A roadside diner in Ontario hires a new, intriguing waitress.
By Wood_ Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.
Okay. Let’s put you into context. Let’s tell the whole world where all of this started. After all, I need to lay down a simple but important foundation for this monument that erected itself into my life.
Hi. I’m Brian. I’m a full time cook at Carlos Roadside Diner. I’m also a full time dirty long-haired metalhead that’s got his mind on everything else but work. So how I got here, dedicating all my time, my sanity, to this dead-end job, is a whole other story.
For many years, Carlos’ Diner had grown into a staple as a tourist attraction in the back roads of Lambton county, Ontario. Along the Canadian side of the St. Clair River, separating two of the Great Lakes, there’s a great roadside food truck which predates the recent food truck craze by several decades. But this food truck is inspired by the old dining cars of the 1920s. It’s a busy seasonal restaurant that all started with a man and his strange but unique dream to turn an old school bus into a kitchen.
A scenic overlook is on the other side of the old rural highway. On this side, a large asphalt parking area has the big classic bus and actual eating area. The bus has a stained wooden deck and ramp in front of the midsection of the bus, and folks order from a modified area where the midsection windows were removed and a rollup gate was installed over a stainless steel service counter. Picnic tables are scattered all over this smooth asphalt that gets very hot under the sun; cute paper lanterns and flower pots are dangling off a bright yellow canopy. Hidden in the backside of the bus, near a utility pole, a vented short shipping container housed shelves of dry goods and disposable serving supplies; a commercial refrigerator; and lastly, a walk-in freezer. Behind the back end of the bus there were also portable outhouses. The sign itself is a real eye catcher for the hungry tourist: huge and bright with a vintage look of neons and blinking lights. An authentic early 60s swing soundtrack is playing from 2 outdoor speakers mounted on 2 streetlight poles at either end of the parking lot, along the roadside; to complete the atmosphere. Really, the only thing that’d make you wonder if you traveled back in time would be if there were waitresses zooming around on roller skates, bringing food to the tables.
Oh, So, don’t tell him I said that, but the owner, Carlos; with his name in bright shiny letters on the sign, is a big grumpy dummy. There, I said it! He’s got a thick mustache, a receding hairline and gold chains in a shaggy chest, who wears a crusty white wife beater and track pants as soon as the weather allows it.
And his real name is actually Dennis, imagine that. I’m not too sure how and why he got that moniker. I’m sure it’s a pretty dumb story. When you think about it, the name Carlos is indeed catchier than Dennis for a business but his personality is far from being as catchy. The whole lively and attractive feel of the place is, surprisingly, not really reflecting what you might want to think of the owner.
Today is Monday. Our hostess just quit last week for a better gig in town. She had been here for quite a long time, longer than I have. It really caught us off guard at first, we were just opening up for the season. But, honestly, I really couldn’t blame her. Despite the relative success of the establishment, that proverbial grass must definitely be greener somewhere else.
Carlos briefly asked for my input on the resumes before calling the candidates for a brief streak of interviews. And before you knew it, we were already introduced to the new hostess.
I had seen her go by on interview day, but today, Carlos had the whole crew here for an early morning team meeting. While the team was sort of listening to Carlos, I got to stand back and get a better look at her from the distance.
And her name was Emery.
Under a Blue Jays cap that she wore backwards, she had long blonde hair that she usually maintained knitted into two long braids. She was maybe 5'8" tall, with a rather hefty looking build. Her purple makeup and eyebrow piercings really made her facial features pop out. Since Carlos didn’t really impose work attire, she didn’t hesitate in coming with her usual wardrobe, which mostly consisted of straight tank tops or plaid shirts with jeans or shorts. And whenever she wore the latter, you noticed that she had a tendency of wearing mismatched patterned knee socks. I thought this must be really off-putting for people with OCD, but that was probably her intention.
She looked stern but determined, efficient. And even though her looks and fashion choices were giving her off as some kind of anti-social punk, she looked pretty sweet when she smiled and used what I thought must be her customer service voice. I’d almost say she looked boyish, but man, she was all woman.
Now, though, here’s the real flabbergast: this girl seemed to be sporting quite a hefty and impressive bust and she sure took no shortcuts in putting it out there.
At first, I didn’t give it more thought than necessary and it was most likely because she was dressed maybe a little more conservatively on hiring day. Carlos had asked for my opinion upon hiring her, so I wasn’t sure. But when I saw her in what seemed to be her regular work clothes, that was all I could notice about her. She really had those huge, natural-looking, breasts.
