An Awkward Meal

Bridget followed the couple out to their car, a late model Buick Roadmaster Skylark in black with chrome trim. "Why don't you two hop in the back and get to know each other a little better," the man said, opening the door for her. Bridget climbed in and sat on the nice cream colored leather seat, the buxom blonde giving her a husband a stern look as she climbed in and sat beside her. Bridget was too nervous to speak as they pulled onto the road.

"So, since you are going to be sleeping with my wife, I think we should at least know your name." he said, adjusting the rear view mirror so he could see them. She blushed, and introduced herself.

"Nice to meet you, Bridget. I'm Cynthia. Our driver is my husband, Elliot." she said, offering her hand. Bridget took it and shook it as if it were a man, unfamiliar with the more customary light squeeze Cynthia was expecting. "You've got a strong grip for a girl." she said, her eyes neutral even though her was forcing a smile. She was doing her best to remember her manners, and was suddenly wishing she'd just gone to the bar and took her chances. Everything was much simpler.

"Pleased to meet you." she said, stuttering a little. She looked around, her hand gently sliding over the leather seat. "You have a lovely car." she said, directing it to Elliot. He glanced in the mirror, nodding.

"Yeah, she's a real beauty. Great under the hood, too." Bridget nodded politely, but she knew the straight-8 engine would kick out 300 horsepower, tops; and these two didn't seem like the type who would opt for an upgrade. He turned a few corners and drove in silence for a couple miles as they exited the residential area and came to a neon-lit glitzy part of town. The cars here were more for luxury than performance, and she thought having all that neon would not be a very good thing during an air raid.

Bridget glanced at Cynthia, and nervously placed a hand on her bare thigh. Cynthia smiled politely, becoming somewhat amused at Bridget's timidity after her bold opening. She parted her legs ever so slightly as Bridget began to caress her smooth skin. It was so much more tender than a man's, and pleasant to the touch in its own right outside of any use-related purposes. Bridget let her hand travel as if it had a mind of its own, tenderly stroking the Dame's inner thigh.

"Have you ever used a girl before?" Cynthia asked directly. Bridget blushed. The response was a bit more complicated than that.

"Not...on purpose... I've had encounters, but they were while we were both being used; and I've..umm...tasted a couple." she said, leaving out the details of a rather raucous night of partying with the guys that ended up with her drunk and blowing Johnny's cock while he fucked an enlisted girl. He ended up fucking the woman doggystyle with Bridget below them, her tongue swirling and licking both of them as the Private First Class did the same for her and Michael.

"Ahh, we're here." he said, pulling up to the front of a fancy looking steakhouse called "Pennington's". He opened the door and handed the keys to a timid looking female valet. She was short and flatchested, but pretty enough; the perfect balance for a woman who has a job to do and would most likely make it through the night without too much extra work in the back seat.

They walked into the smoke-filled room. Bridget half expected to see a Dame singing on stage, but this place was modeled more after a French restaurant with white cloth on round tables, hardwood as far as the eye could see, and fancy schmancy waiters walking around with wine glasses on silver platters. "Ahh, this way, sir..." the Maitre De said. They followed him to a table, Elliot pulling out Cynthia's seat for her and the servant doing the same for Bridget. He handed them the menus and quickly disappeared.

She opened hers and slightly panicked. It was all in French. Cynthia saw her confusion, and leaned forward, exposing some of her ample chest. "That's steak. That's chicken. That's ham." she said, pointing it all out helpfully. She looked at the price, and her heart fell. They wanted real money at this restaurant. Her ration cards were useless.

"Oh. I...uhm...can't afford any of this. I'm sorry." Elliot looked at her and scoffed.

"My dear, we invited you to dinner. You don't honestly expect to have to pay for your own meal, do you?" Elliot said. She blushed again. It'd been years since she'd been in the company of anyone even remotely gentlemanly. A guy taking a punch on his card to get you a burger was one thing, but someone who had enough cash to pay for premium food was absolutely unheard of for a refugee, or a working stiff like her. She thought corned beef and hash was a nice meal.

