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."