I knew Carlos hired her for completely different reasons. There was no way he would have put her physical attributes in the equation, whether it be to benefit his business, or for some hidden, dirty pleasure! Ugh. And regardless, he was married to his very special lady named “Youma’. I had seen her a few times, and let me tell ya; he sure was not the boss of her!
So, no! Serious! Not even once did he ogle at Emery’s chest, and it wasn’t even like he’d become more excited than usual around her. He just wasn’t that kind of guy. Carlos only had eyes for the financial success of his diner. All he must have seen in his new employee was that she looked like your typical socially-outgoing, competent, and eager young woman who wanted to make easy tip money for, I don’t know, her studies or going to the movies with boys. That’s how much Carlos was detached from reality.
As for me, it turned out that a pair of big juicy tits is something, actually one of the only things, that I only have eyes for in life. Like, seriously, how big was she? Some double G’s? Or H, as in Holy Shit!
In either case, it seemed like Emery was a perfect fit for the business for both Carlos and me.
Win - win.
As we started working together, I had to keep an eye on her, see how she went about doing her duties. At the same time, I secretly treated myself by stealing little glances at her body from the corner of my eyes whenever I could. My thoughts started to run wild about her faster than I thought they would. For example, I told myself how her athletic build must really benefit her in carrying around all that weight from her breasts. I was floored!
It seemed like most of her clothing items were deliberately chosen one size smaller and that really didn’t help concealing her chest. Sometimes, the necklines on her tops were so low, it was enough to show bits of the lacey trims of what must be an industrial strength bra.
Yes, her tits were massive, round, large and - oh my God! - so tempting! But all of her features were so perfectly balanced. Even when she made her juicy cleavage blatantly showing out there, she’d still look naturally ravishing. When she interacted with customers, she knew how to make them lock their eyes into hers as she spoke and keep them from looking down her shirt. She was a mesmerizing force of nature.
I thought that I couldn’t give myself off just yet. I was barely here mentally while I worked. I cooked burgers, fries and reuben sandwiches on auto-pilot, goddammit! I did everything like a robot, without much after thought, and it was pretty easy to stay on top of things, if I didn’t get too distracted. That was how I went through the day to do a good job, keep Carlos happy and stay in this gig long enough to pay off my apartment, my car and gather enough money to, eventually, get the fuck out of this town.
I had to deliver. I couldn’t let this chick sidetrack me, even though she seemed to check all my boxes. Looking at her style, I was convinced she even listened to the same type of music as I did. Tool, Mastodon, Slipknot, Static-X, name it. Of all things, this would most likely get me seriously infatuated towards her.
Sigh! I guess the hardest job now was going to be keeping my mind focused.
The first week went like a breeze. She was so busy being shown around by Carlos and I, getting comfortable with her duties. All our conversations were plain, straight to the point. I noticed that quite often, when she’d look at me, she would squint, and nod slightly. She kept a straight face and only replied in short-form sentences when necessary. It was as if she was putting up some kind of shield in front of her. To be honest, I liked that about her, she looked like she had nerves of steel. And that was understandable, I mean, there was quite a lot of work to get done. Our busy season was just getting started, and flocks of tourists, on top of our regular locals, were already swarming us.
One thing I found out about her later was that she loved coffee. Or, should I say, she craved it. She had it straight up and black and she’d make sure she always had a piping hot cup ready within her reach at all time. She asked about it when she saw me getting my own usual morning coffee, so I told her it was one of the perks of working here. I explained: since the diner always needed the freshest pot possible on the burner, this meant that whoever contributed in getting another one to brew was welcome. Even from the slightest losses from our own staff drinking the coffee, Carlos still made crazy profits from it. So let the coffee pour!
As I was shaping up scenarios in my head of how I was going to take this anywhere with her, I thought that coffee was going to ease my way in. After all, coffee is a simple, convivial, comforting beverage, but also a familiar and harmless way to approach someone.
The plan was to bring her outside coffee in the morning, on my way to work. It wasn’t the worst cup of joe here at the diner, but nor the best, so I thought she could only appreciate the gesture.
On some Thursday morning, when I arrived at the diner, Emery’s old 1998 beat-up white Civic sedan was already there. I stepped into the bus, all jolly and confident, and I saw her, already prepping up her station. She was wearing a short sleeve button-up plaid shirt. Since she was turned against me, I was graced with a view of her exquisite and generous rump, basking in the morning sunlight, clad in a pair of tight low-waist denim capris with a studded leather belt. She looked amazing in her grunge outfits, which truly was like my napalm in the morning. And I had noticed her back view more than once, from across the hot tables, when she bent down to take orders through the bus window, but not as appealing as I was seeing it this morning.
