Chelsea
Copyright© 2020 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 3: Dinner and Desires
True Sex Story: Chapter 3: Dinner and Desires - The Year is 2001. This was a one-night stand. Bob was sowing his wild oats, and she was just one of the many to receive them.
Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual True Story Anal Sex Cream Pie Oral Sex BBW
The Village Inn was the kind of place that hadn’t changed in thirty years: cracked red vinyl booths, Formica tables scarred by decades of coffee rings, a jukebox in the corner that still played actual records. The air smelled of bacon grease, strong coffee, and the faint sweetness of pie cooling on a rack behind the counter. It was warm, loud with the low murmur of families and truckers, and somehow perfect—ordinary enough to feel safe, private enough in its corner booth to let them be raw.
Bob guided her inside with his hand resting lightly but unmistakably at the small of her back. The touch was steady, grounding, and it sent a tremor through her that had nothing to do with the cold outside. He didn’t ask the host for a table; he simply said, voice low and calm, “Back booth. Quiet.” The young man nodded without hesitation and led them through the maze of tables to the most secluded corner, where the overhead light was dim and the high vinyl backs created a small, protected world.
They slid in opposite each other. Chelsea’s hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. She kept her eyes down at first, afraid that if she looked up too soon she would start crying again and never stop.
Bob let the silence settle for a moment. He didn’t fill it with small talk. Instead he reached across the table and took one of her hands, turning it palm-up, tracing slow, deliberate circles over her wrist with his thumb. The touch was gentle, but it felt like he was holding her pulse in his hand.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. She let it out in a shaky rush.
The server appeared—a kind-faced woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a quick smile. Bob ordered iced tea for himself, then looked at Chelsea.
“Water for her,” he said, not asking. The casual authority of it sent heat rushing through her, equal parts arousal and relief.
When the server left, he didn’t release her hand.
“Tell me what’s going through your head right now,” he said, voice soft but unwavering.
Chelsea swallowed. Her throat felt raw from all the unshed tears of the day.
“I feel ... exposed,” she whispered. “Like you can already see everything I’ve spent years hiding. And I’m terrified you’ll decide it’s too much.”
His thumb stilled on her wrist. His eyes—hazel, intense, but suddenly very gentle—held hers.
“I already see it,” he said. “And it’s not too much. It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for.”
A tear slipped free. He caught it with the pad of his thumb, then brought that same thumb to his own lips as if tasting her fear.
“I need you to hear something,” he continued, voice rougher now. “Being the one in control ... it’s how I keep from breaking. If I’m holding everything together for someone else, I don’t have to look at my own cracks. But tonight I keep wanting to tell you about them anyway.”
He turned her hand over again, tracing the lines of her palm like he was reading a map.
“I’ve ended things before they could end me,” he admitted. “Every time a sub got close enough to see the parts that aren’t strong, I pulled back. Because if they left after seeing me, it would prove I wasn’t enough.”
Chelsea’s heart ached. She squeezed his fingers.
“I’ve done the opposite,” she said, voice trembling. “I’ve hidden the parts that need the most, because if someone saw how deep it goes and still walked away...” She couldn’t finish.
He nodded slowly. “So we’re both standing here with our soft places showing, praying the other doesn’t run.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
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