if the offer is good enough.

As they start to serve the dessert, I make my play. First, I get up and go to the lavatory. That takes me away from the table and I time my return so I bump into him near the kitchen door.

"Oh, blueberry cheesecake," I say. "My wife's favourite. Sorry, she's just gone up to her room. I don't suppose I could trouble you to take her up a piece?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he starts. "I can't really..."

I reach into my wallet and pull out a twenty-pound note. "Here, I'll make it worth your while if you go now before the ice cream melts. I'm sure my wife will be very grateful as well."

I'm not actually wiggling my eyebrows or comically stressing the word 'grateful'. There's a limit to how blatant I can be in polite company. The bribe is enough. If he doesn't cotton onto the rest, well, he will when he gets to the room.

I take my key out and press it into his hand. "What's your name, son?" I say.

"Frank," he replies. I had him pegged as Greek or, less likely, Italian. His Midlands accent ...

... suggests its heritage only. I wonder if he's actually a Franco or something. It's a pity, but then Amy doesn't pick up on these things half as much as I do.

"I'll call her and let her know you're on your way up."

It's all psychology. I don't want him handing the plate off to one of the waitresses. I need to subtly suggest it's something that he is now doing personally, although I can give him no rational reason why this should be the case except that he's taken my money for it.

I return to my seat and, as I rejoin the conversation, I keep an eye on the elevator. Frank waits there, cheesecake in hand. When the doors open, I send Amy a text message:Hope you're ready.

It's a pity. I'm going to miss the beginning. It can't be helped. I wonder how she's going to play it. Maybe she'll open the door completely naked. Or maybe she'll invite him in first -- make up some issue about needing to close the windows and not being able to reach or some such. Then, as he bends over, she'll place a hand on his arse and tell him she's available.

I refuse my own dessert and ask them to bring the coffee straight away. Tony tried to strike up a conversation about the plans for the company Christmas party. I join in apparently earnestly for a couple of minutes, but then my phone buzzes.

You're about to miss the show, the text message says.

"Excuse me," I tell Tony. "Looks like my wife is having problems connecting to the WiFi in our room. I'll be back down in a moment."

I drain ...