tagNonConsent/ReluctanceCap’s Diner ‘54

Cap’s Diner ‘54


My bright white sports coat fits in well with Cap's new decor. I'm in the end booth, excited and a littler nervous, my back to the wall. I have a view of the downtown traffic outside and the whole diner inside. Doris Day's "Secret Love" gushes from the juke box. The place is noisy with spoons heavy enough to tunnel out of Alcatraz with clanging against the thick earthenware coffee mugs. The mid-morning crowd is waning but the regulars are left. They form an odd mixture of dock workers coming off the midnight shift and staff on break from the Federal building across the street.

The clear blue day is warming and a few of the customers are taking off their jackets. You should have been in the Pacific in '44 I thought; now that was hot. Overhead the fans hum as they draw up the steady flow of cigarette smoke. Outside the sun glints off the heavy chrome of a Desoto lumbering down the street. A kid in a USN sailor suit comes out of the Men's room door on my left. He pauses momentarily, posing like the guy on the Cracker Jack box and drinks in a good, hard long look at my companion.

The view directly across the booth captivates me as well; Cynthia Dunne. Damn the girl is hot. She has the face of a Vargas pinup with long dark lashes arching over the most angelic hazel eyes. Her long black hair is sculpted up and away from her face. She's wearing a tight, sand colored wraparound dress held together by fabric buttons winding down diagonally from just below her jutting cleavage. She grins quizzically at me, her face framed by the string of faux pearls and matching, oversized earrings I gave her.

Cynthia is a good kid. I first saw her six months ago when I was doing grounds keeping work at San Francisco University. She was late for class, strutting tall across the lawns like Mamie Van Doren's brunette kid sister. She could pass for one of Hugh's centerfold girls except her left breast is a half cup size larger than the right. It doesn't make any difference to me but it kept her shy of boys for far too long. Before me, her first boyfriend was some pimply faced kid in college. Apparently just seeing Cynthia's trimmed pussy was enough to make the poor bastard cum. She lost her virginity to him, but only just. I (with the help of Chester) have made it a point to teach her how to appreciate a man and have worked hard to help her hone her sizable talents.

She still lives at home with her daddy, my boss, the president of the University. She brought me by her house to see him a few times but I don't think the old guy is warming up to me at all. Her powers of attraction aren't just restricted to men. I'm not sure Myrna our waitress even knows I'm here. I watch her reflection approaching in the plate glass window as she refills only Cynthia's cup for the third time. Cynthia plays along and sticks out a pouty lip, giving Myrna her best "come fuck me" look as she thanks her. Unable to maintain the façade Cynthia laughs, maybe a little cruelly. Rebuffed, Myrna turns without a word and ambles back to her station behind the till. Her uniform does little to compliment her dumpy, middle age form.

I reach into my jacket pocket for the hundredth time making sure the ring box is still at hand. Today is the big day. All my questions will be answered. I hope.

"Cynthia?" I ask softly "I have a question I need you to answer..."

She gives me a quizzical look but her attention is drawn away by a shiny new black De Ville pulling into a parking space out front of the Diner. It stops me cold.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" I ask abruptly. She's disappointed as I slide out across the seat and head for the Men's room.

The smell of urine hits me hard as I push through the door. I am not alone. I pass the doorless stall; the guy reading his paper with his pants down around his ankles doesn't even look up. I amble over to the unoccupied side of the double urinal and relax as Cap's java flows freely out of Chester. The door opens behind me. The elderly man beside me zips up and is quickly replaced by a fat, hairy longshoreman.

"That's quite the dame you got there." the fat man says, in a voice that sounds like gravel churning in a cement mixer. "I guess there's no chance she's a working girl?"

My fists clamp together and the muscles in my neck tighten. I stare down, Jesus; I pissed on my wingtips again.

"Nope... no chance." I say through clenched teeth.

"That's too bad." he rasps, checking out my wet shoes, then his eyes widen as he spots Chester.

Finished, I shake off before he can say anything more and go over to the sink to wash. I take a hard look in the mirror wondering again if I am doing the right thing. I shake my head clear. It has to be done. I have to know for sure.

I step back into the diner and I'm not surprised to see two men occupying my booth. Their suits fit so bad they could be rentals. Whitey is on my side of the table, waiting for me. Hermann is sitting close to Cynthia, his huge mass blocking any escape.

