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They don't do it every time. He enjoys Bertha too much as herself and god knows she enjoys him as himself enough for them to want to play pretend every time. But- sometimes. It's just them, after all. They're allowed to have fun.
Sometimes, it's her in that wedding dress, a dangerous man and his delicate bride, George peeling it off her as slowly as possible while she plays at being the virgin, at having saved herself for marriage and, oh, can he show her what he wants, please, she's just so nervous and she wants to be so good . Sometimes it's him stripped down to his singlet and jeans, a blunt instrument meeting a bored housewife, sent by the boss to repair her car and asking if there's anything else he can let his hands do for her, anything at all .
Sometimes, often enough that George would probably think it was a problem if they both didn't have such a damn good time with it, it's them playing at being back at that shithole restaurant, Bertha in a skirt so short it's entirely covered by her little half apron and a white dress shirt so tight he can see she's not wearing a bra.
It shrank in the wash, she’d said, looking up at him through her lashes. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd actually gone out and bought it just for this, choosing something half a size too small for the purpose of driving him out of his mind. Not that he's complaining, mind you. The sight of her might make him feel like he's on fire, but the way her cheeks are flushed makes him think she feels just the same.
George's evening is clear, barring any disasters, all the time in the world to lean back in the little breakfast nook she'd wanted and pretend it's the restaurant booth, one arm resting on the back of the seat and one on the table so he can resist the urge to prematurely wrap a hand around himself as she steps forward, little notepad in hand and all.
Sometimes he does, sometimes that's what she wants, some fantasy of him that's desperate enough to jerk off while she reads out the daily specials and then pull her down to eat his fill of her. Not tonight though. Tonight, they're going more classical .
“Mr Russell,” says Bertha, her voice just this side of breathy. “I'm glad to see you back.”
“Good to see you too sweetheart,” says George.
He lets his eyes trace over her, like he did back before touching her was really an option, lets his eyes drag down the curve of her breasts and trace over her thighs, grins as she shivers under his gaze.
“You ready to order?” asks Bertha. “Or are you waiting for someone?”
“Just you,” says George.
“Me?” says Bertha, her cheeks already starting to turn a dark pink.
“Yeah, why don't you sit down with me for a minute,” says George. He doesn’t phrase it like a question. It’s not.
“Oh, I don't know…” Bertha glances behind her, like her old boss has made it into their house. “I don't think my manager would like that.”
“I’ll handle him if he does,” says George. He pats the seat next to him. “I want to catch up, see how my favourite girl's been doing.”
Bertha sits, sliding in close. He can feel how she's trembling with it, just a little and damn if that's not the thing that makes him feel the most like he's back in time. The way she'd be shaking for it before he'd even touched her, the way she'd be trying to hold herself back, desperate before she even knew enough to know what she was desperate for .
“I bet you say that to all your waitresses,” says Bertha teasingly.
George puts a hand on her thigh, his fingertips just at the hem of her apron. “Only to you baby.”
Bertha gasps softly, colour rising in her cheeks. “That’s- It’s kind of you to remember me like that, Mr Russell. I’m sure a guy like you must be very busy meeting all kinds of people.”
“Not so kind,” said George. “Pretty easy to remember such a memorable-” He lets his eyes flick down, to where he can see the outline of her nipples hardening against the thin fabric of her dress shirt before he drags his eyes back up slowly to her flushed face. “-such a memorable face. And not so busy I can’t make time for you.” He pauses, letting his hand flex a little on her thigh just to watch her squirm in response. “In fact, why don’t you take your break with me, give that apron a rest for a little while.”
“I…” Bertha’s eyes dart away and then back to him.
“I know you don’t have any other tables, I'm the only one in here,” said George, “and like I said. If your boss gives you any trouble, I’ll… have a word with him.”
Bertha’s eyes darken. It wouldn’t have been fair to old Leonardi to really take it out on him for not letting George fuck one of his employees in the man’s place of business, but damn if Bertha’s reaction doesn’t make him feel like he should have done it anyway. He still thinks about it sometimes, buying the place out for their anniversary and having her on the table. Maybe he will, someday, if she wants it.
“Well,” says Bertha, her voice already a little unsteady but trying to pretend otherwise, “I guess that’d be okay. Like you said, you’re kind of my only table right now. I'm supposed to keep the customers happy after all.”
Her hands go to the little tie on her apron but George pushes them aside, undoing it for her. This close, when she’s in a shirt this tight, he can see the quick rise and fall of her breath, straining the top button. When he pulls the apron aside he has to fight back the impulse to just pull her into his lap straight away - her skirt is barely covering her, riding up enough that the thing might as well be a belt.
“That’s right,” he says instead, glad that his voice holds steady - he knows one of the many things that drives Bertha wild is when he can make a show of being calm and collected while she’s falling apart and begging for it. Makes her feel taken care of, she’d said, like he can handle anything. Makes her feel like a desperate slut, she’d said, one who wants to beg for anything he'll give her. Both sound pretty damn appealing to him. “Take a break with me. Relax a while.”
