Clean Slate

Here's a little Nude Day Contest tidbit for you. Readers of my other stories will notice a few familiar characters here and there. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

"So, here's the thing." Amy steepled her fingers before her on the desk and leaned toward me, looking and acting with a detachment I found scary. Then and there I decided I wouldn't take the job if it meant she was going to be there every day; her hair, pulled severely back, gave her the look of a vulture. I tried to keep my smile pasted on. "It's been explained to you what we cater to. Our customers like butts."

"I know." I hoped I sounded charming. I needed a job. It didn't have to be this one, but no way would I find better money than I could make here. My friend Brittany had told me all about the tips. Five or six months here and maybe I could finish my damn degree. "I'm fine with that."

"Good," the woman murmured. She arched an eyebrow. "I'll just lay it all out for you. The Health Department mandates you cover all posterior skin for indoor dining establishments. Our own corporate policy mandates at least ninety percent visibility of each cheek, as approved by your manager." She smiled thinly, letting it sink in. "There are a lot of ways to bridge the gap between those requirements, and as long as you wear the assigned tanktop or shirt, you can figure out the lower half yourself."

"Mm hmm." The other person at the table was the hiring manager, who'd done nothing but stare at my body since I'd arrived. It bothered me, but not much; I never really mind showing off, and the whole point of the job was to let men stare at my ass. "She'll do fine, Dr Bishop," he leered.

Something had struck me. "Indoor? What's the difference?"

Amy shrugged. "I don't know. Ask a lawyer. It has something to do with the annual Beach Bash, and the fact that all the food service is done there by women in swimsuits?" She didn't seem to care much.

But the man did. "Our original location on the South Side has a patio." He nodded knowingly. "In the summer, we can set up an outdoor food-prep area and..." He smiled like a man dreaming of heaven. "Well. The normal dress code doesn't really apply out there."

"Any other questions?" Amy, apparently some sort of doctor, acted like she hadn't even heard him.

I hesitated. I didn't want to appear prudish: I'm not, and this wasn't the kind of job I'd get if I seemed to be. But Brittany had been vague about some of the details, and I figured I should get them figured out before I signed on the dotted line. "I'm curious," I began, "about touchy customers."

A vigorous nod from the woman, a Hannibal Lecter glance from the man. "It's a problem," she admitted, "but we're zero-tolerance, and we print that prominently on the menu. No touching. We're not a strip club, not even close."

"Not even close," the man parroted.

"So no. The last thing our employees need is a handprint made of Hot Stuffed-Bra Wing Sauce on their butts." She smiled, apparently intending that to be funny, but I was nodding.

"Good. And pics?"

"Pics?" She cocked her head.

"Pics. Like, customers taking pics of us." I looked back and forth between the man, who looked like the kind of guy who had an awful lot of pics of the employees, say, on a hard drive, and the woman. For her part, she didn't seem able to comprehend my question. "They're allowed to?"

"Of course." She took a sip of her sparkling water. "We maintain a robust social media presence, and a lot of that is content posted by our customers." She shrugged. "If that's a problem, then Cheeks probably isn't the kind of place..."

"No! Oh, god no!" The last thing I needed was for her brain to complete that sentence. "No, I'm fine with it. God knows, the internet is already chock-full of pictures of my butt." I giggled; it was a joke, but not by much. I saw the man make a mental note. "I just wanted to know what the expectations are. Like, if customers want me to pose for them."

"Oh!" She smiled now, more pleasantly than before, and spread her hands on the desk. "No, you should feel free to go only as far as you're comfortable with, for any customer request." She nodded to herself. "We insist that everyone in our organization should feel safe and respected at all times. Isn't that right, Ben?"

"I hold all you girls in the highest possible regard," he nodded, his eyes squarely on my tits. I wondered, for a wild second, whether he'd just whip it out and start masturbating right there. I was vaguely impressed he'd made it

this

long; the very first thing they'd had me do when I walked in was to drop my pants and show my butt, with the emphatic insistence that I didn't

have

to do it. Left unsaid, of course, was that I'd never be hired if I refused, so I'd spun on my heel and mooned them with what I hoped was a certain degree of sass.

I certainly wasn't worried about how I looked. Brittany made huge money here, and I had a far better ass than she did. And I could tell when I turned around that Ben agreed with that.

The woman nodded at her notes, glanced over at the man, and smiled thinly. "There are opportunities too, in some of our other businesses, for our more motivated employees."

