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pietropudge · 23 days

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Slob!Jordan Johnson had a date cancel on him last minute so he's pent up and horny and practically begs you to eat him out

a/n — I LOVEEE JORDANNNN

summary — basically the ask, but you're a waiter!

warnings — smut (not super descriptive), slob behavior, mentions of Jordan having an unclean ass (scat, etc. nothing heavy.)

words — 2.3k

~~~

One lone boy sat at a table, alone, in the center of a flock of drapery-white wings of table cloths, circular formations of filled chairs surrounding each. Only two chairs were at either side of the table—opposing, like an interview. The reservation was under Johnson, the young man’s voice confidently asking for two seats, and that was well over a week ago.

It wasn’t your business to know, but why would an eleven-out-of-ten like him get stood up? He had a pretty face—you saw the way his smile made the hostess weak in the knees while you bussed tables. During the gathering of dirty plates and tarnished silverware, you dropped one from the startling display of charm and the looks he possessed. You weren’t sure why it did such a number on you. People like him came in like that all the time—dressed up in suits made to fit, usually with a wife or husband hanging off their side like an accessory, but his effect was different. Maybe it was his aura—alone, yet warm and inviting. Still able to smile even though he was nervous and it was painfully fake. His posture was still straight, he didn’t shake or hunch over as if he didn’t want to be seen. He was proud to be alone because he knew someone would eventually come to swoop him away as you set the scene for their romantic meet-up. When you went to pick up the dropped silverware after ogling the dashing man, you raised yourself back up halfway only to be eye-level with his ass as he maneuvered around you. The hostess had already done the same and he was following suit—maybe he was the arm candy someone would bring into a place like this. His ass was definitely sweet enough, filled out by his fitted pants and looking deliciously ready to unwrap.

Since then, you have barely had any interactions with the poor guy. It had been over two hours since he had been sat at a table and only the people obligated to talk to him had done so. You had one interaction with him so far, and that was to bring out a basket of breadsticks after he finished the third or fourth one; if you were being honest, it was hard to keep track with the dinner rush as the night set in. Each basket had five buttered-up sticks and he plowed through them like crazy. His aura was starting to dim, no longer warm and inviting because his nerves showed.

By the time the rush had stopped—which was around the two-hour mark of sitting the pretty boy in a chair—he was on his seventh basket. You watched him in passing glances out the kitchen door’s window while you sorted the fancy china for the dishwasher and rolled silverware into napkins. He took mismannered bites, some big, almost none of them were small unless it was the tail end of a breadstick. His cheeks would swell and had a sheen on them from the butter, making his skin look oily and smooth.

Maybe they agreed to meet up at a nice place for dinner, or maybe their dinner was a side to the juicy conversation brazing over in both of their chests, waiting to blow out in a steamy gossip session when the other one came. You couldn’t tell—couldn’t know. It was distasteful to spy on the patrons, you were only here to serve them, not catch wind of the conversation.

That aura he had when he came in went away, though. He checked his phone—not to text his date, staring at it like there was an intentional distraction on the screen, loosened his posture, and slumped back in his chair. His breadsticks started to slide down his throat, being funneled back as he ate his feelings away. He washed it down with an expensive glass of wine that only got to be tasted by him, the whole bottle eventually finding its way down his digestive tract. Red wine stains littered his shirt, so his humility walked out like his date. You would have cared more if his date hadn’t bailed on him—why look presentable when there’s no one to impress? He was losing the ability to even care about wiping his fingers that were coated in garlic and butter onto a napkin, he just started rubbing his hands on his thighs, leaving yellow lines and white stains on his black pants. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for him. He still had his looks above all else, and he could walk out of here with his head held high. Maybe he was trying to find another date.

But then you noticed that he was undoing his pants—he didn’t even bother wiping his hands to do it, the garlicky stains on his black dress pants were visible from the kitchen. That was weird, and in a restaurant like the one you worked at, it would be bad to let something like that slide. The tablecloths went down to the floor and weren’t see-through, so a lot of activity could go unseen under there. But, on the other hand, his meaty ass and the top of his thighs could be seen by anyone surrounding him, and they could sure see what he was doing now. You reluctantly had to stop him as the only person picking up on his actions.

You tried to be nice, ordering the kitchen to whip up food for him that wasn’t carbs. The fastest thing they could make was a greasy burger and fries with sea salt, though. It would soften the blow, a bright side to his let-down of a night.

You went straight to his table, setting it down in front of him before he had the chance to reach for another breadstick. He kept them at the center of his table in the hopes the other person would come. “It’s on the house. Sorry, dude.”

First step, you apologized. Now, for the hard part. His eyes were like that of a doe: needing a buck with antlers to stronghead him through this.

