Chapter 2: Formalities: Paperwork & Sex in a Restaurant
The chrome elevator doors slid open, spilling them into the hushed roar of The Up-Scale Restaurant. Polished marble floors reflected the glittering chandeliers overhead, catching the gleam of Tiffany’s sensible heels, Mitzi’s towering stilettos, and Lana’s own aggressively shiny platforms. The air was thick, layered: expensive cologne battling cloying perfume, the sizzle of steak from the open kitchen, the low murmur of deals being made and affairs being discreetly planned. Lana blinked, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer clean opulence. It felt alien after the sticky neon chaos of Minx Studios.
"Right this way, Miss Malone," a stiff-backed maître d' intoned, leading them past starched white tablecloths and gleaming silverware. Eyes followed them – mostly male, mostly lingering on the impossible geometry of Mitzi and Lana’s figures straining against tight dresses. Mitzi, in electric blue spandex that screamed ‘look at me’, radiated a familiar, brash confidence. Lana, in a surprisingly chic black number Mitzi had practically forced her into ("Think classy fuck-me, honey, not street corner"), vibrated with nervous energy barely contained beneath a veneer of bravado. Tiffany trailed behind, clutching a sleek leather portfolio like a shield, her expression carefully neutral.
Their booth was plush velvet, tucked into a slightly quieter corner. Mitzi slid in first, her leopard-print purse taking up half the bench. Lana practically bounced in beside her, her knee immediately bumping Mitzi’s thigh. Tiffany sat opposite, placing the portfolio decisively on the table.
"Alright, girls," Mitzi announced, snapping open a laminated menu. "Order stiff drinks. We're celebrating my newest superstar." She winked at Lana, who beamed, though her eyes kept darting nervously around the room. "Tiff, whip out the paperwork. Let's get the boring shit done before the fun starts."
Tiffany nodded, pulling out contracts. "Standard performer agreement, non-disclosure, health waiver..." She slid them towards Lana, along with a pen. "Just need initials here, here... signature at the bottom."
Lana stared at the dense blocks of English text. Panic flickered across her face. "Many... words," she mumbled, picking up the pen hesitantly.
Mitzi leaned close, her perfume – something musky and expensive – enveloping Lana. Her hand landed casually on Lana’s thigh beneath the tablecloth. "Don't sweat the small print, sugar tits. It just says you belong to Minx Studios now, and you promise not to suck dick for free on camera for anyone else." Her thumb began tracing slow circles on Lana’s inner thigh, creeping higher. "Sign it."
Lana shivered, the touch instantly overriding her anxiety. She scribbled her name with a flourish, her other hand dropping below the table. Mitzi gasped softly, her eyes widening as Lana’s fingers found the apex of her own thighs, hidden by the spandex dress. Lana’s fingers pressed, rubbing firmly against the damp fabric she found there.
"Bozhe moi," Lana breathed, her accent thickening. "You... wet? For me? Here?"
Mitzi’s laugh was low, husky. "Always wet for potential, baby. Especially potential packaged like that." Her own hand slid higher on Lana’s thigh, fingertips brushing the edge of her panties. "Tell me, superstar... how hungry are you? Right now?"
Tiffany cleared her throat sharply. "Miss Melons. The contracts." Her voice was tight, her knuckles white where she gripped her own menu. "Perhaps we could focus?"
Mitzi ignored her, her gaze locked on Lana. Her thumb pressed harder against Lana’s mound through the thin fabric. "Answer me, Petrova."
Lana’s breath hitched. Her hips pushed subtly against Mitzi’s hand. "Starving," she whispered, her voice thick. "Want... fuck. Now. You." Her own fingers pressed deeper against Mitzi’s crotch, eliciting another sharp intake of breath from the older woman.