Hermann is an ex-boxer who emigrated from Germany after the war. His face is like crumpled paper, mostly because some Kraut hating ref's decided to let a few of his mismatched fights go on too long. His one good eye is staring shamelessly down into Cynthia's bare cleavage.

Whitey rises and ushers me to slide over to the window. As I pass I realize how much his squinty eyes and greasy grey hair make him look like a grizzled old wharf rat.

"You got some unfinished business with Mr. "C"?" Whitey squeaks out like he has seen one too many Cagney movies.

I turn away from them without saying a word. I'm thinking Mr. "C", that's a good one Whitey. Cynthia's concerned but she is keeping her cool, good girl.

"You got the money... or what?' he asks impatiently.

I shake my head. Truthfully, all the money I have in the world is tied up in the red satin box in my jacket pocket. Even if I tried to take it back to the pawn shop on Mission Street I know I'll never get what I paid for it.

"Hey war hero," he says changing the subject "you still carrying around your Purple Heart?"

I nod.

"Did you know," he asks Hermann "this guy was a bonafide hero at Iwa Jima?"

But Hermann isn't paying attention. His left arm is moving under the table towards Cynthia and she is doing everything she can to keep him at bay.

"Oh yeah," he continues knowingly "he was there. His company of Marines was the first ashore. In 30 minutes he went from corporal to platoon leader." He pauses and glances over at me. "If I get this wrong, you let me know."

He isn't getting it wrong.

Cynthia has given up her struggle with Hermann and places her hands back on the table. She looks unresponsive but tiny beads of perspiration are forming just above her full lips.

"So anyway, he was field promoted to platoon leader and what's left of his squad turns tail and runs back to the launching crafts, leaving him and one other guy to fend for themselves. Can you beat that, two guys trying to hold back a Jap counter attack?" he says with a measure of respect "That's when you find out who you can trust, isn't it Johnny?" he asks me "when things really get hot".

Whitey stares out the window for a moment. He is trying to make up his mind about something.

"Well, war hero," he says with resignation "we're still going to need some kind of payment to hold us over." he gives me a crooked smirk. "What do you think Hermann?"

Hermann nods but his eye never leaves Cynthia's chest. The massive bicep of his left arm keeps flexing and he enjoys the way she squirms. Hermann doesn't do a lot of the thinking but he would take a bullet for Whitey. It's a quality I can appreciate

"How about... if I take a little walk with your lady?" Whitey suggests.

Cynthia recoils at the suggestion. She glares across at Whitey with revulsion.

"How much does he owe?" she asks him defiantly.

Whitey shakes his head, puzzled. "I honestly don't know." he says. "Usually Mr. "C" lets us know, but not this time." "So even if I got you some money, you don't know how much?" she asks incredulously. "That's not fair."

Whitey shrugs his shoulders. "I don't really give a fuck about fair." he says happily. "I get paid no matter what happens. I just need to bring back some interest." He looks over at me. "How much do you owe, Johnny?"

"More than I have on me." is all I will concede.

Whitey gazes back at Cynthia. "That's what I thought, which is why..."

"I don't think so Whitey." I say, as calmly as I can. But he puts his left hand inside his coat. I feel something hard and blunt pushing against my side. He opens his coat enough for Cynthia to see the pearl handle of the revolver.

"Or she could just get down on her knees, under the table and blow me right here." he says, a little too loudly.

Myrna is the only woman in the diner not ignoring us. I'm hoping she can see we are in need of help. But judging from the lack of compassion on her face I assume Cynthia has ruined any chance of that.

Cynthia looks Whitey straight in the eye and shakes her head slowly but defiantly.

"Well then, why don't we start off with something simpler?" Whitey suggests, watching Cynthia's every move. "How about, you give me your underwear?"

Cynthia immediately leans in across the table towards Whitey, "What kind of a sick fuck are you?" she whispers angrily.

This surprises the hell out of me. I didn't think Cynthia would say "shit" if her mouth was full of it.

Whitey leans in too, locking eyes with her. "Let's hope you never have to find out." he whispers back tersely.

Cynthia sits back, the desperation of our situation finally sinking in. She blinks back tears and bites her bottom lip nervously. She slides her hands under the table.

Whitey shakes his head and she stops suddenly.