“Here, Emery. Um. I stop by this café downtown every Thursday,” I lied. “So I thought I’d get you a nice French roast to start your day right.”
She turned around with a straight face, until she looked down at the cup I was handing her. Then, she made that squint with her eyes, again.
“Oh. Thanks, Brian,” she finally replied with a tiny smile.
She took it and placed it on the counter before turning back to prepare coffee for the diner.
So much for conversation, I thought. At least, I think she drank it all later.
Well, that was it. That was all I had in mind for a first shot, and it was over already. How was I supposed to come up with something else? Maybe it was just a sign that I should let go, and just carry on with my work?
I started thinking that all hope was lost and that she was nothing but a dead-end, a trap, just like this fucking job in general. But was it too soon to come to conclusions?
Well, I had to admit, after that, Emery became a little more, communicative. I knew she had it in her. Yes, she was already giving good, efficient customer service in her own slightly bold and forward kind of way, but she was not doing it exclusively for them anymore. She started spreading that same mood back in the kitchen. She gave compliments, managed to crack a few jokes here and there, actually saying more than just work related stuff. She was growing comfortable.
And, I swear, sometimes she would start dancing around between taking orders. Just shimmying her butt in rhythm with the swing soundtrack playing outside. That sure helped making her look a little more playful than she was letting it show. Whenever she’d do that, I’d fall in a brief trance, thinking how her generous ass in those tight jeans looked just as hot as those huge boobs of hers.
Indeed, those were all but short glimpses that I caught among the rest, because I was so swamped most of the time. I rarely had a chance to send back any of her little attempts at being nice with us.
She never missed an occasion to flaunt her body and allow you to take a peek. I guess she had that kind of nature, her special magic touch. She’d walk around her station and strike a fleeting pose for the simplest of gestures, like pouring water or typing on the cash register; she would arch her back and stick her ass out whenever she picked up something; she squeezed her boobs to the maximum between her arms when she bent down to take orders, shaping up this mind-blowing cleavage. She strutted around this way all day by never letting it look too intentional.
One day, I stumbled upon her at the staff picnic table. Stranded among piles of dirt and weeds behind our rusty and smelly dumpster, that table was all beat-up and sun-bleached, the kind you’d sit on and risk getting splinters on your ass. It was late afternoon and our lunch rush was pretty much over. With a coffee at her side, she was leaning on her elbows and tilted back her head to catch some sun, which was still very hot at that time of day. Her position caused the whole mass of her breasts jutting out, reaching back at the sun, on the verge of bursting out Emery’s shirt.
I made sure I made a racket by throwing my garbage in the dumpster to make myself heard and not scare her, but she never even moved in the slightest to shift and make her chest a little less obvious. No. She just stood still, letting it all out; shamelessly.
“Geez, what a day; right?” I said, clearing my throat.
She scoffed and looked away to nothing in particular through her sunglasses.
“Yup,” she simply replied, raising her eyebrows.
Shaking my head slightly at her increasingly unnerving lack of conversation, I proceeded to chuck my other garbage bag in the dumpster.
“So, does Carlos ever come here for more than 20 minutes at a time? And for more than just coming to count his money?” she suddenly said, out of the blue.
I was taken aback by her observation, but it was true. The boss had a habit of leaving for long hours at a time. You’d think he would supervise a little more those people that he put in charge; whether it was groundskeeper Janet, or old Darcy at accounting. Darcy worked her ass off in the warehouse at the back to prepare a vivid look for the owner of how profits grew daily. She was pretty much Carlos’s personal accountant, tallying expenses even for all of his endeavors, which I had no clue what they were.
Mostly, he was just gone, running errands in his Astro Van, handling some PR or doing whatever the fuck an owner does for his business.
“What do you mean?” I said, trying to see where she was going with this.
“Well, today was quite busy, as a matter of fact. But all he did was walk aimlessly around the diner with his wife. He looked like he lost his contact lenses in the flower beds, I don’t know, but he could have come to help with the line-up instead, and use his charm to tone down the growing impatience that I had to deal with.”
I laughed when she made finger quotes on the word “charm”. I was sensing that Emery might have a bit of a cynical personality. I wasn’t going to lie: I liked that a lot.
I mean, were we going to start talking behind the boss’s back now? Was I finally going to have an opportunity to speak my mind to someone about the man that’s been rotting my life for the past 2 years?
