Dinner for Three

 

I’d spent the day securing the restaurant and the night at the YMCA. I may have saved a couple of million bucks doing this job for the last five years, but that’s because I don’t buy shit. I am not into clothes, cars, or gambling. This means a night at the YMCA was fine by me. Nicer than the place I grew up in, for shit’s sake.

But I arrived at Marilyn’s in my standard black t-shirt and cargo pants. This was within Petra’s dress code if security was to be out of sight. In this case, I was.

If I’d known I was going to un-retire, I would have kept a town car on stand-by, but at this point, my only wheels were the tricked-out pick-up truck I planned to take to Montana.

“I’m sorry this vehicle is not what Vallin Associates typically travel in,” I explained as I walked Marilyn to the truck. I held out a hand for her to navigate the sidewalk in her spiked heels. I get that she had to wear them for the gig but I will never understand why a woman renders herself unable to walk with these things in normal life. Not that I was complaining about the view.

Marilyn was in a pale pink dress, a halter dress she called it, but it was the same kind of thing you’d see blow up to the real Marilyn’s waist over the sidewalk vent in the famous movie posters.

The cab of the truck was high off the ground.

“No really ladylike way to get in here, Lincoln.” She batted her eyes at me.

“I thought you were a farm girl.”

“I was, but this dress is probably worth more than the entire farm. Petra sent it to me, I think it’s real. Like not Target, but a designer.”

I scooped her up. God, I’d have just liked to fucking carry her back into the house, but I set her down on the passenger seat.

“Problem solved.” And I slammed the cab door shut. I was getting tense. I reasoned this restaurant thing was nothing compared to the Donny Barchek experience. It has to be better. These were rich guys, not lucky poker playing douchebags.

But that was me talking myself down. I knew I would again have to watch Marilyn with other men.

“So any thought to a safe word?” I asked her.                                

“You think I’ll need it over a plate of spaghetti?” Marilyn was working to keep the mood light. But I was in full-on protection mode so I wouldn’t let her forget that her safety was paramount.

“I think you need a safe word.”

“I’ll surprise you. Oh, if you ever hear me say calamari you will for SURE know I’m under duress.”

“So calamari is your safe word?” This woman was nutty.

“No, but I’d never order it under normal conditions, so if I do, something has got to be wrong. It’s fried squid. Did you know that?” She was wide-eyed and trying to get me to crack a smile, nothing doing.

“Yes, I did know that. And I’ve got it, calamari is a red flag.” We arrived at the restaurant quicker than I would have liked. But it was no good to be late or start the night with Marilyn’s clients on edge and waiting.

“Hold on, I will help you out of the truck.” I lifted her again, and, this time gave her a little squeeze as I set her down on the pavement.

“I’ll be in the back, eyes on you the whole time.”

“See you soon, Lincoln.” Marilyn entered the restaurant, and I pulled my vehicle around back and made myself at home in the office. All the monitors were working perfectly, the sound also coming through like we were in the same room. I had an earpiece so as not to broadcast the conversations at the table to any noisy bus boy that might head into the backrooms.

Marilyn was escorted to a booth that faced a wall and was in a little alcove area. She was alone and was to sit there and await the brothers. She slid in and did as she was told. I could see the buds of her nipples under the halter. She was aroused already. She was the perfectly submissive sex goddess waiting for, in my opinion, the totally undeserving Maldonados.

And there they were: Dom and Franco Maldonado. Both dark, looking almost like twins, with starched white shirts and wide cuffs. Neither wore a tie, and both had various gold chains and cufflinks. Why men wear jewelry, I’ll never get. Seemed like a woman thing to me.

They were carbon copies of each other, but not twins. Both had thick dark hair and sported a Vegas tan; they had perfect white teeth and were always referred to as handsome in the gossip columns. Whatever.

“Good evening Franco, Dom.” Marilyn greeted them sweetly. They both slid in on either side of her. And then she was given her instructions.

I paid attention to their hands, their eyes, their bodies in proximity to hers. “You’ll do everything we tell you to here, and then we’ll see if you’re ready to take it to the next level.” That was Franco, letting her know this was an audition.

“That’s right, and no noises. While we have some privacy here, we’re not totally alone and we have reputations to protect as casino owners.”

Marilyn nodded, unsure, I supposed if the no-noise rule applied to speaking. They opened menus.

“We’ll order for you,” Franco said. They both scanned the menus and a widening of Marilyn’s eyes told me something had changed. She looked over at Dom and slid forward in the booth. I could only see one of his hands. The other disappeared beneath the table cloth. I had a floor-mounted camera and monitor and sure enough, Dom’s hand was in between her legs.

“Lift up.” He ordered her and she lifted herself a few inches up in the booth. That took care of her panties. In public, in the restaurant, he’d ripped her panties off and placed them on his lap like the napkin.

He slid his hand up, in between her legs, and a rhythm began. She rocked ever so slightly with Dom’s movements.

Then Franco slid an arm around her neck and down the front of her dress. If you walked by you perhaps wouldn’t see, wouldn’t understand where his hand was, but my cameras were better than eyes. Franco was pinching and twisting her nipple under the dress. Marilyn squirmed and Franco appeared to squeeze harder. He watched her try to maintain control as he stroked. He was only able to get one side since his brother had the other. Marilyn seemed to be sinking into the sensation, forgetting that she was in public, at a restaurant, both brothers grabbing a little more, inch by inch, of her flesh.

She closed her eyes and I could hear a rhythmic breath as she tried to be still.

