The last customer left at 9:03, and by 9:17 Ren and I were still calling each other Master like it was a joke.
I’m Jamie. I’m the maid. Black-and-white dress, frilled apron, thigh-high stockings with the little bow at the top, a headband with ruffles, cuffs, the whole thing. I’m a femboy and I work at a themed café where I say “welcome home, Master” forty times a night in a voice two notes higher than my own, and honestly I’m great at it. Ren works the floor in the matching waiter costume, vest and bow tie and tight black trousers, and for six months now he and I have been turning the scripted service lines into our own private teasing.
I carried a tray into the back. “Your tea, Master.”
Ren looked at the tray. It was empty. “You are terrible at this job.”
“The café is closed.”
“Then why are you still in the uniform?”
I looked down at my dress. Then at his vest. “Why are you?”
That one landed. Neither of us had changed. Neither of us had even gone toward the staff rooms where we always change, separate, on opposite sides of the back hall, like nuns. We’d just kept on stacking cups and wiping tables in costume, and I knew why I hadn’t changed. I hadn’t wanted the fantasy to end yet.
Ren leaned on the stainless prep counter and crossed his ankles. “Can I say something without the bit?”
“Yeah.”
“You look hot.”
My face went hot so fast. “You too.”
No roleplay left to hide in. The manager had gone home half an hour ago, and I heard Ren lock the staff door, and the sound of the deadbolt was so loud.
No customers. No audience. Just the walk-in cooler humming and the dish machine ticking as it cooled and Ren’s hand coming up to touch the edge of my apron.
“Still want to use the bit?”
“So much.”
He smiled. “Then come here.”
I went. The first kiss was enough to make the whole shift feel like foreplay. He tasted like the strawberry syrup we pour on the parfaits, and he kept one hand on my waist and the other slid down the long apron tie.
“Turn around.”
I turned. He pulled the bow loose and retied it, slow. Tighter. Neater. Completely unnecessary.
I watched him in the stainless steel, our blurry reflections, his chin over my shoulder.
“You like the uniform,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Good answer,” I said, before I realized I’d stolen his line, and he laughed and kissed the back of my neck, right above the ruffled collar, and I felt it down to my knees.
“Very on-brand.”
“Hands on the counter.”
I put them there, flat on the cold steel, and the laugh died in my throat. That was the thing about café language. It was funny, and funny, and funny, and then it was not funny at all.
His hand slid up my thigh, over the stocking, over the bare strip of skin above it, and under my skirt. Under the ruffles. He found my panties, white lace, because the dress code says white lace and I’ve never once hated it, and the front of them was already damp and tight.
“Oh, you’ve been thinking about this.”
“Since March.”
“Good.”
The praise hit different in the empty kitchen. I leaned back into him and he stroked me through the lace, slow, enough to make my breath go ragged, and then he pushed it aside and wrapped his hand around my dick directly and I gripped the counter so hard my cuffs creaked.
“Master,” I said, half joking, half not.
He groaned into my neck like I’d hit him and went right back to it, harder. His thumb slid over the head, and he pressed his hips up against my ass, and I felt how hard he was through those tight black trousers. I pushed back against him on purpose and he groaned in my ear.
I lasted about thirty seconds before the performance fell off me completely.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Don’t make me do the customer-service voice.”
He laughed against my shoulder. “Ask normally.”
“Touch me harder.”
“Better.”
He did. Fast and tight and a little rough, his other arm around my waist holding me against him, and I was making sounds I definitely do not make on the floor. The apron stayed on. The cuffs stayed on. One of the little white cuffs ended up crooked and I didn’t care.
“Ren,” I said. “Ren, wait, I want you in me first.”
His hand stopped. He breathed hard against my neck. “In the kitchen?”
“In the kitchen. Right now. Please.”
He was already unbuckling his belt.
He steered me around, but I caught his vest and pushed him back against the counter instead. “Me first. Master.”
“Jamie.”
“Let me.”