Beneath the table, unseen by the surrounding patrons savoring their $40 steaks, feet tangled. Mitzi’s stilettoed foot slid forward, the sharp point finding the delicate arch of Lana’s foot, then tracing up her ankle, her calf. Lana gasped, her leg jerking slightly. Mitzi’s foot kept climbing, higher, pushing insistently against the inside of Lana’s knee, urging her legs apart. Lana complied, spreading her thighs wider beneath the tablecloth. Mitzi’s foot, still clad in the sheer stocking and lethal heel, slid higher, the pointed tip pressing firmly against the damp silk covering Lana’s pussy.
"Suka!" Lana hissed, her head falling back slightly against the velvet booth. Her eyes fluttered shut. Mitzi’s foot rubbed slow, deliberate circles against her, the pressure deliciously direct through the thin barrier. Lana’s hand on Mitzi’s thigh clenched, her own fingers digging into the spandex-covered flesh above Mitzi’s knee.
"Tell me more," Mitzi purred, watching Lana’s face contort. "Tell Tiffany what you want me to do to you."
Lana’s eyes snapped open, blazing. "Want... your foot... harder. Inside." Her hips rocked minutely against the pressure. "Want... your tongue... everywhere. Want... you fuck me... with...everything." Her gaze dropped pointedly to Mitzi’s chest. "Want... suck... big melons."
Tiffany dropped her menu with a clatter. "Okay, that's enough," she hissed, leaning forward. Her cheeks were flushed. "People are staring. This is a restaurant." She snatched the signed contracts back, shoving them into the portfolio. "Can we please just order lunch?"
Mitzi chuckled, a dark, rich sound. Her foot pressed harder, grinding against Lana’s clit. Lana bit her lip, a low moan escaping. "Relax, Tiff. We're just...networking." She winked at Tiffany, then turned her full predatory attention back to Lana. "Everything, huh?" Her voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "Even... back there? That perfect little Russian pooper I've been dreaming about since yesterday?"
Lana’s eyes widened, then gleamed with fierce pride. "Da! My ass... hungry too. Takes... much. Fists... many cocks... nyet problem." She thrust her hips harder against Mitzi’s foot. "Show you? Now?"
Mitzi’s grin was feral. She withdrew her foot abruptly, leaving Lana gasping at the sudden loss. "Fuck lunch," Mitzi declared, slapping the table. She slid out of the booth, grabbing Lana’s wrist. "Bathroom. Now. Tiffany, hold the fort. Order me the steak. Rare."
Lana scrambled after her, nearly tripping in her eagerness. Tiffany stared after them, open-mouthed, as they weaved through the tables towards the discreetly signposted restrooms. Mitzi didn't bother with subtlety. She pushed through the heavy door marked 'Ladies', dragging Lana inside.
The restroom was cool, tiled in white marble, smelling faintly of disinfectant and expensive floral soap. Empty. Mitzi shoved Lana against the cold countertop beneath the large mirrors. Their reflections stared back – Mitzi, flushed and predatory; Lana, panting, lips swollen, eyes dark with need.
"Show me," Mitzi commanded, her voice rough. Her hands went to Lana’s hips, yanking the black dress up around her waist. Lana wore nothing underneath. Mitzi’s breath caught. "Jesus fucking Christ." She wasn't looking at Lana’s glistening pussy. Her gaze was fixed lower, mesmerized. "It's... fucking bubbly. Like perfect little pink pastry." Her thumb, slick with Lana’s wetness from earlier, traced the delicate, slightly flared rim. It yielded instantly under the lightest pressure.
Lana braced herself against the counter, pushing her ass back into Mitzi’s touch. "See? Soft. Open." She reached back, spreading her cheeks wider with both hands, offering herself shamelessly. "Take... look. Deep."
Mitzi groaned, low and hungry. She leaned in, her breath hot against Lana’s exposed skin. One finger, then two, slid effortlessly past the relaxed ring of muscle, sinking knuckle-deep into incredible warmth. Lana gasped, arching her back, pushing down onto the intrusion. "Da! Like... that!"