"Other businesses?"

"We have a chiropractic clinic, a fitness center, and a retail web presence, all based on the South Side." She pushed her glasses up her nose, then nodded at me. "I think you'll do fine, Lisa," she finished, stacking her papers in front of her. "Welcome to Cheeks & Company Bar and Grille."

* * *

I celebrated that night with Tony, the two of us getting thoroughly sweaty at a college club down by the beach and then heading back to his place after midnight, walking the few blocks with my head on his shoulder and his hand tight on my ribcage. "I'm telling you, I'm fine with it," he insisted.

"I don't want you to be fine with it," I pouted, sticking my lower lip out. "Tony, I'm going to be working at the sleaziest and most sexist restaurant in the area, wagging my ass for every random pervert who comes in for cheap chicken wings and microwaved jalapeno poppers. I don't want you to be happy I'm showing my ass."

"Aren't you? Happy?"

"Well, yeah," I shrugged. He smelled good, all sweaty. "The money's going to be massive, and I'm not shy about my ass."

"Good." His hand drifted down to squeeze my cheek. "I think of it this way: your ass is a national resource that deserves to be enjoyed by all. Especially if it makes you mad money." He chuckled. "I know who you're coming home to, hon."

I did, too, stumbling into his apartment and barely kicking the door closed before I maneuvered myself into his arms and his mouth, his tongue tasting like rum. He was everything I always liked: big and hairy and strong, with a wispy collegiate beard that left red scratches on my thighs when he ate me out. It occurred to me that that might be a handicap in my new job. "Mmm," I breathed into his mouth as our lips dueled to the rising sound of sliding tongues in a saliva broth. I backed off, the spit glazing my chin. "Wanna fuck?"

He answered with narrowed eyes and a hard, proprietary thrust of his hips, driving his erection against my body. I gasped; it always amazed me how quickly I could get him hard. "Guess so," I murmured thickly. My hand dropped down between us, working at his belt buckle while he reached around me to shove my shorts over my ass. Jesus, he was going to take me right here by the front door! I was panting already. I felt my thumbnail chip as I clawed for his belt. "Give me that dick."

"What dick?" He was hot and moist in my ear, my shorts around my knees now and still migrating south. He did this a lot, drama major that he was: Tony was addicted to the grand entrance, the big cue. He waited, his teeth grating against my earring, until my fingers found their way into the humid hairy space between his belly and his cock and closed around that thick, meaty shaft I was addicted to. His chest hummed against me as he laughed grimly. "Oh.

That

dick."

"My dick," I whispered into his neck, already moving my hand up and down along his trembling veins and ridges. His tongue was back around my lips now. I squeezed him hard and felt him grunt into my mouth. "Mine." I got an ankle free at last and lifted my foot up his calf, feeling fingers questing around my ass, toward my pussy. Our bodies were already surging together in perfect rhythm, his hand finding my drooling vag and digging in.

He knew me so well. This was going to be a killer orgasm.

We paused for breath, our foreheads touching while our fingers played with each others' bodies. I know what he saw: my cheeks all red, my dark eyes wide and inky, my full lips slack. Breath tearing out of me. I needed him to plug me, and my frantically moving pussy told him so; I was rubbing my body along his, still working at his cock, grinding us both into a hot frenzy. Sometimes Tony could make me cum just this way, by friction and sweat and spit.

But tonight I wanted cock, wedged firmly into my pussy.

He wrenched his fingers out, his tongue still thrusting into me like his dick would soon, and I heard my top stretch as he forced his hand up under its tight fabric, up my side, mauling my tit through the bra. I was looking at the ceiling all of a sudden, the cracks in the paint up there swimming suddenly in a preorgasmic haze as I arched into him, my bra straps digging mercilessly into back and shoulders when he shoved the cup up and over my nipple.

Fuck. He was working that nipple, suddenly, like he was tuning an old-school radio, the rest of my tit a firm warm handful for his sweaty palm. I tore my tongue from his mouth, my body singing, and forced his head around until I could grate into his ear. "Put it in me, Tony, you sick fuck."

He manhandled me, pushing me hard behind him until I crashed into the door with a sharp gasp. I needed to escape the prison of my bra, but there was no time; I knew he'd already have his pants open, expecting to rail me, and since I'd just told him to I couldn't very well stop the show while I got stripped. As if my body would let me anyway: my vagina was a thick soupy mess by now, craving what only he could give me, so with my shorts still wrapped around one ankle I braced my hands against the doorjamb, bent over, and spread my legs for him.

