She turned around, looked over her shoulder, spread her legs wide apart, and bent over. Mike openly groaned this time, “Oh yes!” Susan slowly, sen...uously placed her fingertips underneath the sides of her thong, and still bent over, rolled it down her hips, millimeter by painful millimeter. Her shaved pussy emerged into view. Mike whistled quietly, “Beautiful, beautiful, what a piece of ass.” Susan laughed, “You like my pussy?” Mike stood up, “I WANT your pussy.” He scooped her up and carried. My Boss, the Chef, was a veteran scumbag, a staggering alcoholic who only got up only to place a few inventory orders and then fiddle in his office before retiring to his cabin on the hillside to drink himself into oblivion and fuck his pet hostess of the season. His main culinary techniques were to drink stolen beer, avoid the kitchen, and hope it didn't burn down around us. I realized at some point that was indeed my role, and demanded more money. This worked well, until we too often closed. More

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