Stefanos' Brunch

Stefanos lays out the spread—eggs, sausage, crusty bread—while the local perverts file in. Collars glint under the morning sun. Wrists already bruised from last night. He smiles like a man who knows every secret in the room, and most of them involve rope. One woman kneels at the head of the table without waiting for permission. Her dress rides high, tits spilling over the neckline, nipples tight against the silk. Another guest drops a leather bag on the chair beside her; the sound is heavy, deliberate, the kind that makes mouths water. Conversation is low, almost polite, but the tension hums louder than words. Someone reaches under the table and pulls a leash taut. A soft gasp answers. Stefanos pours coffee, watches the first cube of ice slide down a bare back, and keeps talking brunch like nothing’s happening. Yet every pair of eyes tracks that melting trail, knowing exactly where it’s headed next.