Kay's Tales Ch. 01: Biscuit Butt

Author's note: This is a remake of the original story Good for the Soul(food), the first two chapters being combined and expanded. Now I know how George Lucas feels, reworking his stuff endlessly...

These are the adventures of Kay, a recently paroled young woman in her late twenties. Everything contained therein is fictional, although inspired loosely in certain respects by real circumstances...

Kay is a slender brunette with long, slightly wavy brown hair. She has bright eyes, dewy skin, and the toned body of a former cheerleader, ballet dancer, and gymnast. Her two most prominent features are an especially curvy behind (as honed from the aforementioned athletics) and a distinguished nose that gave her the appearance of someone who used to live in a gated neighborhood.

Tyson is the owner and manager of Roscoe's. A former offensive lineman in high school and college who's run the restaurant for the past three decades. Tyson is about 6'4 to 6'5 and over 300 pounds, maintaining much of his look from his younger years, albeit the belly isn't as flat as it once was. He has a completely shaved head, and a neatly-trimmed goatee, though there's some more salt with the pepper than there used to be.

Kay's coworkers and Tyson's other employees are Marcus, a skinny college student with cornrows, and Daryl, an older gentleman of around sixty.

Kay was getting out soon, but it wouldn't come soon enough.

She still couldn't believe that she was put away in the first place. In sunny California, her moving so much green would've made her a respected businesswoman and host of her own podcast. In the deep south of Texas, it made her a target for miserable old judges and prosecutors still hung up on getting turned down for prom by girls who looked just like her.

She needed money, a lot of it and quickly. Regular life was expensive before she got locked away for seven years and now she had to start completely over. Studio apartments in sketchy neighborhoods, a used iPhone with a cracked screen, and grocery shopping at the dollar store. This is what she had to look forward to. It was enough to make her question the reward of freedom.

Kay was looking oddly forlorn for someone measuring the remainder of their time in weeks when she was approached by LaTonya, one of the very few friends she made at her stay in this undesirable gated community.

"What's wrong, babygirl? You sure ain't actin' like someone about to see the sunlight."

Kay sighed.

"I don't even know what I'm gonna do. I never got to finish college, and even if I did, I'm a felon in the eyes of the state now. I don't even know if I could pass a coding bootcamp, much less afford one, and much less take however long it takes to go through one of those things. I need money, and the thing I was best at is what got me here in the first damn place."

LaTonya squinted and cocked her head.

"Tell ya what, my homegirl Britt used to work at this place over near Cedar Hill... it's a small soul food restaurant named Roscoe's. She just quit because she's moving to Atlanta, so they're gonna want some help soon."

LaTonya looked her up and down, and smirked.

"You could make a lot of money there."

And so Kay found herself driving to Roscoe's on a sunny Wednesday morning. She was driving a 1994 Ford Taurus, being made roadworthy by hope and sheer necessity. Before she got out, LaTonya advised her on what to wear. A simple floral sundress, white thong, and Keds. Possessing a modest, perky bust meant Kay didn't have to worry about bras much, and she also recognized she could use all the advantages for this interview she could get. She had waited tables before in fairly high-end establishments and knew the size of the tip could directly be tied to the hotness of the waitress.

Roscoe's focused on breakfast and lunch, and for that, Kay was thankful. Not only did it mean that her day ended faster, and should she save up enough to go back to school, she'd be ready for afternoon and evening classes, but it also meant she wouldn't be out too often in this neighborhood after dark. She hated thinking that, and while the neighborhood didn't look bad exactly (certainly on par with where she was living), she also knew she'd stick out like a sore thumb.

Pulling into the parking lot, Kay realized it really was a small restaurant. One waitress is all they would hire because one waitress is all they would need. Kay parked a couple of spaces down from a beat-up Cadillac that was older than she was (then again, the Taurus she was driving was older than she was) and knocked on the door. There was a Closed sign in the window, faded from age and the sun.

"C'mon in!" A big booming voice said.

Kay nervously and cautiously opened the door, which was unlocked. She looked over to her right and saw a tall, lanky college kid who didn't look quite old enough to drink rolling silverware. He was wearing a tucked-in white button-down with black slacks, and had tight cornrows. He looked at her, stunned for a second. Kay blushed, and he finally sputtered out "I'm M-Marcus."

Towards the back on the left was a friendly looking older gentleman wearing a red shirt and a white, stained apron. He nodded with a smile and said "Daryl, ma'am." Kay smiled and introduced herself with a wave.

Looking over the walls, Kay noticed a lot of Polaroids of people she assumed to be famous. It seemed to be a mix of pro athletes (she wasn't a sports fan) and old blues and jazz musicians (she didn't listen to either). The pro athletes were tall, well built, in casual dress and were mostly in their twenties and thirties, and the old musicians were dressed formally, sometimes holding a trumpet or guitar, and were in their sixties at the youngest. Daryl seemed to be in some of the photos, but the one in almost all of the photos was a tall, broad, bald man.

