*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
*Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
*.*.*
This story is dedicated to the memory of
mordbrand
, a contributor to Literotica.
*.*.*
Paris Williams pedaled along the side of the gravel road, along the packed earth. She kept to the side of the gravel road; trying to pedal the antiquated 10-speed bicycle through the loose gravel was just asking for disaster. There was the chance of becoming bogged down in the loose gravel, or chancing the occasional nail or shard of broken glass.
Grandpa had been cleaning out the old barn when he discovered Jack Williams's old bicycle. The bicycle was just a skeleton of its former glory; Jack had said the bike had cost him a pretty penny in 1983. But when Grandpa found it, the bicycle was just a jumble of rusted and rotted bits and pieces.
Paris had sanded the orange paint and the rust from the frame. The tires had rotted off the bent rims, even the rubber brake pads had rotted away. The vinyl seat was rotted and mildewed, exposing the rusted metal chassis underneath.
"God, Sweetheart," Jack had said. "As much as it would cost to fix this, why don't we just get yourself a new bike?"
Paris had not heeded her father's words, just bent to the task of fixing the old frame. It was just as much a labor of love as it was a desire to have a bicycle. This bicycle had once belonged to her father and Paris adored her father.
Now, as the nineteen year old girl pumped her pale legs, the red head smiled as she used her thumb to rapidly drop the gear from sixth down to third as she swung left through the sharp elbow in the gravel path. The bicycle's glossy lipstick pink color shone in the late morning sun. The leather saddle pressed firmly against her crotch and the rocks and ruts and occasional tree root and clump of sod caused the stiff leather saddle to jerk and bump and rub maddeningly against her denim covered crotch.
Over the wooden bridge, Paris brought the gears up to seven, then eight and nine as she picked up speed. She gave a happy little grunt as the boards caused the leather saddle to vibrate against her wet sex. Then it was back down to five to traverse the soft earth again.
On the asphalt of Highway 331, Paris pumped her pale legs as hard as she could, shifting through the gears until she was at ten. Glancing from left to right and to the left again, Paris did not stop at the junction of 331 and 12-A. She rarely had to stop; there was rarely any on-coming traffic. Three minutes after crossing the intersection, Paris reached Rio Del Sol Mexican restaurant and pulled up behind the restaurant.
Paris locked her bicycle behind the restaurant then knocked on the back door. She smiled at Tammy Garrett, the manager and Tammy returned the girl's smile.
In the employee's break room, Paris quickly wiped her sweaty arm pits with a damp wad of paper towels, then smeared some gel deodorant under each arm. She then pulled her peasant blouse out of her duffel bag and wiggled into it. Blouse securely on, Paris wiggled out of tee shirt and bra and dropped both into her duffel bag. She worked the short skirt up over her legs and then dropped her denim shorts to the concrete floor. She smirked at the sight of the dark patch where her crotch had been in contact with her bicycle seat. Leather sandals completed her uniform and Paris was ready for their lunch rush.
"Ola, Senora Tammy," Paris teased as she put her apron on.
"Ola, red headed gringo," Tammy agreed. "Becky called in sick again."
"Tammy, she's not sick, it's Monday," Paris shook her head in disgust. "And, how many times do I have to remind you? It's 'gringa,' not 'gringo, goof. I'm a girl.'"
As if to emphasize her female status, Paris worked the elastic collar of her blouse down to show off her 30C cleavage. With twenty minutes until opening time, there were no cars in the parking lot, no one standing on the other side of the glass door waiting to get into the restaurant.
"That house in Geaytchel's really coming along, isn't it?" Fernando commented to Tammy and Paris as he stirred the seasonings into the diced chicken breasts.
"Is it? I've not been out there since hmm, right after Tommy's birthday," Paris asked, glancing over the window partition that separated kitchen and dining area.
"Mm hmm; it has one of those, those, oh come on, what's it called? When it goes all the way around the house?" Tammy asked, perking up as a car pulled into the parking lot.
"Walls?" Paris teased. "My trailer's got walls all the way around, all four sides."
"A porch?" Fernando guessed and reduced the heat on the chicken breasts.
"Yes, yes, but it's not called a porch," Tammy said. "Not when it goes all the way around."
"Oh, a veranda!" Paris said. "How do you know it has a veranda?"
They're putting in the railings. They're sooo pretty; cast iron and wood. Makes you wonder what the inside's going to look like when they're finished with it," Tammy said then nodded with her head toward the rear door of the restaurant where a knocking could be heard.
