Dumpster Diving - Dated Delivery

The odour of wet, rotting food wafted around me, giving me an erection. With the memory of licking Sandra's snatch while she was sitting on the dumpster out back of the restaurant replaying in my brain, I replaced the lid on the trash can by my workstation. I enjoyed washing dishes but with the bus kids and wait staff leaving the can open all the time, it was causing me distress. Thank fuck Sandra wasn't working today, parading near me, running her fingers across my shoulders, enticing me with her perfume.

Pushing thoughts of her away allowed me to concentrate on my duties. It wasn't as though they needed a lot of brain power, but I had to ensure everything that went through my station was spotless. Any less and I would be looking for a new job. That would be disastrous as this one gave me access to a never-ending parade of new staff, they tend to not stick around too long, and, consequently, pussy. Pretty much every female hired as wait staff was fair game for me, and I had gotten pretty good at wooing them enough to loosen their belt buckles, moisten their pussies.

Grabbing one of the large aluminum pots used for boiling potatoes, I gave it a good rinse with the hand sprayer then went at it with the brush. No matter how careful the cooks worked, this pot was always a mess with starch and spud residue adhering like barnacles. Just as I was closing the dishwasher cover on it, I heard one of my favorite sounds, the kitchen phone ringing.

There were only a few reasons for that phone to chime. There was a problem with a food delivery, one of the cook's family members was having an emergency, or there was a take-out order coming in. Since it was eight-thirty in the evening it wasn't likely anything to do with food coming in. Those dudes only worked banker hours. The cook's family almost never called and, when they did there was always a lot of yelling and animated conversations. That left take-out delivery. I felt the creature in my pants stirring.

Running the take-outs to the rooms of our attached motel was my job. The wait staff were way too busy, and the bus kids were generally too young to carry the alcohol that accompanied most orders. To keep things simple, they just had me do the deliveries. I didn't mind, even though it meant I would have to change from my working whites to one of the dining room uniforms. We were too high class an establishment to have scruff staff meet any of the customers.

I kept one ear focussed on the phone call while continuing my duties in as nonchalant a manner as I could fake. Inside I was screaming, Make it a single woman who has also had to send her only change of clothes out for laundering. That particular scenario wasn't very probable but, I got frequent opportunities to chat it up with some nice quiff. There had even been one time when, while exchanging the tray of food for money with some guy, I spied his wife through the partly open bathroom door. She must have just stepped out of the shower because she was nude, looking in the steamed-up mirror. She was fine; steamed me up. I don't even remember if I got a tip for that delivery. Didn't really care.

Pondering the possibilities only encouraged the thing in my pants, my main brain at times. I wish I could describe the joy that blossomed in me when the cook on the phone ended it with, "Yes ma'am. Room twenty-nine. Right away. Thank you."

No, thank you, I thought, for bringing such good news. Now, I know there's no science to ordering room service but, from my observations, when there is a man on the receiving end, that is who makes the call. I think it has something to do with women ordering too many extras but I've never taken a poll, so I don't know for certain. Almost every time a woman makes the call, there is no man to do it, although one time there were two women, but that story is for another time.

Then the cook called out the order so the chef could channel it into their production and that stiffened me even more. Quiche. Now, our restaurant has an impressive reputation for its quiche, but that isn't a dish ordered much by young ladies. It's a mature woman's preference in my experience. I like mature women, especially ones travelling without a male companion. I won't try to horn in on a strong relationship, who wants to break up a committed couple just for a piece of ass? But an experienced woman is a thing of wonder. This order was looking better and better. With visions of hairy pussy dancing in my head, I kept the dishes moving through my station while I waited for the quiche to bake.

Mature women, especially confident ones, are more likely to have unshaven pussies. I prefer my women au natural that way. I like flossing with lady pubes, and you can't do that if some razor has beaten you to the sweet spot. Too, I've never had a complaint from anyone who I was giving that close attention to.