"You're hired!" The booming voice rang out again, startling Kay with a jump and causing Daryl and Marcus to laugh. The source of said voice made his way out of the kitchen in the back, the same man in the photos, except looking not quite as young as he did in the older ones.

"Hey, I'm Tyson, I'm the owner of this fine establishment."

Tyson reached his hand out for a shake, enveloping Kay's much tinier, daintier hand in his. Tyson was a tall drink of water, and as broad as a barn. At 5'7, Kay wasn't the shortest girl in the world, but Tyson seemed to have a good seven inches on her at least, and he also had a good 200 pounds on her at that. Despite that, he didn't look sloppy. He had a body like the former football player he was. His arms indicated he still pumped "curls for the girls." His torso showed some evidence of the passage of time, as Tyson had run the place for around three decades indicating an age somewhere in the early-to-mid fifties, but he definitely would've won "best bod" in a "dad bod" competition. His bod looked like he could lift a full keg over his head, at least.

"C'mon in the back, lemme ask you some questions real quick."

Kay followed Tyson to the kitchen, and through to a modest room next to it containing a desk, beat-up leather office chair, a punching bag for some reason, and a tall mirror propped up against the wall. Tyson leaned against his desk.

"So's I hear you're fresh from the clink. That's alright with me, Daryl's done some time hisself. I believe in second chances."

Kay blushed, and thanked him.

"Job's pretty simple. I also hear you have waiting experience before. Which is good, but this ain't rocket science. You'll be mostly waiting tables, although we're a tightknit crew so we all do a bit of everything, including kitchen prep and baking which I'll help you learn. Job is yours if you want it. Personally, I think you have a lot more potential here than in some lousy chain restaurant in a strip mall. Oop!"

Tyson had dropped the pen he had been absentmindedly clicking occasionally on the floor.

"Hey, you mind gettin' that? My knees have their good days and bad."

Kay dutifully knelt down and got the pen, which allowed Tyson enough opportunity to confirm she was indeed braless under her sundress. Kay stood back up and handed the pen to Tyson, who thanked her and put it in his pocket. Tyson was staring at her, which made Kay turn pink.

"S-sorry, my friend said there wasn't really a dress code, so I just threw this on. I can wear something different if you-"

Tyson interrupted her.

"No no, this is fine. Hey, you're gonna be on your feet and moving quickly, can you kind of... twirl around?"

Slightly confused but nevertheless obedient, Kay twirled a bit, allowing her skirt to raise up and giving Tyson enough opportunity to confirm that yes, she was wearing a fresh white thong underneath.

Tyson smirked as she came to a stop.

"I see big money in our future."

Tyson wasn't lying. Big money was had.

It didn't take long for Kay to understand why. She was a pretty twentysomething waitress working for a clientele that was 97% male and where she stuck out as the rare attraction. She kind of laughed to herself and thought at any given moment during her workday she could easily recreate the Piper Perri meme, and that went for her coworkers and her tables.

She couldn't deny playing certain things up as well. Her wardrobe consisted exclusively of short sundresses exclusively without bras. She remembered one hot midday shift where, emerging from the kitchen, her already thin covering was clinging soaking wet to her body, enough to where she heard silverware being dropped on an empty plate and someone exclaiming "Dayum!" involuntarily.

She got along well with her coworkers. Daryl was nice, and if he ogled her, had the good sense to be discreet about it. She would catch Marcus staring more often, as young guys don't have the practice and art of subtlety that older men do. And Tyson... well, Tyson paid a lot of attention to her.

Whenever she was in the kitchen, Tyson would coincidentally need to move from his office to the kitchen and back and forth again. And of course, each time he would say "behind," but with her and her only he would briefly cup her actual behind when doing it. At first she thought it might be an accident or something else grazing it, but when it kept happening, and when the brief cups became slightly firmer squeezes, she knew what the score was.

He also began to give said behind a firm smack at the end of the day, telling her "good hustle out there." That eventually gave way to sometimes doing it during shifts, handing her some plates, and then a whack and "get these biscuits over to Leroy" or "make sure to refill Mr. Johnson's iced tea," much to the amusement and envy of whoever was lucky enough to be around. Tyson claimed it was a leftover habit he picked up from his days on the field, but Kay couldn't help but notice Marcus and Daryl were spared this treatment.

The most blatant exercise happened when he began teaching her how to mix and make their famous biscuits one morning before opening. While standing next to, and slightly behind Kay, he put his hand around her waist as he watched her mix the ingredients in a big bowl. That hand soon found its way below the waist, until it found a home firmly cupping her backside, except this wasn't a quick smack or a simple "behind." It was staying put.

Kay realized this was a moment in time. She could shrug his hand off, she could shout and slap and run out. She could do a lot of things, but what she did was... nothing. Was it passive acceptance, apathy, carelessness, laziness? She didn't know, but she just kept mixing the batter as Tyson kept gripping her ass.

And that was probably what emboldened Tyson to do what he did one morning before work.