"Undo the dress." he says sharply. "That will make it a lot easier."

Hermann's smile broadens.

Cynthia takes a hard swallow, glances out at the blue sky. I know what she's thinking. How can this happen on such a beautiful day?

But she starts tugging at the bottom buttons, gradually making her way up. She slows even more with just two to go. Whitey jabs at my side with the .45 and I jerk. She holds back the tears and locks eyes with me, forbidding me from seeing her like this. When the final button is undone she keeps her hands at her front, holding the edges of the fabric together.

Whitey motions for her to take her hands away and sit up. When she does the fabric falls away. Her pale left breast pushes out, braless into the afternoon sunlight like a battle cruisers prow breaking into a wave. I catch my breath.

"I guess we shouldn't expect a bra." he says laughing, then points towards her hips "And now the panties." he says calmly, before placing his open hand on the table.

Cynthia tries holding the front of her dress together with her arms as she squirms in the seat, removing her panties. She notices a cabby donning a checkered cap approaching the booth so she lurches forward trying to hide her breasts under the table. Unfortunately she overestimated how far back she was sitting in the booth. The result is her presenting us all with the spectacle of both naked breasts displayed on the top of the table. The cabby stops, wide eyed as Cynthia frantically uses both hands, pulling her breasts roughly over the table's sharp edge. Hermann makes a motion to stand and the cabby whistles loudly then moves along with a wide grin. She waits until he is out of sight before moving to finish her task. Finally she withdraws a clenched fist from under the table and places it on Whitey's, waiting for him to close his hand around hers. But Whitey's hand stays open. Slowly Cynthia releases a pair of pure white, lace panties. He unfurls the fabric and brazenly brings the damp crotch up to his face, breathing in heavily. He beams appreciatively as he shoves them partway into the breast pocket of his jacket.

"Excellent." he says in earnest then he points down at his crotch with a stabbing motion. "Now, under the table, bitch."

Cynthia's dark eyes plead with me one last time to do something, anything to end this humiliation. All I can muster is a short shrug. She picks the linen napkin off her plate and I wonder if she is going to use it as a bib. She starts sliding down under the table, shooting me one last withering look before her head disappears under the edge.

The toes of her black pumps scuff against the checkerboard tiled floor as she shuffles on all fours below us. Her torso pushes against my knees as she moves towards Whitey. She reaches up and opens his zipper. She grabs him by the hips, pulling him down towards her. Whitey moves a little to get comfortable but he isn't going far. God, I know he is in for a treat. Cynthia loves giving blow jobs and does it better than any woman I have ever met, even the pros.

Hermann doesn't want to be left behind. He reaches under the table with one big paw, fishing around. He snickers as her body pulls away from me. I watch as his huge arm pumps back and forth under the table. A familiar scent like African orchids fills my nostrils.

Myrna approaches our booth armed with mugs for the boys and another full pot of coffee. When she arrives she glances around for Cynthia then glaring at Whitey she boldly asks "Any chance I can get a piece of her when you're through?"

Cynthia's head sharply contacts the underside of the table.

"Well..." he says calmly. "It all depends on how good she does."

The possibility is enough to bring a glow to Myrna's tired face. She fills the mugs before moving back through the diner with a definite spring in her step.

A cruel leer curls on Whitey's lips as Cynthia tries getting this over with as fast as she can. Whitey makes several gasps but keeps going. I have to hand it to the guy, he has stamina. He reaches down, pulling Cynthia's face onto him further. His hips start bucking as Cynthia's head knocks against the underside of the table. I reach under the table covering the top of her head with one hand and gently placing the other around her throat. I can feel the head of his cock as it advances and retreats in her throat. Like I said, she can do it better than any woman I have ever met.

"Alright, alright!" Whitey's face is flushed; he has had enough and begins pushing back on Cynthia's forehead to dislodge her. But she is latched on, intent on finishing what she started. He finally pulls himself across the seat away from her and almost tumbles into the aisle.

"Jesus Christ." he says appreciatively. "Ever thought of renting her out?" he asks me. "She's like some kind of fucking circus ride". He takes a deep breath.

Herman points at me with two wet fingers and a sticky thumb like they're a gun. With a broad smile he licks his thick fingers, but not the thumb.

