I bred the busboy while at dinner with the in-laws

ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER 18Her father drones on and on with his bullshit stories. Napa wineries. Golf. The best cuts of steak. My hand stays on her thigh under the table, thumb rubbing slow circles so she thinks I’m locked in.But my eyes keep sliding beyond our table.Busboy. Barely old enough to drink. Crisp white dress shirt. Black bowtie. He moves careful. Nervous, like a stray dog that wants to be pet but flinches when you reach. Cute. He leans over the table next to us. I see the back of him. Slacks snug on narrow hips. And that ass is tight. Little bounces when he steps. Shoes squeak on polished tile. He doesn’t know how obvious he is.He catches me watching. Eyes flick up. He jerks his chin down like he’s sorry. Keeps pouring. But he knows he’s being hunted.I let him feel me watch. I want him to sweat.I shift in my seat. Adjust my belt under the tablecloth. She notices nothing, too busy laughing at her mother’s story about roses and vineyards. Sweet girl. Wouldn’t dream her fiancé is getting hard for the busboy’s ass.He drifts closer. Fills our water next. Hands shaking. A drop hits her napkin. He mutters sorry so soft she doesn’t even look up. I do. Our eyes lock for half a second. He holds it. Barely. Then drops it again. Cheeks pink.He wants it. He wants it rough. Quick. He can’t beg. So I answer.I lean to my fiancée’s ear. “Be right back, angel.” Brush a kiss on her cheek. Stand up slow. Napkin draped over my chair.He watches me stand. Swallows hard. Follows.Bathroom door clicks behind me. Cold marble. Jazz playing soft overhead. I don’t check the stalls. Just wait by the sink. Palms flat on cool stone.Door creaks open. Him. Pauses by the door. Chest rising fast.No words. I unbuckle. He knows.One tilt of my chin. I pull my cock out.He moves to the sink. Slides his slacks halfway down. Black briefs stretched tight over that round ass.I step close. Hook a thumb in the waistband, pull it down. Pushing the head against that soft hole. He flinches, then sinks back, silent plea.Good boy.No lube. Just spit. I sink in slow but mean. He clamps a hand over his mouth. Muffled gasp echoes off the tile. My free hand slides up his back gripping the back of his neck, holding him down.No words. No kissing. No eye contact. Just him braced on the sink, me buried to the root. He wiggles once I slap his ass. He goes still.Short thrusts. Wet slap under soft piano. I hear footsteps outside. Voices. Someone pushes the door. Stops. A cough. My cock buried to the root while he clamps around me, eyes wide in the mirror. I don’t stop.The door handle rattles. They leave. He exhales sharp into his palm. My hand tightens on his throat.Her laughter echoes in my head. Her father’s handshake. The engagement ring on her finger. And me, pumping filth into the busboy’s hole like I’ll never see him again.I fuck deep. Filling him up, thick, hot. My cum leaks down his thigh before I’m even out.I step back. He pulls his briefs up quickly and is out the door. No eye contact. Good.Wash my hands. Cufflinks perfect. One last check in the mirror: I look like the dream fiancé every father wants for his daughter.Back at the table, she beams at me. Her mother talks wedding flowers. My hand finds her knee again, warm through the silk.No one here knows that three tables away a sweet busboy is leaking with my cum.They never will.