He puts his hand back on her thigh. He picks the same place as he’d put it before, or thereabouts, but without the apron covering her it seems far more indecent, his whole palm touching the bare skin of her thigh even as she tries to pull her skirt down a little more. There's no real give to the fabric, the skirt sitting high on her waist and barely skimming the top of her thighs. It's shorter than the skirts she really wore back then, but only barely. She'd told him, some whispered remark into his ear while he was inside her, that she'd started wearing shorter skirts after he'd come in. She hadn't bought them special or anything, hadn't even really thought about it. But if she thought he might come in that day, well, she gravitated towards something that she thought might catch his attention. It had been caught, and then some.
He flexes his hand again, leering down at her. He can feel Berth press her thighs together, swallowing down a little sound like she’s desperate for him not to know how turned on she is already. As though he can’t tell.
He moves the arm along the back of the booth to around her shoulders, guiding her to lean against him. She follows it easily, the change in angle enough to twist the top button of her shirt so that George thinks it might be about to pop off on its own.
It holds, barely.
“I’m not supposed to get so familiar with customers,” says Bertha, her voice quiet, like she's trying not to attract attention. “Even the nice ones.”
“I’m not that nice,” says George, taking advantage of their new positions to murmur into her ear.
Bertha shivers. “I just mean-”
“I know what you meant sweetheart,” says George. “Don’t worry so much. As long as you don’t draw too much attention to yourself, I’m sure nobody will mind. There's no harm in taking a little break with me, now is there?”
He lets his hand shift a little, sliding between her thighs. It’s not like there’s any fabric in the way to stop him- He can feel his pulse start to pound in his ears - there’s really not anything in the way to stop him, just slick, overheated skin and her bare cunt, no underwear. Just when he thinks he’s getting a handle on her, on what she’s going to do, on what she’s going to do to him , she does something like this.
There’s a flash of real fantasy to it, him picturing how it really would have been tucked away in the little booth at Leonardi’s, sliding his hand up that tight little skirt to find nothing underneath. He really would have fucked her on the table. He doesn’t think he would have been able to stop himself. He can feel Bertha sense it, the flash of pride in her eyes underneath the trembling slip of a girl she’s pretending to be.
“Forget something this morning?” says George, teasing a finger along her opening.
“Laundry day,” says Bertha, the words coming out on the edge of a gasp. “I didn’t- There wasn’t anything clean. I was in a rush, I- Oh -”
George hums. “You sure that’s the reason?”
“I-”
He presses a finger inside her, just barely to the first knuckle, just enough to tease. It has the desired effect, Bertha squirming, biting her lip to try and quiet a whine.
“It wasn’t that you were thinking I might come by?” continues George.
“I- Maybe,” says Bertha. “Maybe I- I might have thought about you.”
“Yeah?” says George, grinning down at her. He presses in a little deeper, inhaling sharply at how wet she is. “This all from thinking about me?”
Bertha nods, biting her lip again, her hips twitching upwards.
“Stay still baby,” says George, smirking down at her. “You wouldn’t want people to know what I’m doing to you, would you? You could get customers coming by any minute.”
Bertha shakes her head, one hand gripping the booth seat and one clutching at the front of his shirt. If they were anywhere that people could see them, it would be pretty damn obvious what he’s doing to her even without the little whines that keep dropping from Bertha’s lips. He drags his finger back slowly, adding another when he presses back inside her. She clenches down on his fingers, her chest heaving. George's hand on her shoulder turns her a little more towards him, cupping the outside of her breast as he guides her. Bertha arches into his hand, as greedy as ever, a moan breaking free of her as he teases a thumb over the nipple.
“No clean bras either, hmm?” says George. He clicks his tongue, skating the edge of his nail against her through the fabric. “Not very professional. Can’t imagine your boss likes that too much.”
“Better tips though,” says Bertha.
George growls at that, heat pulsing through him at the flash in her eyes that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to him with that little idea. His girl walking around like this all day, letting other guys gawk at her as she leans over to take their order.
“But I only take breaks with you,” she adds, her breath hitching as he curls his fingers inside her.
She’s playing him like a fucking fiddle but he can’t bring himself to care, not when she seems so fucking pleased with herself about it, squirming against his side and arching against his hand like she can’t get enough of it. God, that button on her shirt, it’s really- His eyes keep getting pulled towards it, watching to see whether it's going to slip free of the button hole or snap off entirely.
That’s a thought too, Bertha fucking herself so hard and so desperately on his hand that she wrecks her own clothes, blushing her way through the rest of her shift as she tries to hide her chest behind spare menus. He’d make her keep the shirt on, too, no changing for a spare. Stick around for the rest of her shift just to watch her stumble through excuses and then take her home, let her tear the rest of the buttons off just so she could feel his hands on her.
“You’d better not let any of those losers take breaks with you,” George growls. “I’ll kill ‘em.”
“Oh no, Mr Russell,” says Bertha, “I wouldn’t want you to waste the effort on them. None of them could take care of me like you-” She breaks off with a gasp, her hand flexing again where she's clutching at him. “Like you can.”