Cynthia re-emerges on the other side of the table. Her hair isn't as well kempt as it was when she disappeared and her lipstick is smeared. I really hope the milky gel on her chin is spittle. I motion for her to sop it up with her napkin but she ignores me. The most dramatic change to Cynthia though is the dark red splotches covering her cheeks, neck and upper chest. One more thing I love about Cynthia, you can always tell when she cums.

Embarrassed by her performance Cynthia stares out the window. She holds her dress closed tightly. Grabbing her hot coffee she throws some back then flinches, scalding the inside of her mouth. She takes another gulp, trying to burn the taste of Whitey off her tongue. She pretends the three of us are no longer there.

Whitey pulls the gun from my ribs to do up his pants. I breathe a sigh of relief but notice he isn't having much luck.

"Fuck," he complains openly "what the fuck are you going to do about this?" he asks Cynthia but she is still gazing out at the street.

"Look bitch, either you help me with this or I call the fat dyke over here, God only knows what she wants with you." He mutters.

Without a word Cynthia begins sliding back under the table. But Whitey stops her cold with just three words and a gesture; "Men's room," he points "now."

Cynthia's resistance has dissipated. A tear trickles down her pretty cheek as her. She nudges against Hermann to let her out.

Whitey stands and walks to the men's room door. He turns back and waits but Hermann isn't moving. Cynthia awkwardly tries to crawl over him and keep the front of her dress closed. Herman waits impatiently until she is straddling his lap then his big hands roam under the dress and all over her firm body. He's snickering again and Cynthia is helpless. All she can do is wait.

"Hermann!" Whitey chides "Let her go."

Once past Hermann, Cynthia goes to Whitey without looking back.

"Lose the dress." Whitey states. "You won't need it in there"

"But..." is the only protest she gets out before giving up.

She glances around the diner. Every eye in the place is trained on her as she blushes then slowly lowers the dress, letting it fall. I'm thinking this could get nasty.

It's 11:30 on the oversized clock at the far end of the diner. In another half hour the place will fill with the lunch crowd from the Federal building.

Ten minutes pass and still no sign of Cynthia or Whitey. Hermann is starting to get itchy feet. He keeps gazing at the men's room door like a puppy looking for his mother's teats. Finally, he makes up his mind.

As he is sliding out of the booth I'm reminded why he isn't the talker for the pair. "Don't go in zere or elze, gott it?" he threatens.

I nod in resignation as he pushes open the bathroom door. Just before it closes I catch a glimpse of Cynthia, naked except for her black leather pumps, on all fours in front of the urinal. Whitey is squatting over her, fucking her hard from behind. A film of sweat covers her body. She moans every time he drives forward with his hips and slaps her bare ass with an open palm. But the worst part is the red splotches covering her upper back.

It is 11:50 before the bathroom shows any sign of movement. Everyone in the place is watching the Men's room door. When it swings open only Whitey and Hermann emerge.

"That really is one wild fucking circus ride you have there war hero." he says loudly, still out of breath. "A little tight for my liking but I know the cure for that..." he states at full volume. "You don't go in for her until 12:30? We're going to the car and we'll be watching you," He pauses to make sure he has the attention of everyone in the diner. "got it?"

I nod again.

"Now get your ass over to the window so we can see you." He orders.

As the pair of them pass through the diner Whitey stops and jokes with a few of the customers. I understand the "hot stuff" gestures and a few even offer him handshakes. The pair finally leaves for the Coupe de Ville parked outside. Whitey gets in on the passengers side and rolls down the window to keep an eye on me.

For several minutes nobody moves. But the fat longshoreman finally summons up his courage and comes ambling down the aisle, heading for the bathroom. A big shit eating grin is plastered across his face.

"Hey!" I shout when he gets beside the booth "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"It's a free country, ain't it?" he rumbles back with false bravado.

I slide across the seat towards him. Immediately he starts backing up the aisle. The flash of sun on glass catches my eye. I glance outside as the big passenger door of the Cadillac opens. I slide back towards the window and it slams shut.

"Fuck." I mutter under my breath.

The fat guy, emboldened by my retreat starts heading for the bathroom door again. I can't stop him. I can't stop the old guy in the business suit either or the sailors who have watched the whole thing happen. I move to the window and stare out. I try not counting the number of times the door beside the booth opens and closes in the next half hour. I try not hearing the pounding from behind the door. I try not thinking about anything at all.

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