Dinner Guests

Rita punched out of her job at the department store promptly at 4 p.m. She had worked at the cosmetics counter since the day after her high school graduation the previous year. She had developed a small following based on her attractiveness, congeniality, product knowledge and unabashed flattery. Every woman she assisted was beautiful. All she needed was this shade of lipstick, that eye shadow, this lotion to make that innate beauty pop and sizzle. Women learned her work schedule, asked for her specifically, waited patiently while she served other customers even if other clerks were available to assist them.

Her coworkers could have been jealous, resentful of her popularity. But she was disarmingly friendly, genuinely interested in their lives, their families, especially their children. She loved children. Hoped to someday have her own, if she ever could find a reliable man. The other women in her department took to calling her "our Rita," like aunts or kindly neighbors would do.

She enjoyed the work, her coworkers and customers. But the job didn't pay well and she still lived in a cramped, one-bedroom flat with the aunt who had raised her, Gertrude. It hadn't always been that way. Before her uncle, Henry, died in a car accident, they had a three-bedroom bungalow with a small yard, a flower garden and a public park just down the street.

Since then, though, they had fallen on hard times. Gertrude had never worked outside the home. The only thing she was qualified to do was keep house, so she had to get by with cleaning other people's homes three days and week and cooking dinner for single men five nights per week.

If Rita caught the 4:17 bus at the stop on the corner near the employee entrance, she could take the 30-minute ride home and be there in time to help Gertie prepare dinner for the six or seven men who lived in their building or nearby and worked at the mills that polluted the air and water in her neighborhood.

Rita climbed aboard the bus, dropped a token in the box and flirted briefly with the regular driver, Clarence. She had once accepted a date with Clarence, who was so socially awkward that her charitable nature led her to give him a blowjob just for trying.

Rita was not a beauty, but she did catch your eye. Especially if you liked the girl-next-door, neighborhood tomboy look. She had a face that Gertrude described as pleasant. She was lanky. Curvaceous was a foreign word. When Rita complained that she hadn't developed larger breasts and rounder hips, her aunt advised her to be thankful that she wouldn't have tits hanging to her waist and hips that shook like St. Nick's belly of jelly when she walked.

She did like her legs, though. So, she favored short skirts -- minis when she went out on a weekend -- to show them off.

Rita slid into an empty seat on the left side of the bus near the rear exit door and settled next to the window. As Clarence steered the bus away from the curb, a man wearing an overcoat over a business suit and carrying an umbrella settled down next to her. The day was warm and the forecast did not call for rain, but Rita was used to all types and took no undue note of her new seatmate.

Until, that is, he opened his coat and she saw his hard cock sticking out of his fly. He quickly spread out a newspaper and held it above his lap, but that did not shield his member from Rita's view. She gazed out the window to try to make him believe she had not seen his dick. But he grasped her right hand and pulled it to his crotch. She instinctively wrapped her fingers around his prick, since that's what she'd done countless times while parking with high school boys who demanded similar attention.

Rita continued to stare out the window. She could rip her hand away. She could scream, have Clarence stop the bus and call the cops. She could politely tell the gentleman that she had no interest in giving him a handjob and ask that he change seats.

What she did was slowly stroke the stranger's cock. He didn't move or make a sound but kept his left hand lightly atop her right wrist. He didn't restrain or guide her. He just enjoyed the movement of her hand. And she admitted to herself that his shaft was longer and thicker than many she'd felt before and was kind of a pleasure to have in her palm.

What the hell, she thought. Jerking off a stranger on a public bus might be just the change she needed from gazing mindlessly out the window and seeing the same damn buildings, shops, people, traffic, dogs, cats, pigeons that she saw every damn day on the ride home. She didn't want monotony to become a part of her life. Adventures were too few and far between to pass up, even one that was so criminal in nature.

Plus, jerking the jerk off also would give her a good story to tell the other girls at work the next day. She increased the pace of her stroking and turned to watch her ministrations.

The bus made several stops with the usual comings and goings of passengers. No one gave any sign of being aware of the handjob in progress, but many city residents also were inured to strange behavior in public places. Also, there was a likelihood that some people enjoyed watching what she was doing.

