Bound by the Waiter

“Please, right this way.”

I watch while the young waiter leads the group into the restaurant.

Cameron has been working here for less than a week, but he’s already excellent at his job. When I hired him, I didn’t expect much—he’s just a college student with no prior experience. I’m pleasantly surprised by his performance.

And he’s easy on the eyes.

His tall, broad-chested physique fills out his uniform—a crisp white dress shirt, black vest, and a bowtie. His blue eyes sparkle like sapphires in the dim light while he speaks to his table. Messy brown hair cascades onto his forehead in light curls, resting on his tan skin. There’s something a bit intimidating about his pointed nose, sharp jawline, and fanglike smile. But more than anything, I find myself eyeing his body.

He’s on the university football team, and it shows. Thick biceps bulge in his sleeves, looking set to rip the fabric. The tight vest can barely contain his dense pecs. He’s so tall…he towers over the rest of the staff.

“Chris, are you alright? You seem distracted.” A short man with dirty blond hair steps in beside me.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I give an apologetic smile.

His name is Dillon, and he’s my husband of over 10 years. We met back in culinary school and had an instant connection. We both come from families who weren’t accepting of our sexuality, so we bonded over shared hardships. Once we graduated, we opened this restaurant together. These days, it’s considered one of the top fine dining establishments in the country. Getting here has been quite the journey, but the challenges we’ve faced together have forged an iron bond between us—he’s my rock.

Even now, my heart flutters as I stare into his large brown eyes. They’re magnified by the sleek, stylish glasses he wears, giving him a cute, almost innocent, appearance.

“Another packed night.” Dillon puts a hand on my shoulder. “We’re close to getting our second Michelin star. I can feel it.”

“You might be right.” I smirk.

We stand back and watch the evening unfold. It’s a beautiful sight. The staff carries elegant dishes from the kitchen, moving with grace and precision. It’s like I’m a choreographer watching my ballet dancers. Dillon is the conductor, and together, we’ve crafted a flawless show. The restaurant is a work of art. It’s a well-oiled machine.

The night goes smoothly, and before I know it, the final table has emptied. As is customary, the staff lines up before heading home for the night.

“Great work, everyone.” I scan over their faces, making brief eye contact with Cameron.

“Agreed. You did well tonight,” Dillon says. “Go home and take it easy.”

They all nod and smile before unbuttoning their vests and funneling out the door.

But something odd happens.

Cameron tails the group, but his foot catches against a table leg. My eyes widen as he grabs the tablecloth, fumbling for balance. He pulls the crisp fabric toward him, sending porcelain and fine glassware flying to the ground.

Horrific shattering fills the air. Dillon winces while watching plates and wine glasses explode into hundreds of pieces.

“Shit!” Cameron looks down at the mess while everyone stares at him. “I…um…sorry, guys.”

“It’s alright.” I run a hand through my hair while my heart pounds. “We’ll clean it up.”

“No. I’ll stay and help. I’m really sorry about this.”

The rest of the staff leaves while Cameron fetches a broom and dustpan. He gets to work sweeping while Dillon and I lock everything up for the night.

“Thanks for not being upset,” Cameron says while emptying the dustpan in the trash. “I promise that won’t happen again.”

“It’s alright. It was just an accident.” I give a polite nod. “And you’ve been doing good work. We’re impressed.”

“I’m trying my best.” He stands up straight and gives a confident smile. “I’m paying my way through college, so this job is important to me.”

“Oh yeah? That’s impressive. What are you studying?”

“Kinesiology—the study of movement and muscle!”

He drops the dustpan and does a cocky bicep flex. I stare as the muscle expands. It looks set to destroy his sleeve. I can even see the tight, pronounced peak through the fabric. Goddamn. I suppose he’s picked the perfect degree for a guy like him. Maybe he wants to be a physical therapist or something.

“Woah…” Dillon’s voice trails off.

My husband is blushing…but so am I. We’re monogamous, but I won’t hold it against him for checking out a guy like this. It’s a bit foolish though—I’m sure Cameron is straight. We’re his employers too, so we need to keep things professional. I don’t want a lawsuit on my hands.

“T-that shirt looks awfully tight.” I stumble over my words. “Want us to see if we have a larger size?”

“Sure.” Cameron shrugs.

Dillon runs into the back room and comes out with a freshly laundered dress shirt.

“Try this one on.” He tosses it.

We watch in silence while Cameron slips from his vest and begins unbuttoning his shirt. The dim restaurant lighting accentuates the vibrant tan of his chest. Those pecs…they’re like thick, round pumpkins. His abs are like kernels of corn on the cob—they bulge. I’m fit, but I’m nothing like that. And Dillon…he’s just skinny and small.

Cameron slips the shirt off, displaying his rounded shoulders. I can see striations in the muscle. Thick veins run up his forearms, giving off a bestial aura. His body is strong, beautiful, and frightening. I haven’t seen anyone like this since I was back in school. He’s the type of guy who used to bully me…

“My eyes are up here.” He laughs.

I look up from his pecs, feeling my face glow bright red. Dillon looks the same way.

“W-what?” I play dumb.

“Don’t bullshit me. You’ve both got little tents in your pants.”

We look down while a knot forms in my stomach.

He’s right.

We’re both plumping up and getting hard to the mere sight of this guy’s chest. What the hell?! This is bad. This is spiraling out of control. We need to keep things professional.

“I…um…” My mind reels, but I’m having trouble forming thoughts. I just focus on those tight brown nipples.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind queers.”

His words strike me, jolting me from my bizarre, jittery trance. I haven’t been called a queer in ages. It takes me back to when I was young. The other boys used to play “smear the queer”. The word stings.

But I’m sure he doesn’t mean it maliciously…right?

“Queers…?” Dillon whispers.