Chapter 1: Ginger

My legs were wrapped around Steve's ass sort of tightly, allowing him just enough leeway to thrust back and forth inside my pussy. In reality, there's enough strength in these legs to hold him in so tightly that he couldn't move at all. That tactic though is reserved for after he cums, so that his pearly gift won't ooze out of me and so that he himself can't pull out and run off to piss. I only let him go when he promises to suck up my cream pie before he goes to the bathroom. He knows that if he ever breaks that promise, his pleasures within sight of my body will be limited to the use of his strong right hand.

The strength in my legs comes from waiting tables six days a week, off on Monday. The place is one of those chain restaurants that you see advertised on the TV. They make their big money not on the food but on the beer, wine and liquor that we're supposed to push. And that pushing works to our advantage, since the tips are generally between fifteen and twenty-five percent of the total bill. The schedule calls for me to work lunch and afternoons on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, as well as dinner and evenings on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. By 'our' I mean all the waitresses. That's what I call myself, even though officially the title is Server. That sounds too much like servant. No males need apply, because they have no tits.

"Hi, I'm Ginger. What can I get you to drink?" If I introduced myself as anything except Server, I'd get my ass reamed out, but if I don't call myself anything at all, I can get away with it.

"Are you spicy?" they reply with that tired old cliché, gently hitting on me. Every one of those dumb fucks thinks that he's the first one who ever used that line on me.

"When I want to be," I say, letting them know – or think - that they have a chance, so that they'll order more to drink than if I was some fat old crone. Guys always assume quite early that they're going to score.

On weekends in particular, there are a lot of single guys – or guys claiming to be single. The tips are better then and a waitress can usually find someone to go home with, if she's interested and he's willing to wait until closing time. I'm generally interested, unless I've got my monthly visitor. Even then, I'm game if he seems to have money or to be nice. I don't tell him about the menstrual flow until it's too late for him to change his mind. Once they're hard, they'll accept whatever they can get.

They tell me that I'm a fine piece of ass, of which I have no doubt, but relationships never last more than two or three weeks. That's because I won't let any of them do my ass and I make it clear to each one that he is definitely not the 'only' one that I'm fucking. As the guys say, why buy a cow when milk is so cheap? All of which means that I don't give a flying fuck if he's pronging one or more other girls.

A little about Ginger: that's me. Five foot three, plus another three on Friday and Saturday nights when I wear those stilettos. One hundred twenty pounds of bubbly joy. OK, 125 to 130 if you must know the truth. My tits are 36D and my jet black hair – rarely cut – goes all the way down to my ass. Which by the way looks good from behind. I know, I use a mirror.

At age 23, I already have a four year old daughter, Kate. I got married right out of high school and went to work as a waitress in a greasy spoon. When I became pregnant, Shithead realized that he wasn't cut out to be a father and he took off with some skank who hung around the motorcycle shop where he worked. Good riddance, Prick. Once the baby was born, I waited six weeks and then got my present job. My Mom Lucy takes care of the baby when I'm at work – or getting laid.

The boss doesn't mind at all when we toy with the customers. He knows that it helps the bottom line and that keeps the home office happy. It also increases his year-end bonus. His name is Steve, and it was his cock that was inside of my snatch back there in the first paragraph. Generally, he fucked each of the waitresses once a week. It would be in the morning before opening if I was working a day shift, or at night after closing on the weekends.

THE INTERVIEW

"Take off your blouse. Let me see what you've got."

"Huh?" The request (demand) surprised me. I understood the words of course but just couldn't believe what he had said. My first thought was to say 'fuck you' and go file a sexual harassment case. My second that was that it would take forever and I needed a job. I couldn't waste time on a he-said she-said case.

The office wasn't a hell of a lot bigger than an airplane lavatory. The walls were full of posters from every conceivable combination of the alphabet from government agencies about Workers' Compensation, Wage and Hour, OSHA, IRS, etc. (No political comment is intended here.) The shelves were filled with how to do it manuals from the home office. The desk was disheveled, as was Steve after a full day of working.

"Come on, Ginger. All we have to entertain our customers with are your tits. I have to make sure that yours can do the job."

The idea of showing my tits didn't bother me. I had been doing that ever since Middle School. I was proud of them, and thankful that Mom had taught me to dress for emphasis. My cherry had gone to Hymen Heaven when I had been fifteen, thanks to the Prick, the father of my beautiful Kate. I'll say this for him; he had taught me to enjoy sex. And I do, whenever and wherever – and with whomever - I can.