The Census Taker

Beth bolts for the door yelling 'coming!' right as the bell dings again. A scrawny guy in thick glasses and a cheap suit stands there, messenger bag tucked tight. He stammers his name—Milton James—flashes his census badge and says her folks blew off the paperwork so the law sent him to question whoever’s home. She eyes him hard; her parents are gone and she doesn’t know squat about census rules. Milton perks up: anyone fifteen-plus qualifies, and he gives her a slow once-over. Legal? She nods—she just turned eighteen. He smiles, adjusts those glasses, says it’ll only take fifteen minutes. Beth tries to shut him down, but Milton wedges his shoe in the door and mutters that answering is mandatory. She has no choice. Minutes later they’re in the big wood-paneled living room. Beth offers water; Milton declines, settles opposite her and spreads his forms. The small-talk dies fast under her short answers, so he dives in. Standard stuff—address, housemates, marital status. When she says single he sneaks in a smirk and asks about a boyfriend. Nope. He looks pleased, moves on. Hours worked, school, all that. She slouches, legs drifting apart; from over Milton’s shoulder the camera steals quick upskirt flashes of her panties. She catches him staring, snaps her knees shut, clears her throat. He acts innocent and keeps going, then tosses in whether her parents are fucking. She’s disgusted; he claims it’s just to predict new births. Grossed out, she guesses they might be. Then: 'Are you sexually active?' She spits a hard 'No.' He licks his lips. 'Would you like to be?' Beth stands up fast, tells him to leave. Milton doesn’t budge—only a few house questions left. Ownership? Utilities? Plumbing? He cracks a sleazy line about hers being in working order. Beth crosses her arms, seething. He asks to see the bedrooms; she snaps that once he checks he’s gone. Camera follows her ass while she leads him—parents’ room, empty guest room—then her own. Milton slips past her, pokes through drawers with his pen, sniffs the air, stands dead-center breathing deep. Beth lingers at the door, getting more pissed by the second. He finally straightens up and announces she’s in trouble: found her birth-control pills, so she lied. Penalty for false info to a federal guy? Beth panics—she only lied because he was a creep. He shrugs, says the job sucks and people are ungrateful. Maybe she owes him real gratitude. She offers a weak sorry; he pushes for a kiss. Scared but cornered, she leans in, gives a quick peck. He wants another, this time with feeling. She plants one, stiff and awkward, while he mauls her mouth. Seconds drag; he pulls back, eyes bright. That’s cute, he says, but he knows she’s no virgin. Do him right and he’ll leave. Beth swallows, forces a fake smile, and reaches for his belt.