It was early one Thursday morning, and Kay was dutifully kneading biscuit dough while Tyson leaned back behind her and "supervised." Kay was wearing her standard sundress sans bra, but this time it was also sans panties. She had crashed at home the previous night, and woke up with the sun up, which for her was late, so she took a whore's bath and away to work she went.

"How them biscuits lookin'?" Marcus asked, apparently to her right. Kay was really focused on the kneading. Which must've also explained why she didn't detect Tyson lifting her skirt up over her ass, until it happened.

"Mmh, man I don't know, but this one looks terrific!"

Marcus and Tyson both laughed, while Kay just turned a shade of pink.

"Bruh, new girl is gettin' that bag. You see how many tips she's been pullin' in?"

"She doin' so well, she 'bout to get a big ol' tip before we even open."

Tyson was right behind her, the closeness of his voice indicated that. She heard some unmistakable sounds, of a belt being loosened, the mild thump sound of heavy denim being dropped upon the floor. Then she felt... it.

It was the tip that Tyson was referencing. The tip of his cock. Kay gripped the dough, knuckles turning white, and leaned over further on instinct. The front of her sundress dipped even lower, allowing anyone looking at her from the front (or above her) a nice view of her perky breasts.

Kay's heart raced. What if he kept pushing in? What was even happening right now? But true to his word, or at least his crude pun, Tyson was indeed giving her just the tip. It indeed felt like a big tip, an inch to an inch-and-a-half based on what she felt, but a tip nonetheless.

"This must be the first time in history a man has actually said 'just the tip' and meant it," she thought.

Tyson's hands were now around her waist, holding her steady as he made shallow thrusts, little intrusions into her opening.

"Daaaaaaamn," Marcus exclaimed, "I didn't know you were that serious!"

"Oh you know how I do," Tyson chuckled, and shot his right arm out in a fist in order to receive a bump from Marcus.

Tyson's right hand returned to her waist, gently squeezing and massaging as the teasing continued. Tyson pulled out briefly, and gripped his cock with his right hand, moving it over and around Kay's opening, gathering more moisture, before returning back for more exploration. Marcus, for his part, kept staring. Kay sensed this was something fantasized about, maybe even discussed, and that as soon as he got home Marcus would have his own pants around his ankles and his own hand on his cock, inside a sock, thinking of this very moment.

Kay in the meantime kept leaning over, her eyes fluttering and squinting thanks to the activity taking place behind her. She shut her eyes, only to hear whispering and opened them to see that Marcus had brought Daryl back to the kitchen from the front, and through her peripheral vision witnessed Tyson and Daryl exchanging a dap.

After that whispered exchange of respect between Tyson and Daryl, things were fairly quiet, although Kay sensed everything. The quiet hum of the ceiling fan. The wet sounds of Tyson's large bulbous head exploring the opening of Kay's rapidly accommodating hole. Kay's own pants and heavy breathing and expressions...

"Ah! Ah! Unf! Oh my. Ah! Ah!"

and Tyson's...

"Damn. Ung. Ung. Shit. 'stight. Mmh. Dang that's good."

From her gradually growing more horizontal, and the effects of Tyson's efforts, Kay's left spaghetti strap fell down, leaving her left breast uncovered. Her left hand was now gripping the food window, while her right hand was now gripping the kitchen counter. Tyson took this opportunity to move his hand up to sample, to squeeze, to rub, to pinch. Kay opened her eyes slightly to see Marcus had changed positions to get a frontal view of the action now. His own eyes seeming to take in as much as possible to recreate it as accurately as possible in his imagination, whenever he desired.

Daryl had moved back up to the front, and upon noticing the increase in traffic both foot and regular, moved back to the kitchen to report to the boss.

"Ay, might want to wrap things up, it's gonna be opening time soon."

"Aight, lemme just glaze this biscuit real quick."

Kay suddenly felt Tyson withdraw, then his hands squeezing her cheeks together, and something quite large and quite warm move in-between them for roughly five strokes until...

A warm splash on her left cheek. A warm splash on her right. Another. Another. Another. Before she knew it, her ass, some of her lower back, and some of her upper thighs, were coated in Tyson's own gravy. Kay was now face down on the counter, covered in a thin sheen of sweat (among other things), and breathing heavy.

Kay was sent home early that day, being paid as if she worked the whole day, of course. Friday was absolutely slammed, so she ended up needing the rest. The entire restaurant was packed from opening to close. Lots of hungry men from the neighborhood, young and old, whose eyes seemed to follow Kay, particularly walking away from them. A good amount of silverware and napkins "accidentally" hitting the floor, and a lot of chuckles, mutterings, and questions on when ripe peaches and biscuits would be added to the menu.

At home, Kay discovered the source of the sudden popularity. On Roscoe's Snapchat, she saw Tyson's latest attempt at viral advertising. She saw a floral dress bunched up around the waist, a firm peach biscuit in the air, and a generous coating all over it. In large font above, the invitation to "Come To Roscoe's!" and in small font below "we have the best glazed biscuits in town!"

"...at least my face isn't in it," Kay thought.