A room comes with a cost - Part 3 - Sexgeschichten

A room comes with a cost - Part 3

... neckline lower. The third? I hesitated, fingers hovering, the gap widening to bare the inner curves of my breasts, the valley between shadowed but inviting. Vic's chuckle rumbled, his hand dropping from my chin to my hip... brief, squeezing once through the unbuttoned skirt's waistband.

"That's it. Deeper, Sarah. Earn those tips."

Click. The third button gave, the blouse gaping open to my sternum, tits half-exposed on every breath, the fabric framing them like a gift wrap begging to be torn. I tugged the skirt up next... pleats settling high on my thighs, hem dancing dangerous, panties the only thin barrier to full flash. Bare legs gleamed under the bulb, goosebumps prickling from ankle to hip, the chill kissing higher than it should. Mirror lie: I looked like bait. Slutty uniform, unbuttoned tease, Vic's eyes devouring the view like he'd already won.

"Happy?" I hissed, arms crossing loose over my chest, nipples scraping palms.

"For starters."

He stepped back, door creaking open, the diner's hum spilling in... clatter of plates, low laughs from early birds.

"Shift starts. Flirt. Sit. Or no bra back tonight."

His wink was oil-slick, gone as he barked over his shoulder: "Dawn Patrol's booth three... warm 'em up, doll."

The diner floor was a gauntlet: Tile cool under my sneakers, skirt swishing with every step, bare legs flexing exposed to the AC's bite. Truckers at the counter leered as I passed... eyes dipping to the blouse's plunge, the shadow of ...

... nipple peeking on my turn.

"Fresh meat," one muttered, coffee mug pausing mid-sip.

I iced them... order pads slapped down, voice clipped: "What'll it be?" No smile, no sway. Rebellion's armor, thin as the fabric hugging my tits. But Vic watched from the register, arms crossed, that apron-bulge a reminder. *Earn it.*

Booth three loomed like a trap: Four fossils in flannel and faded caps, the Dawn Patrol nursing coffees and eggs-over-easy, their watery eyes lighting up as I approached. The oldest... Hank, name tag pinned crooked on his shirt... grinned first, gaps in his teeth like missing puzzle pieces.

"Well, hello again, sunshine. Legs lookin' longer today. Skirt's a tease... bend over for the salt?"

I slapped the shaker down harder than needed, the clink echoing my pulse. Blouse gaping with every lean, the inner swell of my tits brushing the table's edge, nipples hard points under the thin white. No bra meant every shift pulled the fabric taut, a constant whisper of exposure.

"Salt's there. Coffee refills?" Voice flat, eyes on the notepad... rebellion's shield, thin as the cotton between my thighs. But Vic's stare burned from the counter, apron pocket bulging with my bra like a trophy.

The second one... Beau, beefy with a trucker's gut... chuckled, eyes dipping blatant to my cleavage, the unbuttoned plunge framing my C-cups like an invitation.

"Refills, sure. But sit a spell first, doll. Tell us 'bout yourself. Vic says you're new... fresh outta high ...