I knew I was excited about this delivery when, only ten minutes later, I was wondering if one of the cooks was trying to lay the eggs, they would use in the dish. Of course, a good quiche takes time, but I was nearing the end of my shift and I didn't want that to happen before the tray was ready to go. It would be best if I was making the delivery at the end of my shift, not being expected back in the kitchen afterward. Scenes involving bare flesh, supple breasts, juicy pussies, and my dick getting its share of attention, kept invading my brain. I thought I would go crazy before the order was ready. I would go crazy if the customer turned out to be of high moral standard and not into a casual romp with an eager young man. Or, god forbid, pregnant. Pregnant is off my a la carte menu.

I was taking my time rinsing down my workstation, delaying going home when the chef announced, "Room service, twenty-nine." He waved his hand toward a tray with a covered dish as though I wouldn't know what needed delivering. Couldn't he see I was already changed in preparation for this task?

"Happy to," I said, reaching for the tray. "I'm done, so I won't be back tonight. See you tomorrow." And then I scooted out the back door before anyone could delay me from my appointed duty. The dinner I was carrying was hot and I was hoping its recipient would be too.

Approaching the room, I slowed to look at myself in a window. The reflection wasn't all that great, but I felt confident I looked presentable, professional, fuckable. Taking a final gawk at myself in my reflection on the brass number on the door, I brushed at my black hair then gave two sharp raps.

"Just a minute," Mr. Happy in my pants gave a little jump. It was a female voice. The door cracked open, and the safety chain rattled. She had it engaged which was another good sign. With a strong, burly man in the room to protect her, why would she use it? An eye appeared and blinked at me.

"Room service," I announced. I was certain she'd had a peek at me through the eyehole in the door, but I know certain protocols are expected. Announcing room service helps the customer feel the opulence the service suggests. Mr. Happy drooped. That eye belonged to a woman, but the wrinkles around it belonged to an old woman. Mature was alright in my books but cronified was in another league.

"Oh, good," She exclaimed, closing the door. I heard the safety chain scrape, then the door swung wide, revealing the object that had titillated me for the past thirty minutes. Mr. Happy went into full deflation. The woman standing before me could be my grandmother. She smiled at me with a mouth puckered with lines. Her cheeks were hollowed, making her cheek bones stand out in stark relief. Her neck showed tight cords, with sagging skin hanging between them. Her shoulders were topped with sharp collar bones.

She was wrapped in a towel, and another adorned her head. This would have brought me to new heights of excitement except I was certain the upper towel was hiding volumes of grey hair and the lower one sags of descending breasts. Now I just wanted to get rid of my cargo, graciously accept a generous gratuity and bow my way the fuck out of there. What woman orders room service and then takes a shower, knowing someone will be calling before she has a chance to dress?

"Please," she beckoned with a bony hand, "set it there." She indicated the table by the window. I didn't want to enter that beckoning doorway, feeling very much like a fly being invited into a spider's parlour, but how could I decline? I stepped inside and began to tell her how busy we were, and I had to rush back, but she stopped me with a shush and a finger to her lips. Lips that I noted were well waxed with garish red lipstick. For a moment I wondered how she'd managed to keep the lipstick on in the shower before realizing, she'd been about to climb in when I arrived.

"Please be quiet." She was old, but she was polite. This was her second 'please' in as few minutes. "I just got my granddaughter to sleep."

Only then did I notice the figure on a cot on the far side of the bed. I clamped my mouth shut and set the tray on the table. I heard the door click closed behind me and a word clambered from my bowels into my mind. Trapped.

"We've had a big day and she's absolutely knackered."

Now that wasn't a word I was expecting to be used in relation to a child. I'd been knackered a few times and it was a condition no child should ever be in because getting there involved downing vast quantities of alcohol. But, since I was conversing across at least two generations, the expression could have different connotations for her. I didn't want to find out, I wanted to get out. Although I wasn't opposed to mature women being the target for my erect penis, this mature had never been part of the equation.

I lifted the cover from the plate, another part of elegant room service experience, and was reaching to unpack and set the silverware when she spoke again.

"I'm sorry I'm not dressed," She splayed her arms as though I might not have noticed she was wrapped in shower linen, "but I was delayed putting her down and then there was a problem with the shower. I wonder if you might assist me."

