I’m not a violent person but I want to kill that bitch. Look at her fawning over those boys at the table; all bashful smiles and girly giggles as she playfully brushes that mane of perfect dirty blonde away from those freckly pixie features and smoky, bed-me eyes. Fucking hate her.
Lucy’s worked here a year longer than me. Knows the regulars better. Gets the best tips that she provocatively tucks away in her bra. Which today is under the tiniest white crop blouse imaginable. It only has two buttons, accenting her flawless belly and matching micro skirt that’s probably illegal in thirty states. She’s finished off her outfit for the holiday season with that Santa hat. Plays it up, all lash-flutters and jingles every time she tosses her hair back and produces her pad and pencil to take an order, her perfect little tits jutting against the tight blouse. Mine are heavy and cumbersome in comparison, and draw unnecessary attention from the wrong sort.
God those tits. I want to shove her against the counter, rip her top open and devour them through her teeny-tiny bra. Kiss the caps. Bite them. Make her hiss. Make her drip. Whatever she needs as my fingers seek the heat between her legs and she rakes fingernails through my dark locks to clamp me to her chest, begging for more.
Fuck, I hate her. Wasting time on boys who all think she’s living kindness, when I’m all she’ll ever need. I’m every bit as good as her, even though I’ll never match her effortless poise and manner. I’m not wired that way. For starters, I’m shorter. Chunkier. Geekier. Won’t ever make Homecoming Queen or the cheerleading squad. Maybe the nose ring puts her off.
Look at her. Touching her hair. Flirting with the boys. No doubt promising one or more of them access to her molten charms later in the alley behind the kitchen on her break. I’ve seen her with her panties pulled aside, nails clutching and clawing his back as he ploughs into her up against the wall. Those curtailed gasps. The sexy little whimpers. The stifled groans as he rams her full of hard cock and fills her duplicitous cum-cave with his hot spunk. I’m the only person to have caught her at it, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t see me. Ask any of the other waitresses what they think of her and they’ll say the same: she’s sweet. Yeah, Barbie doll, peaches-and-cream, sugar-and-spice, slutbitch sweet.
God I hate her. I believe in peace but there are moments the rage wells and I simply want to kill her. She unbalances my Zen. Turns me psycho. There are plenty of knives in the diner kitchen. I could make it quick. An act of kindness. Red blooming from her chest as the shock registers and she gurgles for breath. Fuck, my shrink’d have a field day. Let us explore your feelings for zis girl.
Yes, let’s.
Starting with those legs. She makes my pussy ache—actually ache—to discover her flavor at their apex. I crave to kneel at her feet and slip those Converse off. Bend and trace my tongue all the way from her toes to knee, gazing up at that treasure she keeps hidden from me but wilfully flashes to them. Because they’re normal.
This sleepy, backwards-ass, inbred excuse for a town doesn’t like my type. I’m an abhorrence. It’s twenty-twenty-five in a few weeks and I’m still that whispered dyke. The nudges. The raised eyebrows. The shame of it all. Like I’m somehow diseased and, given half a chance, will infect everyone with lezzeritis.
My vision clouds. Everything closes in around my periphery, like a silent movie vignette. I can barely believe when Lucy steps away from the table and sashays towards me, a shimmering halo of light around her hair; around her whole body. She starts unbuttoning her top, breezes close enough for me to detect the upper register of her delicate perfume that drives me wild, and pauses alongside me, eyes locked, our heads close enough for me to lean in after a long moment to take her lips in mine.
Her perfect frame melts against my imperfections and we just somehow fit. I lose myself in her intoxicating essence. Push her against the closest table, plates and chintzy metal condiment holders clattering to the floor with the cutlery as I shower kisses and playful bites down her body that she arches to receive. There’s barely any need to hike her skirt because it’s already ridden up, revealing her pale blue panties to my quickening breath and desperate caresses.
“Earth to Hannah. Apple pie à la mode and a bottomless coffee, Miss.”
I shake my head and stare through the woman whose gnarly teeth all need replacing, towards Lucy still serving the boys. “Sorry. What? Pie. Yes of course.” I scribble. Bend to pick up the cutlery I’d dropped and cross the room, slamming the order paper on the spike I want to impale Lucy on.
Glancing around the room to see if there are any other customers need serving, my gaze falls on her rump. The faint wiggle in time to Chris Rhea on the radio, who’ll be there way too early if he drives home for Christmas now. God she’s perfect. I want her on my face. Grinding. Smothering, every breath I’m allowed to take laced with her trapped musk from the panties she’s yanked aside. Hips swirling. Gasps from us both as we propel one another to searing hot climaxes. It’s beyond want. It’s need. I need her. Hate them ‘cos they can have her and I can’t.
Hate her ‘cos she can do better. Can do me.
My throat tightens when she turns from the table, flits her eyes across the room and provocatively sways those sumptuous hips my way to slip the order onto the kitchen spike. Chicken club sandwich, times two. Loaded nachos. Sodas all round. And lecherous stares and high fives from the posse of suitors at her delicious, curvy ass as she rounds the counter to prep the drinks. Imbeciles.
