Dinner Guests

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.