I sank down on the tile in my dress, my stockings sliding on the floor, and looked up at him from under my ruffled headband. He’d gone red up to the ears. I undid the buckle with my cuffed fingers, pulled down the tight black trousers, and he was so hard it had to hurt, a dark flushed cock curving up against the vest. I licked the head, once, and he thumped the back of his skull on the cabinet door behind him.
“Welcome home, Master,” I said, in the café voice, the high sweet one, with my lips right on him.
“Oh my god. Stop. Don’t. Don’t stop.”
I took his hard cock into my mouth. I did it the way I do everything at work, enthusiastically and a little too well, wet and noisy and eyes up. His hand dropped into my hair and knocked the headband crooked, and he said my name, and then “fuck, you’re good at this,” and I hummed around him on purpose to see what he’d do. He cursed and bent over me, one hand on the counter, the vest buttons shivering.
“Up,” he said finally. “Up, up, if you keep doing that.”
I stood. My lips were swollen and my knees were gray from the floor, and he turned me back around to the counter with a kind of gentle desperation.
My skirt went up over my back. My white panties went down to my knees, caught on the stocking tops. His fingers were slick with spit, careful and a little unsteady. I put my forehead on the steel and pushed back onto them, breathing through my mouth, and when he added a second one I made a noise that echoed off the tile.
“Master,” Ren said, low, wondering, in my ear. “God.”
“Say it again.”
“Master.”
“Now,” I begged. “Please. Come on.”
He lined his thick cock up with my dripping hole and pushed slow into me, the swollen head stretching my tight rim until he slid all the way in, burying his hard shaft balls-deep inside my ass. I gasped and gripped the cold steel counter edge as the ruffles of my skirt fluttered down over his hips and hid where we met. He stopped when he was buried to the hilt, shaking against my back as my inner walls gripped him tight.
Then he started to move.
He fucked me over the prep counter with fast, deep strokes, his heavy dick sliding in and out of my tight channel with relentless, wet friction. He had both hands on my waist, over the apron, pulling my hips back to meet every brutal thrust, his heavy balls slapping against my thighs in sharp, rhythmic cracks. The sound of our bodies was obscene in that quiet kitchen, wet skin slamming against steel, my stockings squeaking on the tile floor as my ruffled headband slid sideways. Every time his cock bottomed out against my prostate, my toes curled in my shoes.
“Good boy,” he groaned, his voice wrecked with heat, and my whole hole clenched around his shaft.
“Again.”
“Good boy. You take my cock so well. You’re so tight in this fucking dress.”
“Touch me,” I begged, hips rocking helplessly. “Please, I’m so close.”
He reached around with one slick hand, wrapping his fingers tight around my leaking cock, stroking me in fast, frantic pumps in time with his hips. I came first with my forehead pressed against the prep counter, a long, shaking cry tearing out of my throat as hot white ropes of cum erupted from my slit, splashing across the stainless steel and soaking into the front of my maid apron. Ren lost his rhythm behind me with a guttural roar; he grabbed my hips, slammed his cock balls-deep into my ass, and locked rigid as he pumped a massive, burning load of cum deep inside my channel, pulsing over and over until neither of us could breathe.
We stayed like that. Breathing. His forehead on my shoulder blade.
I laughed first, breathless. “That is absolutely not in the employee handbook.”
“Addendum.”
I turned around in his arms and kissed him. Then I looked down at my apron. The bow was hanging loose and there was a wet streak on the front of it.
“Your service quality is slipping.”
He fixed it. He tied the bow carefully, perfectly, with his shaky fingers, and looked up with a stupid grin.
“How may I serve you?”
“Now you’re learning.”
Afterward we changed into jeans and hoodies side by side in the back hall, no separate rooms this time, both of us laughing at the state of the stockings. Ren folded my apron very carefully and put it in my locker like it was a flag.
“See you tomorrow, Master.”
I threw a sock at him.
Next shift I reached into the apron pocket for my order pad and found a ticket torn off his, in his neat waiter handwriting.
I didn’t wash the apron for three days.