She had been jerking the man off for about 10 minutes when he suddenly broke the silence between them with a few quick gasps. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She placed it over the tip of his cock and it caught the cum he spurted into it moments later.

Some of the sticky jism eluded the hanky and lodged on Rita's hand. She looked around for something to clean it up with, saw nothing and wiped it off on his pants leg.

"Hey, dolly," the man hissed, greatly offended by her effrontery. "These trousers have to be dry cleaned. That's gonna cost me money."

"Think of it as a service charge," she said. "Ain't nothing in this world that's free, darling."

He huffed, tucked his dick back into his pants, zipped up, closed his overcoat, folded his newspaper, picked up his umbrella and got off the bus at the next stop. Rita just shook her head. It takes all kinds.

Their rundown apartment building was a five-minute walk from her stop, if she didn't dally. She scurried along the sidewalk, dodging slower-moving pedestrians, offering a smile to all and a kind word to the many she knew by name.

Rita was popular in the neighborhood. Attractive, but not too attractive. Smart, but not too smart. Fun-loving without a doubt. One of the first to show up and be counted in a neighbor's time of need.

She pushed open the outside door to the foyer and saw the building superintendent pretending to repair a light fixture that hadn't worked properly since her sophomore year.

"Hello, Mr. Conroy," she called gaily, hoping to fly past him and up the stairs without delay.

"Ah, Miss Rita, how fortunate that I happen to be here when you arrive home. This is the third, you know, and I have not yet received the rent from you and your aunt that is due on the first."

"I know, Mr. Conroy, and Aunt Gertie and I are very sorry. I get paid on Friday and my aunt should have the gentlemen's dinner money for last month by then, too, so we can get the rent to you when I come home from work Friday."

"Well, if this was the first time you missed, I might be able to let it slide," Mr. Conroy said. "But it's the third time in the last year. The rent is due on the first. I must give the money to the owners on the second. If I don't have it all then, I must make up the difference from my own pocket. I am not a rich man, Miss Rita, and my kindness to you and your aunt won't pay any of my bills, either."

"I understand, Mr. Conroy, I really do. And so does Gertrude. We just have these ups and downs, ebbs and flows in our meager finances," Rita said. "I'm sure you can understand that."

"Understanding isn't accepting, Miss Rita. I've covered for you again this month, but I can't let this go on any longer. You must pay your rent by the first from now on or, I'm afraid, find another place."

"Oh, Mr. Conroy, we can barely afford this apartment. Anywhere else we look will probably be much more expensive. Housing in this town just costs too damn much. Pardon my language."

"Not my problem, Miss," he said. "I have financial issues of my own, you know. A family to support and whatnot."

"Well," Rita said, "approaching him. Perhaps there's a way to soften the blow."

She grabbed his hand and led him back into the hallway and under the stairs. She felt his cock through his pants and smiled wickedly when it started to grow. She unzipped his pants, burrowed around in his boxers and pulled his dick out. She crouched down, ran her tongue around the tip of his cock and then wrapped her lips around it.

She had learned in her young life that sucking a cock usually was at least a temporary solution to most any problem involving men. She had never tried it on Mr. Conroy before, but, hey, he was just a man and it had worked on a chemistry teacher, the owner of a bodega where Gertrude had run up a large tab, a policeman who thought that jaywalking across a quiet street while a girl out at night on her own was a major crime and, most recently, the head of her department when she legitimately could not explain why her cash drawer was short at the end of her shift.

Rita took the long view. Indeed, she had been a long-distance runner in high school, a reliable member, not the star, of her cross country and track teams. She still ran several miles each morning on her days off, had completed two half-marathons and had a dream of someday going the distance in Boston or New York.

Giving the super a blow job when money was tight was a mere investment in the future.

Mr. Conroy rested his hands lightly on the sides of her head as she blew him. The touch, she noted with irony, was similar to that of the stranger on the bus. And Mr. Conroy's prick was a good fit in her mouth, as bus passenger's cock had been in her hand.

The super breathed heavily and moaned softly, "Oh, my, oh, my. That does feel good, Miss Rita."

Her aunt would be waiting, so Rita picked up the pace, rocking back and forth, sliding his dick smoothly between her lips. He tensed, gasped. She quickly and efficiently swallowed the cum he shot into her mouth. She sucked him clean while his dick softened. She tucked it back into his boxers, zipped up his fly, stood and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"If you're here when I get home Friday, I'll give you what you need," Rita said, laughing and dancing back down the hallway and up the stairs to their third-floor flat.