"Fuck." He loved this, staring at my smooth perky ass, knowing he was about to get up in me. He always paused here and admired the view, and even through my lust-addled brain I felt pride. He often smacked me at this point, but shit! I was starting tomorrow at the restaurant.

Handprints.

I twisted around to catch his eye. "No spanking," I grunted. "Not tonight." He gritted his teeth, and I saw my instinct had been right; he had his hand up already, cocked and loaded to come cracking down onto my right cheek. He instead brought it urgently to my hip, the other hand angling his cock to enter me, and when he dragged my body back into his I felt it, like always with him, that blunt beautiful uncut cockhead splitting my swollen, drooling labia like they weren't even there, like I wasn't still young and tight, like I didn't spend hours doing those stupid muscle flexes the magazines said you had to do: I was that juiced, that turned on, and my pussy sucked him in like it was my mouth. "Fuck," I breathed.

"Sexy slut." He loved watching himself go in. "Look at that sloppy cunt." I usually hated that word, but in the moment, coming from the man who was pushing his cock so deliciously into my slit, it sizzled through me, snapping me into a new level of excitement, and I yelped as he settled his balls against my clit. "Feel that, bitch?" Hell yes; he was flexing his shaft inside me. "Feel my hard cock?"

"Jesus," I gurgled. "Every fucking inch, you gorgeous goddamn animal." He liked it when I talked. "Now fuck me with it." He was out, slowly and with an excruciating shudder from me, and then right back in, driving the breath out of my lungs and my head, lightly, against the front door. "Harder." We'd broken the bathroom door once, my back splintering the cheap apartment wood as Tony'd fucked me standing. I hoped the front door was better, and that this man's thrusting cock wouldn't put my head straight through it.

As always, it was the sounds that got me first: the squelching urgency of his dick stirring my pussy, the applause-like slaps of our thighs coming brutally together, his spit hitting my lower back as he snarled at me, the harsh whistle of my breath escaping through my teeth. Tony was beautiful, a man made to fuck, his cock carving its path into my body with the brutal savagery I needed while his hands held me in place, a hole for him to take his pleasure from. "Move that ass for me."

I obeyed. I always obeyed, eventually.

"Fuck yes." He was deep-dicking me, every push a firm, efficient thrust using all the power of his legs and abs. "You're such a good whore," he whispered thickly, and around that time the thickness of his cock and the insistent way it knocked at my cervix sent me over the edge, the orgasm blanking me out with the same cotton-candy intensity I always felt, and I felt badly for Tony's neighbors as I screeched like a scalded monkey. "Cum on that fat cock, you slut."

He couldn't resist any longer, the slaps like gunshots echoing through the apartment, three swift smacks on my ass, and I was more than ready to take them. And more. Fuck his handprints; I no longer cared. "Beat me," I demanded through gritted teeth, and the blows rained down as his cock rutted into me and my whole body was tense, every muscle standing out on my tanned, plucked skin.

"God," he managed at the end, and my brain willed him to just hilt himself and drive his sperm into my needy, weepy snatch, but Tony never ever did that; he liked to see me splattered, and this time he didn't give me time to take it on my face. "Fuck," he breathed, the syllable drawn out long and ragged, and his semen slapped hard along my spine where my top had ridden up to my bra strap. I was still twitching, my pussy red and wide, my eyes closed as I felt the hot, thick rain, four or five healthy spurts. "So sexy." I could only agree, my arms sore where I'd braced myself, feeling the burn of my reddened ass and the quick, hot thrill of his semen on my skin.

And the shower was even better. Tony loved showering with me. We weren't exclusive, not quite yet, but we were certainly heading that way.

* * *

"So, the manager should be here soon." Brittany was buffing the stray lipstick from her teeth. "Her name's Tori."

"Tori?" I peered into the bathroom mirror beside her sink, worried about the shape of my eyebrows. I felt vaguely like a stripper before her set. "Is she cool?"

"Pretty much. She's actually just the assistant manager. She started at their other location, on the South Side, and then they moved her up here after she graduated." She thought about it. "June? July? Early summer, anyway. She's fine. She knows how to run a restaurant."

"Well, it's not exactly rocket science." I'd worked in several. I'd left the last one after I'd blown the line cooks to get my food out faster. Tips here ought to be good enough that I wouldn't need to resort to that kind of thing.

