Waitressing - Learning to Serve on my feet and on my knees

I get a taste for it. Being told what to do all day.

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Come Undone

I learned to waitress in college, needing money for good coffee, cigarettes, and vodka - a solid staple diet. My first gig was a small Greek place, halloumi, and tzatziki as standard. Cheap wine and mediocre beer. I wore a white collared shirt and jeans, tied my hair back in a long plait down my shoulders and wore flat shoes.

This is where I will learn to work.

The service industry is new to me, and like anything new it takes time to get into what is expected of me, how to turn on the charm for the customers. How to troubleshoot a fuck up in the kitchen, how to sooth the temper of the fiery chefs. I like the exactitude of it too, polishing the cutlery and folding the napkins, it fits. It’s the calm before the storm. The routine of the set up and lifting the umbrellas neatly into the slots in the table, hoisting them into the air, slotting in the catch, all in its right place. The precision of it important, even in a dive like this, where the bread is served in fake wicker baskets, and all the crockery is chipped.

When it is busy there is no time to think, but I find my groove, and I’m good at it. I carry three pens in my apron pocket, ink stained but camouflaged by the dark blue dye they’re all dipped in frequently. Turning on my heels between the bar and the kitchen hatch, the one-two- three steps of some kind of dancer, occasionally catching the skin between my fingers as I slam orders down on the metal spike once I’ve hollered them out to the kitchen staff. Spinning we call it, orders in my pockets, dirty plates in one hand, and that extra shot for the lady at table four in the other. It’s a rush.

Then the lull at 4pm. Diet coke with all the ice and a smoke out the back, where I fuck Michael every other week like clockwork. As the senior manager, he trains me on the basics, the till, the punters, the way to upsell the wine. How to smile and smile and smile even when the customers are vile or the plates burn my fingers.

What else can I get for you becomes, how can I be of service. More ice? Another shot? Extra garlic? More butter Sir?

Later between shifts he trains my throat while I am on my knees in the backroom, his cock slick in my throat, thrusting hard and fast so I can swallow him down before anyone finds us. He likes me a little sweaty, hot and bothered from the rush of peak trading. Breathing me in as he gathers my hair from my face, pushing me to me knees.

Quickly, open that mouth, show me how much you’ve learned today.