No, no, no, screamed in my head. Just get the hell out. But she hadn't tipped me yet and beating a quick exit would likely affect of the size of that, perhaps quench it completely. Before I could answer, she turned away, heading toward the bathroom, deeper into the parlour.

"I can," I lowered my voice, remembering the slumbering figure, "call maintenance--"

"No, no, I am sure its just something simple." She gestured me forward as she entered the bathroom. "I'm just not very good with these things."

I stepped forward, every fibre of me wanting to bolt. My body seemed to think if I took hesitant steps that she would change her mind and send me on my way. My body was wrong. When I stepped inside, she was bent over, with her head over the bathtub, fumbling with the taps or something. I couldn't see because the wall was in the way. What I did notice, was that the flap of her towel was drooping, leaving a view of her bare hip, almost to her breast. Never was I so thankful that there was a swatch of fabric concealing side-boob. Water was splashing into the tub.

"See, here?" She glanced at me, pointing toward the spigot. "The water runs, but," I could hear her jiggling something and I moved closer so I could see what she was talking about, "the water won't come out of the shower head."

I looked and sure enough, she was jiggling the diversion handle that should redirect the water from the tap to the shower. "Let me see." I reached for the handle. Giving it my own jiggle, as though she didn't know what she was doing, I too failed to coax the water up the pipe and out the shower.

She stepped back, giving me better access. I leaned in further, pulling harder on the handle, trying to picture in my head, how the parts were connected. Imagining a flipper valve of some sort, and it being stuck, I stuck my pinky up the spigot. The water coming out began to spray all over and I felt cold on my legs. Even though the water was warm, it felt cold where it was spraying me. Shifting my finger to direct the spray away from me, I pushed it in a bit further. I felt it bump against something hard. Must be the diverter flap. I jiggled the handle more and jabbed at the hard thing in the spigot. I was rewarded with a click, the water from the spigot stopped and a shower descended on my head from above.

I stepped back in surprise as Granny stepped forward exclaiming, "You did it." Our collision knocked her backward and caused me to lose my balance. I reached for anything to steady myself and ended up with a handful of towel. She yelled in alarm and when I looked at her, she was standing with her back against the sink vanity and she was naked. I'd pulled the towel off her.

Before I could stop myself, I glanced to her chest and noted that, despite her age, she had a nice rack. Definitely a solid c-cup but they were pretty pert. Not eighteen-year-old pert, but smooth, and almost sag free. Pretty good for an old bird, flashed through my mind. That took the first half-second of my recovery and in the second, I dropped my eyes to her bush. It was full of grey hairs, but what would you expect from such a lady? There wasn't enough hair there to obscure her vulva and I saw she had some generous, protruding labia lips. Rather than being disgusting as I had imagined, they were pretty attractive. Mr. Happy in my pants only took that long react.

Now, I don't want you to think that I am a perv, staring at an old lady, someone's grandmother, in a sudden moment of vulnerability. This whole scene played out in mere seconds at the end of which I was able to avert my eyes, bring up the towel so she could cover herself and permit her to regain a measure of composure, dignity.

"Oh, my god," she stammered. "I am so sorry." I couldn't believe she was apologizing when it was me who had yanked her towel off. My mind was still reeling from the exposure I had witnesses and stumbling over how I should react.

"I am sorry," I started, totally unaware how I was going to finish my sentence.

"I'm so embarrassed." She was gripping the towel against herself as though she needed to wring water out of it. Then she noticed that my hair was dripping from the dousing I had taken when the shower started to work. "You're wet."

She moved to get another towel from the towel rack at the far end of the room, managing to fumble and drop her towel in the effort. Her back was now to me and I got a perfect view of her bare ass. Although it was a bit scrawny, with hints of wrinkling, it wasn't unattractive and gave Mr. Happy another reason to jump. Now he was pressing against the front of my pants. My whole view of seniors was on the change, and I was liking the transformation. "It was my fault." I managed to squeak out, still mulling over the views I had had the good fortune to take in.

"I'm humiliated," she said, holding the spare towel out to me, doing her best to cover herself one-handed.