They would be a waste of effort. He’d still do it, if it came to that. She’d probably want him to anyway, she doesn’t take that kind of disrespect any better than he does. He can feel how much she likes the idea of it though, both sides of the thing, the violence wrecked upon them and the gentleness for her. She’s sliding on the booth seat as she fucks his fingers, the leather underneath her slick enough to accommodate the movement, her skirt pushed high enough to expose her completely and Bertha too far gone to care.
“Damn right,” says George. “Don’t you ever forget it baby.”
“Never,” says Bertha. She tips forwards, pressing her face into his chest. “Never- God - never will, feels too good to ever, ever forget-” She gasps, her body starting to tremble against him. “Can’t stop thinking about it, it’s- No clean laundry because I ruined all my underwear thinking about- about-”
“Yeah?” says George.
Bertha nods, frantic. “I was hoping you’d stop by. I was hoping you’d- that you’d-”
She breaks off, barely muffling a moan into his chest.
“That I’d what sweetheart?” says George.
“That you’d want me,” says Bertha, her eyes screwed shut, both hands clutching at him now. “That you’d want me as much as I want you.”
“Honey- Bertha,” says George. He slows his hand a little, letting her take a trembling breath before she looks up at him. “Of course I wanted you. Right from the second I saw you. More and more every time.”
“Even now?”
“Every damn day,” says George.
“Oh-” She pulls him down to kiss her, curling her fingers in his beard, moaning into his mouth. “You’ll keep wanting me, won’t you?”
“The only one I’ll ever want,” says George. “Favourite waitress. Favourite wife.”
Bertha makes a soft little keening sound at that, her chest arching against his and-
The button snaps off, giving George the perfect view of her breasts, flushed and damp with sweat. He ducks his head, drawn to them, barely grazing her nipple with his teeth before he can feel her come apart around his fingers. He keeps moving his hand even as she comes down from it, letting out a whine as he pulls his hand back and clutching at the front of his shirt. He kisses her, easing her into his lap so she can rock herself against him.
“Wanted to do this since I first saw you,” says George, sliding a hand between them to undo his fly, groaning at the heat of her against him through his underwear. “Bend you over one of the tables at the back, make you scream so loud they'll hear you from a block out-”
Bertha surges up to kiss him, so desperate she's trembling against him even as she's grinding down on him, her words coming out between little gasps. “Please, yes, George- I was waiting for you to- I wanted you to-”
“You wanted it huh?” says George. “Not very romantic for your first time.”
“I didn't care,” says Bertha. “I just wanted you, god, wanted you so bad-”
Her hands are shaking as she frees him, making a pleased little noise the second she gets her hands around him.
“You deserved romance sweetheart,” says George.
“I know I did,” says Bertha, raising herself up, her knees either side of him on the seat. “And you gave it to me.”
She teases over him, so slowly that George is sure he can feel her dripping onto his dick. George bites back a whine, teasing his hands over her breasts, trying to encourage her to sink down onto him.
“You took your time with it too, that first time.” Bertha cups his cheek. “Real sweet to me, real gentle.” She kisses him that way, a light fluttering thing. “Not like you would have, if you'd had me in the restaurant. We would have had to be fast, y’know, so we wouldn't get caught.”
She sinks down onto him to the hilt, letting out a groan so deep he thinks he can feel it down to his bones. She's got one hand on his shoulder and the other one the back of the seat for leverage, riding him hard and fast, as though she's desperate for it like she didn't come on his fingers minutes ago. George's hands go to her hips, taking over the movement, his hips snapping up against her.
“Could still take you like that if you want it like that baby,” says George, the words half-growled. “Buy out the space and fuck you on every table. Take you back through to the kitchen and fuck you there too for good measure.”
“Please,” says Bertha, the words barely more than a moan. “Please, yes, I want-”
“I know you do sweetheart,” says George. “You want everyone to know it, and they will. You'll be loud enough for ‘em to know.”
He can feel her tighten around him at that and, god, if that doesn't make him feel wild with it, a step away from rabid that she's so desperate for him, for people to know how well he's fucking her.
“I’ll buy us a night in every place in the state,” says George. “Have you in all of them and then have them serve us lobster dinner.”
Bertha's head drops to his shoulder, gasping something that might his name against his neck, over and over, like it's the only word she knows. He can feel her come apart with it, her hands white knuckled in his shirt. George barely lasts longer, pulling her tight against him, Bertha's body pulling him in deep.
She stays curled against him, pressing kisses up him neck, her mouth lingering a little longer with each one, until she reaches his lips. George kisses her slow, kisses her deep, kisses her how he always wants to be kissing her, like they've got all the time in the world.
“I'm always gonna want you,” says George softly.
“I know,” says Bertha. Her hands flex, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt. “I just… It's not bad that I want to hear it so much, is it?”
He can hear what she's really asking. A lifetime of being told that what she wants is too much, more than she deserves, that takes a toll on anyone, even if they've got as much self confidence as Bertha DeMarco had or Bertha Russell does.
“It's just fine for me,” says George. He kisses her again, softer than he ever thought he'd want to kiss anybody. “I'll say it as much as you can stand to hear it.”
Bertha lets out a breath, leaning up to kiss him again, slow and sweet. Yeah, thinks George, they could have had each other at the back of a restaurant, but he thinks he might like this a lot better.