"You'll probably be shadowing her tonight. She likes to do it that way for your first couple of shifts. Then she'll put you on hostess the next time, and then it's all you, flying solo. She'll want your phone number, too. She texts a lot of schedule changes." She shrugged at me in the mirror while she adjusted her bra, frowning critically at every bounce and jiggle. "Big tits, big tips," she muttered. Hers were ginormous.

I sighed. Every restaurant was the same. "More nippin', more tippin'. We're at the wrong restaurant, then," I chuckled. They'd explained it to me at the interview: this wasn't a

breastaurant,

they'd stressed. It was an

asstaurant

.

"Yeah," she agreed, finally happy with her cleavage, "but the other place pays shit. And those stupid orange shorts." She shook her head; Brittany always had been an elitist. "Well. Shall we?" She turned her smile on me, and we sauntered out together. "Tori's fine," she repeated. "Just learn the menu as soon as you can. And never forget to push the specials. It's one of the ways she gets evaluated."

They had the place done in a style I thought of as "faux-shitty," with mock-hardwood floors and lots of high-top tables. But everything, everywhere, was fake. Plastic. The bar was huge, along one entire wall, and there were few booths. "We move a bunch of the tables around for the birthday dance." Brittany had explained that patrons who were celebrating birthdays got what the employee manual called

special treatment,

left tantalizingly vague in the paragraph that followed. "It's fun, but sort of demeaning. We do it a lot; just watch the first time. It's pretty self-explanatory." She gave her tits one last tweak. "A lot of guys come here for their birthday."

"Hey!" Two other girls leaned on the hostess station, eyeing me with blatant judgement. The taller one didn't bother smiling. "New meat?"

"Ladies," Brittany grinned, "this is Lisa. She's my best bitch. Lisa? Meet Kylee and Jennae." We nodded, somewhat warily. I never liked being the new girl at a restaurant, but I'm friendly. The abuse never lasts long. "Isn't Megan on tonight?"

"Late." Jennae was tall and skinny, wearing a transparent vinyl skirt. Probably from some sort of hipster store. She turned to me. "She gets away with it because her ass is fucking amazing."

"Right?" Kylee was short, even squat, with buck teeth. She had fishnets, like me. But they had very small openings, unlike me. The tanktop barely contained the sides of her tits. "Fucking amazing," she repeated. "Are you from around here, Lisa?" she asked, but I wasn't listening, because I was busy staring in wide-eyed disbelief at the woman who'd just walked in.

Fuck.

I leaned over toward Brittany. "Is that Tori?"

She glanced at me quickly. "You know her?"

Fuck.

"Vaguely," I replied, already wondering how soon I could quit. Victoria fucking Nguyen.

Well,

I reflected bitterly,

what goes around comes around.

And now it was about to come around on me, big-time, for Victoria Nguyen was not my biggest fan. Not even a little bit. I drew myself up as tall as I could, smiled my least-bitchiest smile, and hoped for the best just as that annoying, piping voice I remembered came flying out of her grinning little mouth.

"Turn around, girls!" Brittany and Amy had both told me about the daily compliance checks, and the other girls were already turning: 100% coverage, 90% uncoverage. And apparently Victoria fucking Nguyen was going to be judging the intervening ten percent. I spun around, my ponytail whipping, and listened to her footsteps come up behind me as I faced the far wall. "Ah!" The pitch of that voice of hers, grating on my nerves! "That's right. There's a new girl today. Lisa, right?"

I knew I was blushing bright red, remembering the little high-school-sophomore version we'd called Vicky Nguyen, making sure we said it as "NOO-yin" because we knew it annoyed her. Tricky Vicky Nooyin, the Slanty Slasher, the youngest girl on my varsity lacrosse team, the one who'd come in for such very, very special hazing. And I'd been the captain, so naturally I'd led the way. But even though I'd smacked her around a bit and forced her to wash my sweaty underwear, I hadn't really been the one who'd hurt her physically. That was what 11

th

graders were for, back in the day.

But I'd proven very inventive at coming up with racist nicknames.

She'd come mincing hesitantly into the locker room that first day, a quiet transfer student with a formidable background in kids' lacrosse and a strong year as a varsity sub at her last school, so Coach had told me she was planning on starting her for us. I'd nodded, pissed, because that meant my friend Katherine would lose her starting slot, so as soon as I caught sight of the new girl I'd launched right in. "Hey!" I'd hollered, half-naked in the middle of changing, "come here, Pearl Harbor!"