. . could I have the Béarnaise sauce on the side?" I smiled broadly. "I love that sauce." "No," she said, snatched my menu, and left. Her treatment of me brought up some feelings of insecurity. Should I complain to the manager? I’ve never experienced a waiter being so rude to me. Later, carrying our four entrees on her arms, Crystal spun the plates into position with long brown fingers, the fingernails manicured, painted dark green, and plastered with little ruby rhinestones. "Anything else?" she said. I looked at my plate and found not only that the Béarnaise sauce was on the side in a little ramekin, as I had asked, but there was a little extra. I smiled up at her. “Thank you!” “For what?” she snapped. I pointed at the speckled yellow sauce. She shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Don't know what the chef did that for?" She looked around the table. "Bon apetite, gentlemen?" Each time Crystal rushed behind me, I felt the breeze of her passage like the light caress of fingertips. After I undressed, I told the Father that the cold was making me want to go wee-wee and asked if I could go behind a bush. As you'd led me to believe, a bulge began to grow in the front of his cassock as he told me that, as part of my punishment, I would have to do it where I was right before him. I squatted down and opened my legs and, before not too long, my urine was splashing to the ground and soaking into the soil. His cassock was now flapping about wildly! After I finished I went to bathe and when the Father called me back to shore, I wasn't surprised to see him waiting, holding the towel. Standing behind me he dried my back before slipping his arms under mine so that he could dry my breasts - or should I call them tits now, daddy? After he'd been drying them for several minutes, he moved to my front and began to go to work between my legs. As always, I found this exciting and, as you had told me, I began to moan and to thrust my hips forwards. The Father responded by dropping.
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