“And, I noticed you were possibly undressing, and we like to uphold a good image here. I know getting stood up is hard, but could you not take your pants off?” You couldn’t believe you had to say something that was common sense—and to say something that you didn’t want. It would be hot to see him eating in nothing but a blazer and partially unbuttoned white dress shirt—the bottom few buttons being undone for more ease around his privates. But you had to be professional, and judging by the turning of heads from the guests who heard your comment signaled that this could be harder than you though.

“I’ve been waiting over a week for this. Literally, I haven’t jerked off all week.” His voice was flying to a high octave as he tried to defend himself. What was he, in his early twenties? Why else would he be so upfront about his libido. “And—and eating… you know? It makes me…”

So he was being let down in more ways than one. Every bone in your body wanted to satisfy the one in his pants thanks to his whiny voice, his entitled and slob behavior. Being this close to him let you see that he had also ruined the white tablecloth too. You stayed calm, speaking in a hushed tone. “I’m sorry, but I think it’s time for me to bring you the check.”

He wasn’t someone’s sweetheart, though. Your assumption about him being a sidepiece for looks was thrown out the window. He knew what he wanted and what he wanted was for you to get under the table. “No, I’m not finished or satisfied.”

“Sir…”

“Fine, get the check.” He huffed, adding, “It’s Jordan. And can I get ketchup with this?”

You returned back to the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of ketchup. Your next stop was the point of service in the restaurant to print his check for the wine and breadbaskets—since he technically didn’t pay for an entree, so you couldn’t dismiss them as complimentary. You returned to him and he had yet to even touch his burgers or fries. “Here’s your check, Mr. Johnson.”

The boy stayed silent and reached over to his unused silverware—since he had eaten everything so far with his hands—and unrolled it. He grabbed the spoon from the trio of cutlery—that being a butter knife, fork, and the spoon in his hand—and lifted the tablecloth. He tossed it under the table and heard it clatter against the carpeted floor. Jordan raised his head, looking at you with innocent eyes, “Could you get that for me?”

“Of course.” It could just be this and then he’ll pay and leave. You wouldn’t have to think about his bad date or to pity him or to thirst over him. Just this one thing, and then you would be free to continue serving others who were actually successful in their search for love.

A bit awkwardly, you got onto your hands and knees, lifting the white cloth draped over the side of the table with one arm. You used the lifted window to crawl through and into the enclosure under the table. You were hit by the smell—he had kicked his fancy shoes off, letting his socks and feet air out as well as the stench of his crotch. At least it was hidden from the outside world, but he confirmed your suspicions: he was unbuckling his belt to do something nefarious under the table. Just as you fully got under the table, the cloth falling back down to the floor, the world went dark. Not completely impossible to see, but you had trouble finding the silverware he “dropped.”

You crawled around before coming in contact with something. It was Jordan’s knee poking your cheek, the faint smell of savory garlic wafting toward you thanks to the seasoning he wiped on his pants. At least you had a sense of where you were. But then a thought came to your mind, you were so close to him, and he didn’t drop his spoon down here to eat with his fucking burger. He was giving it to you—to signal that he wanted you to eat his two glorious scoops of vanilla buttercream hanging off his backside. The only issue was that he was still sitting regularly, he’d have to slouch further forward in his chair and lift up his legs to get you to eat him out. All it took was a tap on the inside of his thigh—so he wouldn’t know it was an accident—to get him to do so.

The table itself was positioned just high enough to let him lift his legs to the underside of it, showing his pretty pink hole without making it obvious from the outside that he was sunken down so low to do this with you. From the outside, he just looked like he had really bad posture. You marveled at how his crack and ass could smell so bad up close and bare for your eyes to feast on but the smell must have been faint when he brushed passed you earlier. His hair was fresh with sea salt spray, so he must have showered but didn’t wash his ass.

It tasted like it, too. Funk from a buildup of musk and sweat plagued his crack, adding notes of sourness, saltiness, and shit from wiping so lazily. His entire aura wasn’t real—it was a fraud. The true Jordan was a slob, eating like he was at a lowly fast-food restaurant and that’s probably why his dare stood him up. His actions as you started to tongue his hole and lick his crack only solidified that belief.

He was holding the burger with one hand above his chest, the plate with his other in the same spot. The shakiness caused by the relief he felt meant that some of his fries fell down and under the table as you did work on his hole. Even plops of ketchup landed on the floor, from what you could see from the parts of the tablecloth that were lifted off the ground around him. But then, you heard the sound of the plate hitting the table. His hand holding the plate found you shortly after, and the plate catching all of the mess from his burger was no longer there, so most of the ketchup and grease from the burger dripped down his hands and ruined the sleeves and torso of his fitted shirt.

He reached his hand into your hair, coating it in an immeasurable amount of grease and ketchup. His words were already hard to hear from above you, but the mouthful of food added to the impossible-to-hear praise. “Fuck yeah, like that.”

The euphoric feeling of his hole being eaten out while he had the flavorful combination of his burger melting in his mouth made him cum fast. He angled his dick so it would spray out in ropes under the table. Some coated your face, some landed on the floor, and some of it hit the table and tablecloth, respectively. He passed you a napkin under the table—one that he wasn’t going to use because he was such a slob, and as his waiter, cleaning up his messes was your job.

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