God she’s exquisite. The way she curves is a ballet of geometry that would give Archimedes a boner. As I step behind the counter alongside her to the coffee hotplate, my pulse clatters loud enough she has to hear it. I have to kiss her one day, before my heart hammers itself to death. Somehow. Some way. Our tongues testing. Probing. Seeking permission then barrelling ahead and twirling against one another’s as the rising heat between us is channelled through the connection between our mouths.
She stops what she’s doing. Glances my way. “What?”
Oh nothing. Just wanna crawl behind you, massage your ass as I lift that excuse for a skirt, yank your panties down and plow my tongue in your pretty little pussy. Grip your butt and spread, infusing myself with every facet of your scent.
“I… I dunno. I’m just…”
Smitten with you? Dying to drown in your juices? Picturing you cumming endlessly on my face until you’re begging me to stop licking your sexy, hot little cunt?
She lets out a playful smile that’s somehow sweet, heartfelt, patronising and provocative. “It’s okay.”
“What is?” I’m sweating. Actually sweating at her proximity. God I hate her.
She laughs, some infectious little giggle that wouldn’t seem out of place as she drifts the other side of orgasm cradled in my arms, and leans in to whisper. “You don’t think I’ve noticed?” Her breath tickles my ear. Or was that her tongue? My heart rate doubles. Triples, and the local headlines flash before my eyes: Dyke swoons herself to death. Subtitle: But it’s okay, there’s one less freak in the world.
I try not to hyperventilate. “N… noticed what exactly?”
Lucy tips her head to one side and giggles again like she’s purposefully trying to finish me off. Leans in again, a quieter whisper that’s almost lost by the opening bars of All I Want For Christmas Is You. Mariah Carey sure knows how to lay the irony thick. “Oh, come on. I think you like me.”
Like? LIKE?! Try bona fide infatuatingly fucking obsessed with your every move, to the point I can’t sleep at night without roaming my hands over my body imagining it’s your touches and digging fingers inside my needy snatch as I drip and arch and drip and gasp and drip and cum hard to visions of you burying your face against my bush, your tongue snaking inside and lapping my juices as you pin me to the bed and yank endless orgasms from my trembling body.
My cheeks glow. God I hate how she makes me feel. Inadequate and worthless and frustrated and desperately horny to the point I crave her touches. Actually crave. My voice stutters like it belongs to someone else. “I do. But I c… can’t compete.” Casting my gaze over my shoulder at the boys larking around balancing napkins on their faces like immature idiots, I add, “There are too many stars.”
When I return my attention to the brewing hotplate and start to pour the bottomless coffee, Lucy drops the bombshell. “There’s enough sky.”
I only just pull the scalding stream away before it overflows and burns my fingers. Returning the pot to the hotplate, I pause. Dare I?
What if…?
Creeping my hand across the gap between us, they connect, sparks igniting my veins. I brush the back of her hand, mapping each follicle as her eyes drift shut momentarily. Then they snap open, she recoils, glances across at the table she served and loudly exclaims, “Ewww, I’m not a fucking lesbian!” before stalking into the kitchen.
I turn red. The boys snigger and whoop at my expense and I pick up the knife to angrily hack off a slice of apple pie. Fuck, I want to kill them all. Her included. Toying with me like that. Who the fuck does she think she is? Bitch.
Before I can do any permanent damage, I slam the knife down. Bend to the freezer compartment and grab the ice cream, taking off the lid and raking two balls into the scoop.
I’m shaking so much I nearly spill the coffee on my way to the gnarly-toothed woman. Dump her purchases in front of her. “Enjoy.” Customer service can go fuck itself today.
The boys are still sniggering and I glare. One of them holds his fingertips to his mouth, splits them in a crude ‘V’ and waggles his tongue between them. His crew cackle.
Fuming, I spin away back to the counter. Yank the top two orders off the spike and picture them all lying dead on the floor punctured by it. I ball up my order and toss it in the trash, go to replace theirs on the spike.
I freeze. In the bottom corner is scrawled: Meet me out back x.
My heart resumes thumping. I stare at the piece of paper in case it’s another trick or a fantasy but no, it’s there in her pencil. Black and white. Clear. I tear the corner off and throw it away. Step to the kitchen, pace past the racks of pots and pans and Gavin chopping lettuce, almost floating as I push my way to the rear fire door and out into the alley.
There she is. Leaning back against the crumbling brickwork, eyes tracking my approach.
Our mouths connect first, hands catching up as the kiss intensifies, breathless moans mingling in the heat. I cinch her tiny skirt and clutch her bum, surely leaving marks and not wanting to ever let go. Eventually, I break the kiss to trail caresses over her blouse, biting her tits and nipples on the way down and making her gasp.
The sharp gravel under my knees hardly registers as her cerise panties slide into view, a damp spot already forming in the smooth cleft that seems to flow as an extension of the skin above her waistband to the curve between her thigh gap. I gaze for a long moment, searing the image to memory before hungrily peeling the sticky underwear aside, her scent hanging like a siren call as she toys with my hair. “Took you long enough.” She tugs me forward and I bury my face in her hairless snatch, heart brimming and pulse thundering with every loaded atom she surrenders.
I still want to kill her.
Maybe.
Right after feasting on her dripping pussy and sending her spiralling to orgasmic nirvana with my tongue, teeth and months of repressed lust.