Laying on the table and looking overly confident, like she always did, I just stared at her jugs, because, hey, she was letting me look, dammit. Was this another trap, or was I just being paranoid?
“Yup, that’s good old Carlos, for you,” I said, snapping out of my daydreaming. “This is his kingdom, and we are his low and humble servants.”
I was afraid my analogy was going to make us start giving him many other not so flattering nicknames. So I added:
“But, fair warning, though: don’t ever piss him off,” I laughed. “I know that old fart can get ugly when he’s mad; Trust me.”
Not only was she new, but she basically knew me as Carlos’ right arm. Still, my calling him an old fart would surely clarify my position towards him, even while being his so-called top employee. That didn’t make me love him more. Far from it.
She looked at me, unaltered from my words, and we just left it at that as I walked away, nodding. Still, I felt that we just connected, somehow.
After that, I had more than a few opportunities to open myself a little more towards Emery. For example, there would be times where drink orders were coming in a lot more than food. She’d get swamped with specialty coffees, pop refills, juice and even ice cream orders.
That was when I started offering her my help, since there were a few basic things I knew how to do for the front of the house. Among those, my favorite was definitely the milkshakes. I had to say they were quite popular, and they were advertised in bright bold letters on the billboard: we really had to live up to it.
The thing was that Carlos had a partnership with a local craft dairy shop. They came up with this special recipe for our milkshake that made it extra thick and silky. We’d top it off with fruits, caramel chips, cookie dough or whatever, and a little parasol, making the final product super sexy, and call it our own. But the blend came in large bags, unmixed. So that was where the hostess came in to prepare the drink in what must be the loudest mixer that I’ve ever heard.
That mixer had a 10 liter capacity, convenient for many orders at once. Its reliable 100 watt motor was perfect to crush everything we put in there. Even though it bore a brand that’s no longer part of today’s household landscape, it still worked perfectly. But it was loud and very unsteady, so much that you had to hold it down by the lid with two hands every time you started it. And our milkshakes needed a good 20 second spin until desired consistency.
It was a hassle, but it made a great milkshake. Fresh.
Now, I guess you saw me coming with this? Can you picture the new girl, operating this hellish contraption? That’s right. Every time Emery would get an order for milkshake, she knew she was going to have to brace herself and hold it quite steady despite her decent strength and corpulence.
Then it began. She would press the button and the mixer started bucking and thrashing like a wild beast. As impossible as it seemed, considering the usual tightness of her clothes, Emery’s own milk jugs would start gyrating around, and threaten to pop out her top! She found a way to keep them from potentially doing so by holding them down with her arms while she held on to the lid on the mixer. Occasionally, she’d look down and, I guess, made sure her tits were still in place. She was well aware of the risks that her assets were exposed to, but every time she walked out of a battle with the mixer, she would blow a strand of hair from over her face with a proud smile, and simply readjusted her clothes as needed. She returned to the order window with a staggered breath and rosey cheeks, beaming like a champion. It was so fucking sexy.
Every time she pressed that button, I dedicated myself to stop everything I was doing only to watch, as her whole body was taken by these tremors. I almost felt privileged from being the only one able to witness it. It wasn’t even as if people had started swarming Carlos’ Roadside Diner to come get their milkshake with a free boob show, courtesy of yours truly. No, the clients had no idea. They had no idea how much they made my day whenever they placed an order. They had no idea that they were causing Emery to keep my cock semi-hard by making her tits shake and shake to my great enjoyment. I know. I’m a bit of a pervert.
So, yeah. I knew how to help out at the order window. But I feigned not really knowing how to make a good milkshake. Emery was going to be the only person I wanted to see operating that mixer. She was going to be the milkshaker.
Every night, I came home, exhausted and a little surly from what I was letting this job do to me. But my weekends were mostly spent forgetting about it all. It was sacred to me. I hung out with some buddies of mine, where nobody really talked about each other’s jobs. We mostly went to shows, rode our skateboards around town and drank beer, without causing too much ruckus.
My aim was to keep a good, healthy balance between my job and my life or emotions outside of work. Throughout her first weeks at the diner, I thought I could easily go home and keep my mind away from Emery; until I ran into her unexpectedly on that random Monday night.
It hadn’t been such a hectic day, but I had intended to do some overtime to finish some back burner stuff around the diner. Literally, cleaning around, preparing orders, etc. In mid-June, the sun was already high and crazy hot at that late time of day. Everyone had gone home. Or so I thought.