"Ah, you're here, finally. A bit late today," Gertrude said, observing, not complaining. Her niece was the light of her life. Rita's father had never been a factor in the home, and her mother, Gertrude's sister, died of a drug overdose when Rita was just six. Gertrude had quickly come to think of Rita as her daughter. The feeling was mutual.

Rita kissed her aunt on the cheek. "I lent a hand to a complete stranger on the bus," she said. "Then Mr. Conroy and I had a pleasant oral exchange downstairs."

"Oh, you've always been such a good girl in helping others," her aunt said.

"I try my best, auntie. I'll clean up, change clothes and be back in a jiffy to help you too."

Rita was just being cute, not trying to shield her aunt from the truth about her journey home. She was saving the whole story for a more opportune time. She was sure her aunt would get a kick out of it. Gertrude had always been open about her own sexuality. She and Henry had made enough noise in the bedroom to shake the dishes in the kitchen cabinets and led pre-teen Rita to lie on her bed and experiment with her hands between her legs.

Since Henry's death and their move to this smaller unit, Rita had become accustomed to sitting quietly on the couch or at the kitchen table, reading or doing homework, while Gertrude entertained male friends in the bedroom. She appreciated that Gertrude's cries of delight were signals of her happiness, her zest for life.

Gertrude had centered "the talk" with Rita on her belief that, with sex, if it didn't harm anyone physically or emotionally, everything was good. She not only briefed her niece on the nuts and boners of sex but also showed her photos and videos to demonstrate the many ways to have fun with boys. And girls. She got Rita on birth control pills as soon as the doctor at the community health clinic assured her that it was safe and appropriate. If Rita came home with a boy after school or a date and needed the privacy of the bedroom, Gertrude remembered an errand she had to run or a neighbor she hadn't visited in a while.

The bathroom was down the hall. Rita was lucky; no one was using it. She splashed water on her face, gargled with mouthwash to get the taste of Mr. Conroy's spunk out of her mouth, washed a veneer of sweat from her pits and crotch. She had to wear a modest, business-like dress for work at the store. To help her aunt prepare and serve dinner to the men, she wore a T-shirt without a bra (not that she needed much support) and a mini-skirt without panties. Gertrude was a good cook, but not that good. Rita had to help make sure the diners kept coming back.

Gertrude was dishing up the standard bland roast, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables for the first of the male diners when Rita emerged from the bedroom where she had changed clothes. She took the plate from her aunt's hand and placed it down in front of Samuel. Sam was the senior and most loyal of the men who ate dinner there five evenings a week. He was an assistant foreman at one of the mills, in his mid-fifties and with a serious crush on Gertrude. When she worked at the sink or stove, he never took his eyes off her ass.

The other men arrived soon, five of them this night. Greg and Mark had been a year ahead of her since she started kindergarten. She had been fucking them both since her freshman year, but they were friendly, occasional lays and nothing more. Darrel was about thirty and definitely the hunk of the group. He handled heavy machinery at the mill, worked out regularly, didn't smoke and drank a beer only every fortnight or so. Harold was a divorced night watchman who desperately wanted to get back with his wife. The last to arrive, Martin, was an enigma. He was a recent community college graduate and worked in quality control, which meant none of the other mill workers liked him very much. He was quiet; she never had a clue what he was thinking.

Rita did everything she could to "inadvertently" jiggle her little tits and wiggle her too-flat ass while flitting around the table making sure the men got what they wanted. She refilled their water glasses, poured milk for those who supported the local dairy, offered seconds. "Accidentally" brushed her chest over backs, shoulders or arms as she met their needs.

Her high school mates, Greg and Mark, freely rubbed their hands over her ass. She playfully slapped them away, then sashayed to the fridge or counter to give them a nice view of what little she had to offer. Greg had been known to check if it was true that she didn't wear panties while she served them. She would let his fingers linger in her bush a few seconds before slowly, slowly stepping away.

