After Hours

After Hours

Indian-fusion, we ate there once a week for a year or so. One of our cats had been adopted as a stray kitten from the shrubs in the parking lot. A lamb masala with jalapenos; One of the best dishes I’ve ever enjoyed.

Sometimes, we had a drink at the bar in the restaurant. After, we often went to a bar around the corner. So did the waiters, waitresses, bartender and chefs. Although technically customers, we soon knew everyone in personal ways.

We came late one evening, with barely enough time to eat before the kitchen closed for the night. Someone suggested we join the crew at the bar around the corner, after close. The bartender poured us a round of drinks and we sat in the bar as they cleaned and closed shop. We drove over. Nobody walks anywhere in Texas.

My wife, in her mid-thirties, looked as fine as a woman ever looked. She’d retired from ballet but retained the long lines and curves of a woman on the move. Petite and slender, with flaming red hair and gently tanned skin, she aroused nearly everyone we encountered. I enjoyed swimming in her endlessly erotic wake.

The crew, that night, joining us, was three of the guys; the bartender, the waiter and the sous chef. She liked them all, in various ways. Three ethnicities, three body types, three personalities, but they were all about twenty-five, single and looking for love.

A shot of Goldschlager followed another. At some point after the first but before the second, one of the guys realized that despite her short skirt, she wasn’t wearing panties. His finger found her labial crease and began to tease her. She spread her legs, alerting the bartender to the waiter’s activity close by. His hand soon caressed her thigh and sought a turn along the vaginal alleyway. She moaned and shivered and another shot of liquor went down.

Everyone straightened up for a minute when the waitress came by to replace the shot glasses with full ones, making a minor effort to keep the public fingering a bit private, but I doubted their brief bouts of caution had the intended effect. Guys in the next book caught a glance and then boldly stared as each of our bunch played with her seriously wet cunt.

After another shot, she declared her need to go to the bathroom and the waiter moved aside to clear her path. The sous chef, sitting beside me and so having been deprived of ready access to my wife’s sweet snatch, scooted off the bench to follow her into the can. Ten minutes later, they returned with a smile.

We took them back to our place where she entertained them all, in so many ways until we passed out.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in ballet, books, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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