Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Email: wainscottinggotgot@tutanota.com
Tags: Cuck, cuckold, bet, dare, nosex, humiliation, alpha, mdom, gay,
bi, het, flirt, genderqueer, crossdress

   Waiter, ch 1

   It had all started a few weeks earlier at our favorite restaurant.  I
returned from the bathroom to find the new waiter bent over the booth,
talking close to her.  Resuming my seat interrupted him and he gave me a
cold, calculating glance.  Then he aimed a seductive smirk at my girlfriend
before walking away.  I raised my eyebrow at Kindra.

   "I think he thinks you're my gay best friend," she whispered
conspiratorially.

   That wasn't an unusual assumption.  As a waifish, androgynous, and a
slightly effeminate guy, people selsdom assumed my girlfriend and I were
dating before I said so.  Perhaps not even after.  It didn't really bother
me.  I had dated boys and I did "cross-dress" occasionally.  I had no shame
about such things.

   Nothing about the rest of the dinner was unusual.  Maybe the waiter
gathered from our affectionate manners that we were a couple after all.

   We went back a few days later.  We didn't get that waiter, but I saw him
bussing tables.  He kept glancing over.  "Someone has a crush," I said to
Kindra, teasingly.

   "Too bad," she sighed, "He's kind of cute."

   "Really, you'd go for a guy like that?" I was surprised.  he was so
masculine.  Broad shoulders, short hair.  Young.  Maybe 19 to my 25.

   "If we weren't dating?  I probably would have given him my number, at
least."

   "He asked for your number?!"

   "You came back before I had to come up with an excuse."

   Jealousy burned in my chest.  There was no need, though.  She had
already said it didn't matter because we were dating.  Rationality didn't
douse the sensation, though.

   I went to the bathroom to wash my hand before eating.  I heard the door
open behind me and then a voice was speaking, "Hey, you're with Kindra,
right?"

   I hated talking to people in the bathroom, let alone this jerk.

   "Yeah."

   "I figured.  I can't understand it, but I figured.  Are you two
monogamous?"

   "Afraid so."

   "You sure?"

   "Pretty sure."

   "So there's doubt?"

   "...not really."

   "Tell you what, I'll do you a favor.  Let's make a bet."

   "Not interested."

   "I'll try to hit on her."

   "Not much of a bet."

   "You give me thirty seconds.  If I can get her to laugh, you give me a
minute.  If I can get her to let me put my hand on her shoulder - without
pushing it off, you give me two minutes longer.  If I can get her number,
well...  I'm in.  You can't try to stop me.  You have to look the other
way. Let me do what a man can."

   "...still not much of a bet.  What's in it for me?"

   "Now that's obvious.  If she doesn't give me her number, you get the
satisfaction of knowing she's true.  A rare certainty.  My gift to you."

   Nothing about this seemed like a good idea.  It was rude to Kindra and
put me at risk with no real benefit.  Yet something about the jealousy
burning in my chest pushed me on.  That and a sense of schoolyard, boyish
pride I would have assumed long dead.  I needed to prove this asshole
wrong.

   At some point in the conversation, he had started using the urinal.  So
when I turned to him, I unexpectedly saw him on display.  He was standing
back from the urinal, farther than usual, as if daring me to look at his
manhood.  My eyes darted down of their own accord.  His penis was thick and
large, though flaccid, and his stream was strong.  An involuntary shudder
of desire ran through me.

   "You're on," I said, extending my hand.

   He finished up and took my hand in his unwashed one.  His grip was firm
- but not in that childishly painful vice-grip way I would have expected.
Just a confident, manly handshake.  It was strangely humiliating and
thrilling.

   "Give me a head start.  You can watch from behind the potted plant
without being seen.  I wish you luck." He left, without washing.

   The was indeed a plant around the corner from the bathrooms.  I acted
the voyeur, feeling foolish.  He approached our table.  Kindra smiled
brightly at him and they started chatting.  This didn't look good.  Then I
realized I wasn't timing them and scrambled to pull out my phone and start
up a stopwatch.

   Ten seconds later she was still maintaining eye contact.  Another
fifteen seconds and she was smiling wider.  I was about to walk out and
break it up, but just as I took my first step she was laughing.  Not just
her polite laugh, either.  It was genuine and full.

   Fine.  I looked down at my stopwatch app, noting the time.  What he was
saying I couldn't hear, but she kept laughing.  The flames in my chest were
consuming me.  Fifty seconds later he nonchalantly slipped his hand down
from the back of the booth to Kindra's shoulder.  It was smooth, I had to
admit.  She tensed.  Her eyes darted around.  Looking for me, probably. 
But I was apparently well hidden behind a screen of green leaves.  Kindra's
shoulders relaxed.  She left his hand there.

   My heart fluttered and I felt a stirring, lower down.  What the hell?  I
glanced at the stopwatch, nervously.

   They kept chatting, smiling, giggling.  His hand squeezed her shoulder.
She seemed to like it.  Blerg.  At the minute and a half mark he pulled out
a pen and leaned in toward her, inquiringly.  Fuck!  What the hell had I
been thinking?!  This was crazy.

   She took the pen and grabbed his free hand.  Kindra put the pen tip to
his palm.  The first intimate gesture she had initiated.  But then doubt
crept across her face and she pushed his hand away.  Giving the pen back,
she frowned and seemed to be apologizing.

   Yes!

   Confirming that the time had elapsed, I walked over and sat down in the
booth.  I gave this busboy/waiter a smug smile.  He returned it, seemingly
unperturbed, and walked off.

   "He bothering you?" I asked Kindra, innocently as I could.

   "Nah.  He's sweet, actually.  Kinda funny."

   "...if you say so."

   "Oh don't be like that.  Just because someone's not an obvious member of
the queer, hipster elite you think they're a Nazi."

   "Do not."

   "You totally do."

   "Fine, I'm sure the busboy is a gentle bunny."

   "Darryl."

   "Hmm?"

   "His name's Darryl."

   "Okay."

   The rest of the meal went without a hitch.  I felt weird, but Kindra
seemed as bright and bubbly as ever.  Maybe moreso.  I could see Darryl
lurking around; I tried to block him out.

   Darryl must have switched with our waiter because he brought the bill. I
usually paid since Kindra didn't make very much.  But this time she grabbed
up the paper with surprising speed.  As she did do, I could swear I saw
handwriting on the bill beyond that needed for sums.  She put her arm on
the table to write, blocking my view.  I watched Kindra's face instead. 
She bit her lip and frowned before jotting down something extra.  Then she
quickly held her credit card and the receipt paper aloft.  That bastard
came by immediately and grabbed it.  He gazed at the bill, smirked, and
looked directly at me before heading to the cash register.  Did he just?

   I glanced over at the register, catching Darryl on his phone, typing
away.  Just then Kindra got a text.  Reading the message, she blushed.

   That asshole!  He'd done it.

   Kindra and he texted a little more.  I confirmed with my peripheral
vision that there was correlation.  Not much room for doubt.  He'd gotten
her number.  He won.  Again I felt conflicting feelings of humiliation and
arousal.

   "You ready?" Kindra asked me, standing.  My legs were wobbly and nearly
didn't support me.  But I managed.  As we left, Darryl waved and said
goodbye in the friendliest, most professional way.  Yet Kindra blushed even
deeper in response.  As I walked by, trailing Kindra, he leaned in and
whispered to me, "Remember, you have to look the other way."
   I burned.