The Price of a Blind Date
After three months of digital flirting and late-night video calls, I finally met him. I wanted to be unforgettable, so I dressed to kill: black stockings, a lace garter belt, and a sheer silk blouse that hinted at the lingerie beneath. When he arrived, he was every bit as charming as his photos, leading me to an upscale restaurant where the wine flowed as freely as the compliments.
The evening was a blur of champagne and whispered promises. By the time dessert arrived, I knew I was breaking my own rule about first-date intimacy. I was desperate to feel him. When he suggested we move the party elsewhere, I played the shy girl, blushing as he stood up to pay the bill. He brushed against my shoulder with a lingering, intentional touch that left me trembling with anticipation.
But minutes turned into an hour. The restaurant emptied, and the waiter eventually approached me with a cold expression. He told me my companion had left. Panic surged through me as I reached for my purse, only to find it gone. My wallet, my IDs, my cards—all vanished. I had been robbed by the man I thought was my dream date.
The manager’s office was small and stifling. He looked at me not with sympathy, but with a predatory hunger. When I explained I had no way to pay the lavish bill, he leaned back, his eyes scanning my curves. “I’m not a fool,” he sneered. “You can either pay me with your body, or I call the police right now.”
The absurdity of the situation, combined with the lingering effects of the champagne, sparked a sudden, rebellious heat in my gut. I didn’t want the police; I wanted to forget the betrayal. Slowly, I slid my jacket off my shoulders. The waiter, who had been watching from the door, stepped inside. “A wise choice,” he whispered, his hands finding the small of my back.
The air became thick with electricity. I felt the waiter’s hardness pressing against my backside as I reached down to unzip my skirt. The manager stepped forward, his lips meeting mine in a demanding kiss. As my blouse fell away, I was caught between them, a storm of hands and tongues. One man’s mouth explored my neck while the other’s tongue traced a scorching path down my spine, sliding my thong aside to taste me.
I was lost in a whirlwind of sensation. I knelt before the waiter, taking him into my mouth, tasting the salt and heat of him. Then, the manager replaced him, his larger, pulsing length filling me completely. I gasped, my head thrown back, as I felt the waiter enter me from behind. The dual invasion was overwhelming, a symphony of friction and pleasure that pushed me toward a shattering peak.
I mounted the manager, riding him with a desperate intensity, feeling him hit the depths of my vagina. I screamed as I came, my body convulsing around him. We shifted positions repeatedly—against the desk, on the carpet—until both men spent themselves inside and over me. “Account settled,” the manager panted. “If you come back without money, let us know first.”
I left in a daze, taking a taxi home. When I walked through the door, my sister was beaming. “Someone found your wallet!” she exclaimed. “A wonderful man saw it fall when you got into the taxi. He tracked down your address and brought it back. He was so sweet!”
I stared at her, speechless. The man I thought was a thief was a saint, and in my blind rage and lust, I had just paid a very different kind of debt to two strangers.