thoughts of a waitress

random thoughts of a teenage waitress and her desire to be a slut for older men

i often flirt and fantasize about the men sitting at my tables or at the bar—almost always older men. don’t ask me why older men because i don’t really know. i even flirt with men sitting at a table with their wife or girlfriend or daughters my own age. i imagine these men taking me back to their house some night when no one else is home, or taking me to their hotel room, or just pulling me into the passenger seat of their car. you can imagine what these men would do with me in their house or hotel room or car. if not, i know you can imagine what you would do with me. usually i’m wearing a tight white or black pullover top, short black or blue denim skirt and sneakers. black or white ankle socks. a white or black bralette and small, colorful low-rise thong underneath. i imagine men groping me, my breasts and my ass. men sometimes do grope me and i don’t say anything. i imagine men twisting my nipples or hurting me different ways. i think about them sliding their hand under my skirt and rubbing up between my legs. i can almost feel them pushing their fingers or their cock or an empty glass bottle into me while they hold me down, penetrating my vagina or anus with the unforgiving stiffness and length, or forcing something into my mouth and throat so i choke for their pleasure. i think about men treating me like they own me, being reckless and rough about what they do with me, making me swallow any feelings of self-respect along with their semen. i often get wet from these thoughts and fantasies. don’t ask me why i want older men to use me, to do these things to me, because i don’t really know. i see men look at me and i know what they’re thinking because many times those looks have turned into conversations, and those conversations have turned into assignations. often i wait on a table with three or four men, sometimes more. they almost always have suggestions and offers for me. i imagine stripping in front of them in a hotel suite or somewhere private where all sorts of things can happen. i think about them watching me, their cocks out of their pants, big and hard for me, ready to be poured out. needing to be emptied. and i want to be their container, the growler for their cum and sometimes their spit or the beer they drank. they will push me down on the floor or lift me up on the bed and penetrate me, each one taking his turn, each one finding his favorite place, each one leaving sticky traces for me. some men will take me into the tiled bathroom to do things with me, push me over the sink so they can see my face in the mirror when they fuck me, or take me into the shower, or just make me get on my knees with an open mouth so they can empty their hose. these thoughts and fantasies invoke memories of the serial promiscuity of my high school years, when i started my whoring, wanting men to drag me down and sometimes throw money at me and leave their used condom or their cum inside me as a tip. that’s probably why i obsess about the cock inside every man’s pants, because it always seems to find me, whether it’s alone or with a posse. and i always want to be found. i always want to be a daddy’s slut.

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