Slowly, and with my eyes closed, I savour every bit of the last fried Brussel sprout. The person who discovered deep frying Brussel sprouts is a genius. The crispy, slightly salted exterior hides a warm, gooey interior. The salt combined with the bitterness of the sprout and freshness of the lemon mayonnaise tickle all my tastebuds. It’s just perfect. As a dessert, I order a cappuccino which she makes inexpertly as the steamer screams a high note instead of a soft rumble. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

After serving me, she walks to the next table and bents over to clean it. Her ass is facing me, and I can’t help noticing it’s a decently shaped ass. Small, but firm and round, moving with every wipe she makes. She takes care of her body, maybe she lifts weights judging by her arms. To reach further, she puts one knee on the bench and wipes the other end of the table, putting her ass even more upwards and towards me. I don’t particularly like her face, too moody most of the time. But oh, that ass.

If I stretch out my arm, I could gently stroke her back, her legs, her ass. Right here, right now. If I turn my body and move just a bit closer, I could lick her. In public, I wouldn’t care. I would make her scream for more and then push a finger in. Or maybe two, if she would ask for it. Maybe she would put her other knee on the bench as well, tilting her hips, pushing her lips harder to my face. I would make her wetter than the wipe. I would make her scream louder than the steamer. I would make her tremble so long her knees won’t support her anymore and she would need those strong arms and the table to stay upright.

But I turn my head and look outside. I could. I would. But I won’t. Too risky, I can still taste her boyfriend in my mouth. 

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