There waiter approached, and sat a wine glass in front of her. Bridget looked up, almost waving him away until she realized she wasn't driving. She drank occasionally, but never while she had to ride. She'd seen what happens when someone took a spill on the streets of Diesel City. There just wasn't enough time to get off the road before some 600 horsepower two ton armored sedan came rocketing down the lane and turned you into a red skid mark and a fading memory. She sipped the wine, surprised at its taste. She'd never had it before.

"I'll have the Porterhouse, medium, au natural; my wife with have the Chicken Cordon Bleu stuffed with the house sauce, and our guest will have a Strip steak with...where have you always wanted to go?" he said, directing the question to her. Bridget coughed into her wine, dabbing her lips.

"Excuse me?" she asked, seeing how much of her cheap red lipstick came off on the napkin.

"You know, travel. Anywhere in particular?" Bridget swirled the wine in glass. She'd never thought about it before. A distant look entered her eyes as memories welled up.

"I'd like to go home to see my family." she said somberly. Cynthia's breath caught, and she laid her hand over Bridget's, sympathetic tears welling up in her eyes.

"Does the house have anything that would work for that?" Elliot ask. The waiter nodded once very smartly. "Excellent. Thank you." He turned his attention to Bridget. "That's your only dress, isn't it?" She nodded, wiping a tear away along with some of her generic mascara. "Have you ever been in a place like this?" he asked. She shook her head and giggled at the thought. "We've never been to Ireland. What's it like?" he asked.

She took a breath. "Its green, its cold, its at War." she said with a defeated shrug. "The people are friendlier than they are here. Good Catholic boys and girls that do their business in a bedroom instead of a stairwell. The beer's better." she said with a nervous laugh; relaxing a bit. She told them of the rocket pack factory and about her mother's love for beagles; about learning how to bleed a set of brakes at Tom MacGuff's auto shop, and about the lonely voyage across the ocean so full of ships and subs and war detritus it was called the Steel Sea. By the time it was done, Cynthia was gently running her fingers up and down her own exposed arm and staring at Bridget with bedroom eyes. Their food arrived before she knew it, the waiter taking plates off the platter held by a tawny-haired, rather fit and handsome busboy.

He sat her plate in front of her. She could hardly believe it. 8 whole ounces of actual steak. She picked up her knife and fork and started to cut until Cynthia squeezed her hand, nodding for her to look to her side. She turned to see the busboy stoicly jerking himself off. The Maitre De stood on the other side of her, holding a napkin as if it were a barrier on the far side of her plate. "This is Evan Callahan, aged 28 years and native to County Cork. He served for three years alongside U.S. forces before emigrating here and becoming an amatuer boxer with aspirations of welterweight gold. He has sired three children, is a non-smoker, and has a perfect bill of health." he said. Bridget couldn't help but just stare and laugh when he came in great streams of cum all over her steak, plate, and wineglass; his expression barely changing.

"This is how they eat in fancy restaurants?" Bridget said with an amused laugh. She gave Evan two quick sucks and swallowed. He faintly smiled down at her before resuming his Laconic demeanor. She had to admit his lifestyle removed much of the bitterness she was used to. She cut a bite off the steak, swirled it around in a puddle of his cum, and popped it into her mouth.

"Mmmm..."she said, leaning back in her chair as the tastes flooded her senses.

"You should see how they stuff the Chicken Cordon Bleu." Cynthia said with a smile. Bridget held her mouth to her hand to prevent her from launching a half-chewed, cum soaked bite of steak at the man who was paying for her dinner as she stifled a laugh. Cynthia smiled, dipping a bit of her chicken into Evan's cum, and put it between her lips. They ate and laughed and drank for a long time before Elliot dropped a $100 bill on the table, not even waiting for the change. As soon as they hit the back seat, Bridget was on Cynthia, who wrapped her arms around the slightly drunk redhead, and pulled her in for a passionate kiss.

Elliot whistled a ditty to himself as they went at each other, random images of bare breasts and flailing arms appearing in the rear-view mirror and little whimpers and embarrassed but playful laughs filling the car as he pulled into his driveway.

When he opened the door, Bridget had two fingers slowly driving into Cynthia's quivering sex as they slid their tongues down each other's throats. "Ladies." he said, stepping aside and bowing with his arm out. He twirled his keychain on his prosthetic finger, followed them to the door. This was going to be a fine night, indeed, he thought.