Dumpster Diving

I love my job even though most wouldn't. I wash dishes in an upscale restaurant, but it isn't so haughty that they have an iron chef or anything like that. The food is excellent; the tables have real linen napkins and there are bus-kids running around refilling water and stuff. Despite the refinement, they also offer take-out, even delivery to the attached motel.

Now, my job isn't hard, like in brain power, but it requires a lot of lifting and working with scalding hot water and some harsh detergents. Nothing but the most sanitary dishes are good enough for our customers, and sparkling pots for our chefs. We only have one chef plus some line and prep cooks, but I call them all "Chef" because then they treat me good, give me great food. Too, whenever there's a call for delivery, they get me to take it and that gives me opportunities to visit with lonely women needing some attention, but that's not the subject of this story.

I know how to talk to people, kiss their ass a little, so I get things I want. I practice on the chefs but really go to work on the serving staff, the waitresses in particular. In my mind, there's nothing like the successful conquest of a fresh piece of quiff. This is the perfect place for me because new staff are always being hired. After all, who looks for a long-term career in the serving business? For most, it's just a brief stop on the path to bigger and better. I like this because it puts me just inside a revolving door of pussy potential. Now, there's a career I can sink my teeth into, well, more like my tongue.

From this, you're probably thinking a lot higher about my lowly job spraying down dishes, but even such an illustrious occupation has its downsides. For me, the biggest one is that there is a large garbage can beside my station. It is necessary for my job, so it has to be there, but what bugs me is, no one realizes the lid is there for a reason. Don't they realize the container is full of wet, rotting food and that process causes it to stink? That makes me gag.

I empty the can several times each shift; it fills fast with everyone, bus-kids mostly, scraping leftovers into it before stacking the dishes for my attention. This is what they are supposed to do but, they are also supposed to replace the lid but most of them don't want to touch it with their hands because that would mean they need to take the time to wash those same hands. They are too interested in making sure the serving staff are happy with their work, so they get a bigger share of the tips. Tips are a big thing in this industry, in case you weren't aware. They often total more than wages.

What usually happens is, the bus-staff knocks the lid off with a foot, scrapes the plate, dumps the plate, rushes back into the dining room. Of course, this leaves those odours spewing out of the can and into my olfactory organ.

Anyway, what do these emanations have to do with getting laid? A lot. Everything in life has something to do with getting laid. At least from my perspective.

A couple of weeks ago, we had a new waitress start. I always sidle up to the fresh meat, try to make a good impression. I engage them in friendly conversation so I can find out if they qualify. Even a perv like me, always sniffing around for available women, has standards. First, they gotta be old enough, but not JUST old enough, which puts the bus-kids out of my target range. Even though some of them look like they're old enough, I don't trust that. I just brand them all off limits. At some point, they might become wait staff, and then they get another look.

Next, they can't be pregnant. Who wants to have sex THAT close to a baby? It would totally freak me out if I was servicing some fine lady and a tiny hand extended out and gripped my tongue or my dick. No preggies.

And, they can't be in a happy, committed relationship. Who wants to spoil something good just to get their rocks off? Not me.

That's pretty much my standard. No young stuff, no 'with childs', no happy couples. Everything else is fair game.

It didn't take me long to determine that the new lady was totally fuckable. Let's call her Sandra, because she might serve your table and I don't want to spoil your experience with any name-dropping. She told me she was twenty-one, fresh out of college and waiting for a genuine job in the business sector. "Even with my certificate, with no experience, it's hard to get a real job." Waitressing was good enough while she gained some working experience. I was glad the career fates brought her my way. She had a fine shape.

Being a more up-scale restaurant, the staff didn't have uniforms, but they had a dress code. They supplied pants for the guys and long skirts for the ladies. The pants were black, some silky material and had a contrasting blue stripe down the outside of one leg. The skirts were black, floor length, and had a similar blue stripe that extended from the right hip, down the front of the skirt to the hem, then across the front. Staff were free to wear whatever top they wanted, and supplied themselves, as long as it was white. Most just went with plain white shirts, but some had frills or even embroidery with little holes in the loops. I think they call that English embroidery or some French term I can't pronounce. I only mention it because sometimes you can get a nice peak at some cleavage or maybe a little nipple over a low bra through them.

Sandra wore a satiny button-up blouse with pockets that rode high on her chest. And she had a nice chest, not too large, but not tiny either. One shift she must have dressed quick because she hadn't buttoned it all the way up, had left a couple undone, leaving a savoury amount of cleavage exposed. I noticed and did some skilful maneuvering to get as good a peek as I could. Then one of the waiters came in, whispered something to Sandra and she blushed and did up two more buttons. I swear to god though; she snuck one or two peeks at me as she did this and she was smiling. That made me pretty certain she was aware of my gawking, and she'd liked it. Sha-wing, instant erection. I had to stay at my station until that bad boy settled down.

One thing I always say, staff need to be treated equal. That includes breaks. Now, the smokers got ten minutes each hour to head out back for a cigarette break. I think this was because the manager smoked, a lot. I don't smoke, too rich for my lungs, but I deserved the same break, so I would often go out and just hang with them while they breathed in their cancer air. This put me in the back alley a week ago when Sandra was out for a butt. I came out on the pretense of emptying the garbage into the dumpster.