“Quiet. And look up. The waiter is coming. Be polite.” Franco whispered it in her ear. She opened her eyes and licked her lip. She was aroused practically to the point of climax, and now they wanted her to suppress it. Their own little game where she was the toy, as Petra had aptly described it.

Marilyn’s eyes popped open and she faced the waiter. He pretended not to notice how they invaded her at the table, or he’d seen them do it before and was smart enough to play along. She squirmed ever so slightly as they ordered for her.

I focused on my breathing and tried to be logical. She wasn’t in pain. It was the opposite of pain. She was nearly coming out of her skin with their focused attention. She was also satisfying whatever their exhibitionist hearts desired by complying perfectly. Marilyn’s flushed face heated my blood and also pushed my limits.

This was my job. This was my job. This was a job I’d ASKED to take. Why again?

Oh yeah, because I wanted to protect her. I was the only one who could. That was the lie I was currently telling myself. I balled my hands into fists as the waiter left the table.

“Good, we’ve got some time now, Dom,” Franco said.

“Grab my cock.” Franco instructed, and Marilyn’s hand disappeared. Franco moaned, then Dom leaned in and bit her nipple through her dress. Franco was no longer doing anything but enjoying himself. He leaned back in the booth and writhed a bit and then slapped her away. His eyes narrowed and he looked at Dom.

Marilyn looked confused. So was I, either that was the fastest handjob in the world or Franco was fucking faking it and couldn’t get off. That explained some shit.

“I’ll be back there in a minute.” Franco got up and left the table.

 Dom returned his attention to Marilyn as Franco walked away, wherever he was going not my problem. Marilyn was still in the booth, and Dom had her leaning back, hand up her skirt, and face in her breasts. He was using his tongue to move the fabric around, and Marilyn bit her lip to muffle the little noises she was making. Noises that let me know she was into Dom’s attention. He too pulled back and sat up. He took a moment to look her up and down. She opened her eyes as the session appeared to be over before it was completed. She was flushed, dress askew, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin.

 “Okay now, we’re going to have you do a little extra.” Dom grabbed Marilyn by the shoulder and guided her out of the booth. What the fucking hell? Where were they going? The arrangement called for very specific guidelines and this table at the restaurant was what they wanted and paid for. I cursed myself. Marilyn followed without a peep.

But instead of leaving the restaurant, they came closer to me. I heard Marilyn’s heels click against the cement floor back hallway. I still had her mic’d, so the actual sound and the audio began to layer on top of each other.

If a client is safe, there is no excuse for interrupting the experience. It was paramount in my job to let the client do their thing. It was important that they got all that they paid for. And they paid for a lot. So I stayed where I was, but this was off script, and that meant more risk for her.

I sat still and listened, but every particle in my body was ready to charge in. I could no longer see, but now I could hear that they were just a few feet away from the manager’s office where I was stationed. I guessed it was the store room.

“This is Tony, our waiter, you remember him? Well while the pasta is cooking, you’re going to let Tony fuck you in the ass.” There was an evil in Dom’s voice that chilled my blood. This was so off script that I listened harder to be sure I heard things right.

“Franco likes to watch. And he’s getting a little bored watching me do it.” Dom said and laughed. I heard shuffling around, and heavy breathing, not Marilyn’s. Someone else was close to her, close enough I could hear them breathe.

That was my limit. The waiter? He was not approved, not screened for medical conditions, not paid up, nothing, and more than that, I couldn’t see if he was getting too rough. All that sounds logical in the re-telling of it, but really I had a white hot rage mixed in with my official reasons.

I did not enter the room and politely explain the financial and medical concerns I had about letting a waiter bend her over without paying or being screened.

While all that was true, I didn’t think of that then. I just charged into the restaurant store room to find Marilyn bent over a desk. In my periphery, Dom and Franco were on some corner couch. Tony the Waiter had his pants around his ankles and was grabbing the hem of Marilyn’s skirt. He also had a handful of her hair. She had her eyes on the brothers. But they were wide and in that moment she looked as scared as I was enraged.

I ripped Tony the Waiter away from Marilyn and she slid to the side as I punched him in the face, and the gut, and the face, and the face, and the face.

I shoved him and he slid down a row of shelves, taking a dozen cans of mushrooms down with him.

He was out of the picture, and I turned to Marilyn. Franco and Dom had grabbed her and positioned her behind them. Dom’s hand was on her ass as they appeared to be trying to shield her from me.

“What the fuck is your problem, you ape?” Dom said.

“You’ll be turning Miss Fields over to me now. Your appointment with her is over.” I said through gritted teeth.

“The hell it is,” Franco said.

“You both were pre-screened and paid in full. Tony was not. Marilyn, please step over here.” Marilyn did as I told her now and squeezed between the brothers.

“Petra is going to hear about this, and I’ll have your ass fired,” Dom threatened.

“Sir, I  have my orders and this, uh, gentleman is not on them,” I replied.

I held firm to Marilyn’s hand, stepped over Tony the Bloody Waiter, and dragged her as fast as possible to my truck parked in the alley in the back of Caro’s. I opened my side and hoisted her up.

“Crawl over.” She did and I hastily got in and floored it.

“Lincoln, I was doing just fine…” Marilyn paused.

“We’ll talk after I calm down. Just buckle your seatbelt.”

“Okay.”

I drove her home and spent the entire drive trying to get a handle on the white-hot rage that seeing her bent over at that waiter’s mercy had ignited in me. I hated that Petra was right. I should have stayed fired.