"Fuck me," Mitzi breathed, awe cutting through her usual bravado. She worked her fingers gently, feeling the astonishing lack of resistance. "It's... unreal. Like butter." She added a third finger. Lana moaned, her head dropping forward, her reflection showing pure ecstasy. Mitzi curled her fingers, exploring the velvety inner walls. "How... how much?"
"More!" Lana urged, her voice muffled against her arm. "Fist! Show you!"
Mitzi’s eyes widened. She withdrew her fingers, slick and glistening. She looked at her own hand, then at Lana’s offered, impossibly open asshole. The sheer, brazen capability was intoxicating. She spat into her palm, slicking it thoroughly, then pressed her thumb firmly against the center of Lana’s rosebud while curling her fingers into a loose fist. Slowly, steadily, guided by Lana’s eager backward push, the widest part of her hand began to breach the ring.
The door swung open. Tiffany stood frozen in the doorway, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. The scene before her was obscene: Lana bent over the counter, dress hiked, Mitzi’s entire fist slowly disappearing into her ass, the slick, stretching sounds obscenely loud in the tiled room.
"Mitzi!" Tiffany choked out, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut. "Are you insane? Someone could walk in!"
Mitzi didn't pause. She pushed deeper, her knuckles popping past the rim with a wet schlop. Lana cried out, a sound of pure, stretched pleasure. Mitzi groaned, her own hips grinding against nothing as her fist sank completely inside, buried to the wrist in Lana’s impossibly accommodating depths. She rotated her wrist slightly. Lana shuddered violently.
"Look... at... that," Mitzi panted, staring at the point where her arm vanished into Lana’s body. "Fucking... artwork." She flexed her fingers inside, feeling the incredible heat and softness clench around her fist. "See, Tiff? Told you she was special."
Tiffany couldn't tear her eyes away. Her face was pale, but her breath came fast. She took another step closer, drawn against her will. "It... it shouldn't be possible," she whispered, horrified and fascinated.
Mitzi grinned wickedly, sweat beading her forehead. She pulled her fist out slowly, the stretched ring clinging desperately before releasing with another wet gasp. Lana whimpered at the sudden emptiness. Mitzi turned, her hand dripping, and grabbed Tiffany’s wrist. Before Tiffany could protest, Mitzi pulled her close and pressed Tiffany’s trembling fingers against Lana’s gaping, slick hole.
"Feel that, baby?" Mitzi breathed into Tiffany’s ear. "Feel how open? How hungry?" She guided Tiffany’s fingers inside, easily past the first knuckle, then deeper. Tiffany gasped, her eyes wide. The heat, the yielding softness, the sheer wrongness of it sent a jolt straight to her core. Lana moaned again, pushing back onto Tiffany’s invading fingers.
"See?" Mitzi murmured, her free hand sliding up Tiffany’s blouse, finding her breast, squeezing hard through the fabric. "Told you she’d make us all happy." She kissed Tiffany’s neck, biting lightly. Tiffany shuddered, her resistance crumbling. Her fingers curled deeper inside Lana, mimicking the motion Mitzi had used moments before. Lana cried out, her hips bucking.
Mitzi laughed, triumphant, pulling Tiffany tighter against her, grinding her own hips against Tiffany’s ass. "That's my girl," she growled. "Now help me get this superstar ready for her close-up." Her hand dipped into Tiffany’s skirt, finding her damp panties. "Looks like someone else is hungry too..."
The polished marble counter vibrated faintly with Lana’s muffled moans. The expensive floral soap scent was drowned out by musk and sweat. Outside the heavy door, the clatter of cutlery and murmur of conversation continued, oblivious to the raw, messy spectacle unfolding in the gleaming white cage of the ladies' room. Tomorrow’s shoot suddenly felt very, very real. And Mitzi couldn’t wait to see what Lana’s "bubbly perfect Russian pooper" could do on camera.