It looked like she'd been talking to Brad and Utam, two waiters, but they headed in as I came out, leaving me alone with her. She was standing with her smoke held between two fingers and her other arm across her body, under her breasts, hand cupping her elbow. She looked so sexy. She gave them a little wave with her free hand, leaving wavy smoke trails around her head.

I noticed she was wearing a different top today, and I mentioned that to start a conversation.

"Oh, do you like it?" she asked, raising both hands to her shoulders and swivelling her body like a radar antenna.

"Makes you look delicious," I responded, trying to be clever since we work in the food industry.

"How would you know?" she said. "You haven't eaten me out yet."

I was certain I hadn't heard her right, and just stood there, a heavy bag of garbage in one hand, staring at her, reliving her words. I am certain my face didn't change, but inside my head my eyes were popping out, steam was spurting from my ears, and my tongue was waggling out my gaping mouth. Did she really say that? From the look on her face, she had. She was smiling, holding my eyes.

Deciding that boldness was the better part of caution, I took her by one elbow and guided her toward the dumpster, talking as we went. "I can remedy that." My words carried a lot more bravado than I was feeling. Fear coursed through me. What if she stopped and slapped my face? Worth the risk.

Noting that she didn't resist, I set the bag of garbage on the ground, gripped her by her hips and lifted her so she was sitting on the edge of the dumpster. She gave a little, "Oh," as I set her down. Her crotch was now at my face level.

Without a word, I raised her skirt over my head, getting up close and personal. With one hand, I pulled her panties, nice lacy ones, aside and gave her snatch a lick. There was a hint of sweat and pee, but mostly musky, moistness. I had been correct; she was delicious. But I thought the point of evidence needed more investigation. Her moan told me she was a willing witness.

I dug my tongue in a little deeper and her juices really flowed. Despite the wonderful aromas emanating from her crotch, the stink of the dumpster crept in as well. My dick wasn't certain which it wanted to react to. I swelled a bit, but then deflated. I didn't much care at the moment. I didn't need him right now. I used my nose to nudge a little more of her panties aside so I could attend to her clit. It brushed her pubic hair, coarse and inviting. I love an unshaved pussy, or at least one that has only been discreetly trimmed. There is something about tight and curlies that rev my hormones.

Her hands gripped my head through the fabric of her skirt, pulling me tight against her. That helped keep out the smell of garbage, but some still snuck in. I was careful to keep my tongue well in her pussy because I didn't want it any closer to the cold steel of the dumpster. She liked that, squirming under my undulating attention.

I reached up, wanting to get a feel of her breasts, but she took her hands from my head to stop my questing fingers saying, "You'll wrinkle my blouse." Damn. Those tits look so fine.

With my face growing slick from her enjoyment, I worked my nose up and down to stimulate her more. Shortly, her pelvis was grinding, pressing hard against me. When her movements became frantic, I knew she was having an orgasm. I redoubled my efforts. If I gave her a great experience, she'd be coming back for more, and I wanted that. My dick had forgotten all about the acrid smell of the dumpster and was pressing hard against my pants.

Then she was pulling away from me. "We've been out here a long time," she panted, her knees still pulled up.

"Not that long." I helped her down.

"I was out here before you." She reminded me. But that didn't stop her from bending forward and unzipping my fly. I wanted to let her know she hadn't been out that long before me. When she'd gone past me, I'd started tying the garbage bag closed, intending to follow her, but when she put my cock in her mouth, she sucked the words right out of me.

My head arched back, hips thrust forward. The feeling was so incredible. Without her thighs and pussy pressed against my face though, I was getting the full effect of the trash. To counter it, I licked my face, filling my throat with the taste of her again. My dick slid in and out of her mouth, coaxed by her gentle sucks.

My knees felt like the bones in them were turning to gel. I struggled to remain standing. Her mouth was incredible. In no time, I felt that familiar gathering in my balls, ejaculation was close. I leaned over and warned her, but she just mumbled something about work. As I started gushing, I heard the door behind me scrape open.

I froze, struggling to keep my hips from pumping. Sandra gagged a bit. She'd heard the door too.

"Larry," cripes, it was Dengo, the manager, "you seen Sandra?" It seemed he couldn't see her, my ass blocking his view. Maybe too, the dim light this late in the evening was to our benefit as well.

I didn't want to answer, uncertain how my voice was going to sound since I was still cumming into Sandra's mouth but, I couldn't ignore him either. He is the boss.

"If I see her, I'll let her know you're looking for her." The words rushed out of me.

"She just better not be long. You need to get back to work, too."

"I am," I feigned protest. "Dealing with the trash." I picked up the bag of garbage with one hand, raising the lid of the dumpster with the other, being careful to remain between Sandra and Dengo.

The door slammed closed. I felt myself softening even though small tremors still spasmed in me.

"That was close." Sandra stood, wiping at her mouth with the back of one hand. "Do I look okay?" She brushed at her skirt.

"You look fucking wonderful." There were no lies in my words. She fairly glowed in my vision of her.

"Maybe we can get together later." She traced a finger across my chest, nipple to nipple as she walked by me. "In a little nicer location." She wrinkled her nose and then the door closed behind her.

I took a few moments to tuck myself back to safety, do up my fly, let my mind accept what had just happened. I noticed later though, when the garbage can at my station began to fill and the bus staff left the lid off, that whenever I got a whiff, my cock got stiff. A bit uncomfortable, but better than wanting to gag.

So, now I've been muff diving on a dumpster. Gives a whole new visual associated with dumpster diving.