Contrary to her disdain for her body, most men saw a young woman they would like to fuck. As a kid, she was the fun girl they wanted to include in every stickball game, birthday party, outing to the pool or Saturday matinee. Every conspiracy against strict parents and grumpy neighbors. As a young adult, she was the woman the men could confide in, depend on for advice on how to deal with, how to best fuck wives or girlfriends. A woman whose undivided attention fueled lust in their loins.

She also had a well-deserved reputation as a fantastic lay. "I like to fuck," was her simple answer when anyone asked how she'd developed such a resume.

Rita cleared the table, rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink. Gertrude insisted on washing the plates, pots and pans herself while Rita entertained whichever diners wished to linger in the sitting room. Samuel, of course, stayed in the kitchen with the object of his desire.

Rita sat on the frayed couch opposite Martin, an infrequent loiterer after dinner. Mark sat in the lone easy chair, flipping through one of Rita's fashion mags. She folded her legs up under her and sat wedged in the corner of the arm and the back of the couch, aware that as her skirt rode up her thighs she might be exposing her unclad pussy to their guests.

"Martin," she said, "tell me. I've never been clear on just what a quality control worker does. Can you explain it in simple terms for me."

He hesitated as usual. Martin never did anything in a hurry, and conversing casually with a girl was a tad beyond his social skills. "It's very complicated and very simple at the same time," he said, stammering slightly. "We have a product. We have a manual of standards for that product. I examine random pieces thoroughly. Check for flaws. Take measurements. Sometimes we'll even just bang a piece on a table to see it rattles, isn't put together well. I'm happy to report that I pass far more than I fail. The folks on the floor do good work."

He nodded at Mark, who returned the nod. Two colleagues, dedicated to perfection. Good enough not good enough for them. Mark loathed the people in quality control.

Mark was staring at her crotch over the top of the magazine. She was certain, then, that she had given him a clear view of her cooch. He smiled slyly, stood up and stepped across the room. "Skootch over," he said. "I have something to show you."

"Oh, I know you, Mark Gleason," she said, grinning while sliding toward the center of the couch to give him just enough room to plant his ass between the arm and her bare thigh. "You picked up that magazine just to look at the lingerie ads."

"And imagine you in them," he said. He dropped down next to her. Her skirt had slid even farther up her legs when she moved, and even she could now see her bare pussy lips peeking out. She maintained the upper portion of her pubic patch with great care, closely cropped and edged, but shaved below. Clear access for tongue and cock alike.

Martin rose abruptly, ripping his gaze away from her crotch and smooth thighs. "I must go," he stammered. He scurried across the small sitting room. "I'll leave you two to, uh, whatever... whatever it is you're going to do. I suppose I'll return tomorrow, so I wish you..." He stopped cold in midsentence as he reached the doorway to the kitchen. He was frozen in place. A statue. A marble sculpture of a man leaving but going nowhere.

"What is it, Martin?" Rita asked.

He said only, "Oh, my god.... Oh. My. God."

She stood and hurried across the room to check out what had stopped him in his flight. She smiled when she peered into the kitchen. She saw Gertrude leaning forward, bracing herself against the sink. The top and bottom of her house dress were bunched around her waist. Her bra lay atop dishes drying in the rack. Her panties were wrapped around her ankles. Samuel was draped over her back. His trousers lay on the floor beside his feet. His arms were around her body, his hands turned upward so that her aunt's tits bounced in the palms as they rocked up and down, back and forth.

"They're fucking," she said. As if to say "it's raining" or "that traffic light is red." Just noting the obvious.

"I can't, I can't go in there," Martin muttered. Through the kitchen was the only way out of the apartment. "Not while they're doing that."

"Then come back and sit with Mark and me on the couch," Rita said. She took his hand and he followed her docilely back across the room. He sat down in an obvious daze, his eyes glued to hers in hopes she'd tell him how to escape this nightmare.

Rita had a better idea. She remained standing in front of the couch. She reached behind her, unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She kicked it aside. She grasped the yoke of her T-shirt and hoisted it over her shoulders and head, tossed it on top of her skirt. While she wished she had more to flaunt, she enjoyed flaunting what she had. Her confidence had soared when, using a fake ID and a miniskirt to be ushered in by the bouncer, she won at age 17 a wet T-shirt contest at a downtown bar. Seems her hard nipples were pretty damn enticing.