After I had thrown my garbage in the dumpster, I started looking around for my bag of soiled linen. I was supposed to prepare the pick-up bag for the dry cleaning people, the following morning. Since we had no other bags than the traditional black garbage bags, my bags of linen always looked the same as the trash.
I must have been distracted. Thinking that I must have thrown the linen with the trash, I walked back to it, already dreading the fact that it was time for another stroll in the dumpster. Oh, joy!
I headed back there in silence, empty handed.
Right before I stepped foot on the ladder to climb in, I saw Emery. I guessed she didn’t hear me.
My eyes shot open when I saw what was going on. She was lying on the table. One of her straps from her tank top was pulled down, exposing one of her breasts inside her bra. And where her belt was unbuckled, she had a hand moving down the front of her pants, while her other hand was holding what it looked, and smelled, like a joint.
Holy shit! She was masturbating.
“Emery?” I said, breaking the silence.
That time, she sprang right up, readjusting her top and trying to cover herself. She made no attempt at refastening her belt, though. All she did was look my way and scoff. She looked slightly embarrassed, though it was hard to tell with her sunglasses.
“Oh, hi Brian,” She said; relieved that it was just me.
Of all the million things I wanted to ask, I just stood there, trying to think of which one to say first. I saw her knees were fidgeting a little bit. She looked nervous.
“What?” she shrugged, laughing harder.
“What are you doing?” I said, monotonously.
Fuck. What did it look like she was doing, I thought.
“I’m just smoking a little bit of this, you know?” she shrugged again, holding up the joint. “I’m off duty, but still. I’m sure you won’t tell Carlos, right?”
“No, I mean, what were you just doing, with your, other hand?” I said, hearing my own voice trail off.
Damn. At first, she had thought that I was talking about the joint, and I honestly didn’t give a shit about it, especially that she was off duty. In fact, I probably would’ve joined her and took a hit or two. But I shook my head and kinda looked away, thinking it was too late and that it probably wasn’t a question to ask, after all.
So, she knew I had seen her rubbing herself.
“Oh, um. Just letting off some steam, Brian,” she said, a little more seriously.
Holy fuck, what do I do, now. She’s really going to talk about this? I scratched the back of my head and looked away like a dumbass, completely embarrassed.
“What?” she said, in a justified tone. “I’m a human being. Don’t tell me you don’t have those kinds of urges, sometimes?” she added. “You know, it’s not easy having all these millions of people drooling over your tits all day.”
I froze on the spot. It looked like Emery could be that bold and forward all the same even on that kind of topic. Not that I thought she couldn’t, not with the way she oozes confidence about her body. I just found it hard to believe that the reason for her having to do this now, and here, of all places, was only because she thought that a lot of people lusted over her.
“Well. “ I replied, a lump stuck in my throat. “I gotta say, you really are at the front row of risking to get a lot of people to judge you. Did, um, has anyone been telling you anything offensive?”
“No!” she shrugged, chuckling. “But, thanks for asking. And I can usually handle that very well. I can easily put any regular Schmo back in his place for trying to get in my pants. And I won’t let anyone tell me how to fucking dress. I mean, yes, it’s hot out, and yes, they’re fucking huge, and I’m sure glad that Carlos doesn’t seem to care about dress code!”
This blunt acknowledgment was followed by a lingering tensed silence, letting the crickets validate the crazy heat that she had just mentioned.
“But, it’s the shy ones that I like the most,” she said, snickering. “Those that think I didn’t see them looking. So I let them. And I like to do what I please with them.“
I frowned at her comment, as she looked at me daringly over her sunglasses. What was that supposed to mean? Was I supposed to be one of those, shy ones? I wasn’t too sure what to do about those revelations. And I assumed this was just being pot talk on her behalf. But, on the other hand, this girl really had no filter. She ran her mouth as she pleased, mesmerizing everybody with her ways.
“Ahah!” she said, breaking the silence. “See? You’re doing it again.”
Damn. She caught me, lost in my train of thoughts.
Emery got up, redid her buckle and shook her head. Sidenote: her panties were yellow.
“Sorry, Brian. I’m just fucking with ya,” she said, puffing out smoke. “It’s just, I just had a rough week-end. Anyway, see ya tomorrow!”
I shook my head again as she left. She walked off oozing with confidence from what would have been a pretty embarrassing situation, had the same happened to me.
And with the kind of reasoning she just gave me, about being aroused by how people looked at her body, I thought this girl must be going in and out of horny all the fucking time in her day.
To be continued.
By Wood_ for Literotica