"You shouldn't be," I responded. She had managed to rewrap herself and, while she tucked her towel under her arms to keep it up, she looked at me. "If I may be so bold, you have a nice body. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of."

She just stared a me for a few moments, various expressions crossing her face. "What?" was all she managed to say, and I knew it wasn't because she hadn't heard what I said. She was dumbfounded.

I rubbed my hair with my towel. "This was all an unfortunate accident," I said. "I don't want you to feel bad, I wasn't ogling you, but I couldn't help but see. You are a very attractive woman."

"I'm a grandmother," she said, still holding me with her stare. She took a step backward as though afraid I might reach out and grab her.

"Sure, but you've obviously taken care of yourself. I don't know how you'll take my next comment, but you've given me a woody."

"A what?" Her eyes grew wide.

"A woody." I thrust my pelvis toward her. Her mouth puckered into an O, and her eyes squinted toward my crotch. She must have seen my cock pressing against the fabric of my pants, and decided she liked it because after a moment, she smiled then feigned a shocked expression.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said.

"Just being honest."

"You think I'm attractive?" She blushed.

Since she wasn't screaming, calling me a pervert or a rapist, I felt bolder, so I told her, "I think you're totally fuckable." I gave the comment a moment to sink in before making movements as though I was going to leave. I thought a little encouragement might just affect the mood in the right way.

"Really?" And, when she moved past me, closing the bathroom door, I knew I had her. Marvelling at how my attitude toward this mature woman had changed in the few minutes since I'd first seen her at the door, I turned back to her, dropping my towel to the floor.

"Since I had the good fortune of the opportunity to see you au natural, I think it would be fair to return the favour." I paused a couple of moments for effect then finished with, "If you would like."

She was a master of drama, pausing before responding. That slight hesitation sent a rush of desire through me. I was certain she could see it like a wave passing through my body. She whispered, "I'd like to."

I was done with hesitation and simply undid the button at my waist, opened my fly, and stepped out of my pants. Because I had gone commando, my cock sprung free and stood at attention for her inspection. Again, her eyes widened, her mouth hung open. I took a step toward her, and she let her towel drop. Seeing her with my fresh attitude, my dick wanted to plunge into her and give her a good fucking, but I wanted to spend a little time enjoying this unexpected wonderland.

I took her breasts in my palms, marvelling at their feel, the goosebumps that erupted over them. She gasped in a breath, then pressed herself against me, squeezing my cock against her stomach. Oh, how I wanted to thrust it inside her. Instead, I took a step backward, eased down to my knees, and pressed my face into her bush. I licked her crotch from her ass, along the edge of her vagina, up to her clitoris. She sucked in a quick breath.

She entwined her fingers into my hair, coaxing me to keep up what I was doing. I was happy to oblige her. With my misconceptions about older women slipping away, I marvelled at her taste, the juiciness of her pussy, the heat wafting from her, and her eagerness as she thrust her pelvis forward. Instead of mothballs and mould, she tasted of baby powder and lilacs. For a woman who felt she needed a shower, she seemed pretty clean to me. Her arousal was obvious and the moans and quiet words she whispered told me how much she liked what I was doing.

After giving her a good tongue lashing, I stood, hugged her close, running my hands up and down her back, caressing her ass. Her lips on my neck, tongue licking my ear sent shivers through me, stiffened my dick even more. She reached down and gripped me, squeezing and pulling on me, bringing me to higher desire. The head of my cock was swelling, throbbing as though it would explode. I tried to settle my mind because I wanted this to last, not end up as a quick blast on her stomach. My hips moved back and forward of their own accord; my mind was adrift on a sea of pleasure. Her fingers were gentle, soft, experience at work. No fumbling with this lady.

"Put it in your mouth," I gasped.

"I've never done that." The words came out of her slow. She must have been embarrassed to admit that.

"You've never given a blow job?" I looked into her eyes then realized what I had said.

"No," she glanced down then up again, "but then, I've never had anyone lick me down there before. Guess I've been a bit old fashioned. If putting you in my mouth makes you feel like how you made me feel, I know why you're asking." She rubbed my cock a little more before continuing. "Well, ok, but I can't kneel like you did. Old joints."