Paris opened the door to let Kenny enter the restaurant. Since Becky had called in sick, it fell to Tammy to act as second waitress, as well as cashier and as shift manager. She'd already called Mr. Frankie, the restaurant's franchise owner to inform him about his niece once again leaving his restaurant and employees high and dry.
"I know blood's thicker than water," Tammy muttered to herself as three more cars pulled into the parking lot. "But come on, Frankie, money's thicker than blood, right?"
"Would have been here sooner, but got stuck behind another truck," Kenny explained. "Right there on twelve where they're working on those two big buildings."
"They are really going up quick, aren't they?" Paris agreed. Anyone know when they're going to start hiring? "Tommy and Jeremy put in their applications at both of those places."
"Start on the chips, Fernando," Tammy ordered as Paris flipped the 'Open' sign on and slid the bolt back to unlock the door.
From the moment she unlatched the door until just before three o'clock, Paris barely had time to look up. They were extremely busy with twenty four tables to tend to, split between two waitresses.
After three pm, Tammy suggested Paris eat a bite and relax for thirty minutes. Fernando smiled as he pointed to the chicken tortilla wraps he'd set aside for Paris.
"Thanks, Fernando; you're the best," Paris said tiredly as she grabbed the plate and sat at Table number one, the table closest to the hallway that led to bathrooms, break room and rear exit.
"Your turn," Paris said as she put her dirty plate into Kenny's bin.
Moments after Tammy grabbed her own plate, an attractive couple entered the restaurant. The woman was a red head, with pale skin, a small smattering of freckles on her cheeks and across her slender nose. Her face was square with a slight cleft chin that seemed to emphasize her wide smile and brilliant green eyes.
The woman's hair reached just below her shoulders, parted on the right in a slightly messy, slightly tousled manner. Paris estimated, even with the four inch heels the woman wore, she was probably about five feet four inches, the same height as Paris. The dress the woman wore was of a pale blue linen. The dress and shoes and matching purse certainly looked elegant, far too elegant for Rio Del Sol Mexican restaurant.
"We're in the heart of yokel country, and you're dressed like this is a fashion shoot?" Paris heard the beautiful red head's blandly handsome escort claim.
Paris felt her anger rise. Mordbrand Kansas was not 'yokel country,' as the woman's companion claimed. It was Kansas. And in this corner of Kansas, Jayel County was filled with farmers, truckers, hardworking people trying to eke out an honest living off of the sweat of their brow.
From the looks of this young man, in his designer jeans and suede loafers with matching suede belt and button down shirt
, he'd never sweated a day in his life. Those meticulously pampered hands had never developed a callous from a shovel or hammer. There certainly had never been any dirt underneath those fingernails; Paris could see that the nails wore a sheen of clear fingernail polish.
"Hush," the beautiful red head ordered her companion. "I dress to be comfortable and I am comfortable."
"Hi, sit anywhere," Paris said, already reaching for the wicker basket of chips.
"And do not call this yokel country; I love the people, I love the fresh clean air, I love the sunshine," the red head further ordered. "I feel I will be very happy here."
"Hi, welcome to Rio Del Sol," Paris said, placing the wicker basket of warm tortilla chips and small ceramic bowl of salsa onto the table.
"Thank you, Paris. It is Paris, am I right?" the woman smiled.
"I uh, yes ma'am," Paris said, surprised.
"Kimberly's wedding," the woman tittered, green eyes dancing at Paris's confusion. "I am Moisette Seraque. I am Kimberly's friend from the university?"
"Oh! Oh yeah! Hi! How are you doing?" Paris laughed, now recognizing the gorgeous woman from Kimberly Finnegan, now Kimberly Tucker's wedding.
At her bridal shower, Kimberly had happily introduced the beautiful, elegant woman as her first roommate and dear friend, declaring to all that she would have left Missouri River State University had it not been for Moisette Seraque, moisette's friendship. Kimberly also announced that Moisette was from Quebec, Canada, where French was the official language.
"Yes, yes, I am the ex-patriate," Moisette had laughed easily. "The emigre from Canada."
Moisette's French accent had delighted those attending Kimberly's bachelorette party. Moisette endured it all with grace, until Becky Richardson, the absent waitress, had attempted to use her high school French with the guest. Moisette had stared at the smug girl for a long moment before returning her attention to Kimberly.
"Erm, Kimberly? Your friend? She is erm, slow? Mentally challenged?" Moisette had asked Kimberly.
