Free Kept for His Appetites by Alice May Ball

I’m not such a hard girl to please, am I? The sparkling night view over New York out through the penthouse terrace is as dreamy and lustrous as ever. The full moon still looks pretty good behind the pointed shaft of the Chrysler building. Even through these slats. And really, a New York view from a five-star hotel penthouse suite - how bad can it get? Peering out at it through the louvred doors from inside a closet takes the shine off noticeably, I’ll admit it. Not that big a closet, it has to be said. And I’m really not that small a girl. There’s only just enough space for me to stand, and my heart is thumping so hard, I’m afraid it’s going to bang the door open. At times like this, I wonder whether I’ve made all the best choices.
     
    It seems a world away from the little diner where it all started, just a few weeks ago. The drunken chef had sloped off early, while his wife, the owner, was out at the bank, or at least that’s where she always said she’d spent those afternoons. Must have been hard going, twice a week with the bankers, judging from how flushed she always looked when she got back, and the way her hair was often kind of mussed up. So, a hellish-hot, still afternoon, and there was just little me, well, not so little me, and an empty diner on a noisy, dusty corner of the big apple. And then this man, filled the doorway.
     
    He stood there, holding the door open, big and fantastically proportioned with a crown of silver hair, and he looked slowly all around the restaurant before he strutted in. His dark suit looked like it cost a lot more than this whole diner, but even with the immaculate linen shirt and silk tie, the ruby and sliver cuff-links and the black shoes that looked soft as gloves and heavy as bullion, he wore it all like a t-shirt and jeans. Like the clothes just hung on for the ride, and were kind of lucky to drape across that – it must be said – that fine form of a man. He just rolled in from the off-Broadway clatter and din like we were in some fragrant walled garden, lined with honeysuckle and thronged with butterflies. And those dark eyes. My breath was in buckets, most of them going the wrong way. I said,
     
    “Sit wherever you like,”
     
    He looked at me, thinking about it. Considering the options. I was feeling the heat in pretty some unexpected places. My red and gingham waitress uniform is tight around the waist, and opens quite low at the front. It even further emphasises my very large breasts, my generous hips and my stupendous round ass. It also constrains my breathing, if I start to breathe heavily. Not an eventuality I’ve had to cope with too much at work. I was beginning to struggle with it now, though.
     
    I got out of there and back to the waitress station, poured a glass of water for him. I drank it, poured another, drank it, poured one more and then took it over to the booth that he’d slid into and occupied. He sprawled across the bench, carelessly draped but perfectly elegant. I stood by the table, pencil and pad ready, trying to look like business, felling more like crime. I said,
     
    “We’ve got coffee and we’ve got cherry pie, that’s about all right now.”
     
    He looked up at me. I felt awkward and ridiculous. His look said, ‘That’s not what I want,’ like it was all some big joke and only he knew the punch line. I said,
     
    “The chef isn’t here, and there’s just me,”
     
    I have no idea what else I babbled at him, I explained everything about how the chef wasn’t here, I probably explained what a chef was, told him why I was wearing what appeared to be a waitress’ uniform. I felt like I was delivering some really long, random speech out of Shakespeare or the Gettysburg address or something equally ridiculous and meaningless, and I was doing it really badly anyway because I kept on losing my place, and I was completely out of breath, and he interrupted.
     
    “I’m hungry.”
     
    His voice seemed even bigger than he