The pickle was slightly disheveled and a little worse for wear, smelled like a pickle and something else familiar. Marisa smirked at me, "Aren’t you...going to eat your pickle?" I put on a western drawl, "Mamma always told me to finish whatever someone is nice enough to fix up on your plate. Ah believe ah’ll enjoy this," and I made a slow meal out of the pickle with my eyes focused on Marisa’s. When desserts arrived, she moved her foot closer to my crotch and I could feel her toes stroking my. She walked back to the booth and slid the table out of the way and sunk back in to the seat. She sat forward and motioned him with her finger to come closer. He stopped, slid his chair closer to her and continued playing the song. She stretched her body out sliding a foot along the floor between his legs, her hands idly playing with the top button of her dress. He changed the tune to long slow melancholy notes and with each note she undid another button of her dress. He kept on playing as all. More

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