Scarlet Letters: Diner

<BODY BACKGROUND="graphics/background.gif" BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#000000" LINK="#990000" VLINK="#666666" ALINK="#FFFFFF"> <P><TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="0" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="724"> <TR> <TD WIDTH="488"><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="2"><TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="4" CELLSPACING="2" WIDTH="468"> <TR> <TD ALIGN="LEFT" WIDTH="1" ROWSPAN="3" VALIGN="BOTTOM"><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="2" COLOR="#CCCCCC">..</FONT></TD> <TD ALIGN="CENTER" VALIGN="MIDDLE"><TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="0" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="440"> <TR> <TD ALIGN="CENTER" VALIGN="TOP"><B><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="5"><IMG SRC="graphics/onthedottedline.gif"></FONT></B></TD> </TR> <TR> <TD ALIGN="LEFT"><B><FONT FACE="Georgia">Diner</FONT></B></TD> </TR> <TR> <TD ALIGN="RIGHT"><B><FONT FACE="Georgia"><A HREF="bios_m2z.shtml#Makuch" TITLE="click for author info">Leah Makuch</A></FONT></B></TD> </TR> <TR> <TD ALIGN="CENTER"><B><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="5"><IMG SRC="graphics/onthedottedline.gif"></FONT></B></TD> </TR> </TABLE> </TD> </TR> <TR> <TD ALIGN="LEFT" VALIGN="TOP"><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="2"><BR> "What'll it be, sugar?" she asks and he knows, yeah, he knows what's cookin' behind those big ol brown eyes tonight.  She's got one button too many undone and that shirt serves up her breasts like dessert, ripe and fruity and just-so sweet.  He orders coffee and a raspberry tart.  Her lips are plum wine red and he could eat them, one then the other like strawberries in mid-July, sipping their nectar into his mouth and swallowing her heaven. <BR>   <BR> Her sweet ass sashay-sashays in that coal-black skirt.  Too short for regulation and too long to show the tops of her sheer black stockings, too long unless she bends over to reach into the dessert case and shows him cool, milk-white thighs above the black lace trim.  His raspberry tart is on the bottom shelf, the bottom shelf, and her ass is a ripe peach in a coal-black skirt with nothing underneath.  She reaches down and smooth, pale curves slide into view.<BR> <BR> He lounges on the stool like somebody else's trouble and flexes broad fingers against the bone-white ceramic coffee mug.  She looks over her shoulder as she bends down and watches him swallow, his throat constricting as she lets her skirt ride up over her hips.  His hands would be melted butter down her back and over her ass and between her thighs, hot and salty and making her all slick and smooth, all slick and smooth and wet.  His lips ease around the edge of the mug and draw the coffee into his mouth and she almost feels him taste her neck instead.  His eyes close briefly and she knows he's at the hollow of her throat, sipping from her skin, his breath a sigh of something more.<BR> <BR> The coffee tastes bitter next to the sweetness of her skin.  He doesn't need sugar, no sugar, just honey, and she's got enough honey dripping from her golden voice to sweeten his coffee and melt his knees.  She leans forward just so in order to lay out the raspberry tart, licking her lips and turning his plate a little with a cherry-red fingernail; her spun-silk hair escapes over her shoulder to tumble down, down in waves, the way it would fan out over his pillow when they were through making love.<BR> <BR> He presses fork through crust and gathers berries, flaking pastry and sweet chips of icing, holds it out to her and she can almost taste his kiss.  She can feel him smiling into her mouth, his happiness a low rumbling laugh against her stomach, his tongue sweet with crumbs and icing and she can't, she can't wrap her lips around his fork and not think of it so she says no, she says no and laughs, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward.<BR> <BR> He offers a bite and she refuses, laughing, her laugh white wine; she arches her back and her bra is a lace-edged silhouette against her neckline.  Thirty minutes to closing and he wants to lay her out on the tile floor and eat her from the bottom up.  She would moan and writhe and he wants to hear her gasp when he bites down on her nipples.  His lips close around a forkful of pastry and he rolls his tongue around a raspberry, rolls it against his teeth and bites down; the tangy syrup makes him pucker and he sucks it down into his throat.  Both her hands are on the counter, spread apart, and just like that he could take her from behind, take her onto his hard cock and press her into the formica amid ashtrays and napkins and packets of Sweet n' Low.  She would roll her hips back and clutch at the edges of the counter, singing wordless cries up to the fluorescent lights and tightening around him.<BR> <BR> His eyes flick between her face and her breasts and she can almost feel him coming up behind her, one hand delving into her blouse, one hand pulling her hips down around him.  He is a glass of strong wine taken in one gulp, heady and sweet and she is drunk on the way he would feel inside her.  Her head spins and there's no air, no air, just him and her and he would make her explode.<BR> <BR> Or he could turn her around and lean her backward against the dessert case; her skirt up around her waist and her ass chilled by the cold glass window.  Her body would be hot inside and he would open her around his cock like splitting a ripe tangerine, her juices sticky and sweet.  One hand would grab his shoulder and the other would press palm-flat against the window of the case, steam collecting there obscuring chocolate-dipped canolis and baba au rum.  He would suck her nipples like a milkshake through a straw and make her call his name. <BR>   <BR> She turns to refill his coffee and in his mind she is up on the bar stool, knees over his shoulders; she is maple syrup on his lips and her nails dig half-moons into the slick vinyl seat.  She smells like morning fog and chocolate.  Her clit is the heart of an artichoke surrounded by petals, sharp and tangy on his tongue.  When she bucks against his face the heels of her shoes scratch war wounds on his back and his cock throbs harder against the unforgiving denim of his jeans as she blossoms beneath him.<BR> <BR> Her hand trembles on the handle of the coffee pot and she sees him out of the corner of her eye, sees him rub his tongue against his upper lip, sees him make it her clit.  She pours slowly and feels the wet flicking around her bud, feels him suck it in between his lips and roll it back and forth.  The coffee splashes out and speckles the countertop and as she wipes it he has his tongue pressed into her folds and his fingers pinching her nipples into stiff meringue peaks.<BR> <BR> Twenty minutes to closing and he sees her wearing silk stockings and nothing else, spread out on the countertop, and he is drawing a Picasso on her breasts with a can of Redi-Whip.  Her nipples wear maraschino cherries and her clit twitches beneath a liberal application of strawberry syrup, cool and burning all at once, sweet to the tongue.  He probes her with two sticky fingers and she rolls her hips against his thumb, keening wildly, wildly as he lowers his mouth and laps at her cleft.  Her folds are swollen and she is ready to explode around his tongue, ready to pour her hot juices down his throat.  He sips his coffee and it burns all the way down, burns like her tightness around him.<BR> <BR> Fifteen minutes to closing and she wants to feel him on top of her, wants him long and deep right where it hurts, right where it aches, right where he would make it better.  His kisses would be a drizzle of hot fudge over her lips and his hands would cup her breasts like ripe fruit.  She closes her eyes and she is turning him onto his back, turning him over and pinning him down and claiming him, claiming him, making him hers, and inside her he is appetizer, entrée, and dessert. <BR>   <BR> Ten minutes to closing and this time she is naked in her high heels, sucking his cock between lips red like raspberry jam, her knees spread on the black and white tile, one hand on his balls and one hand between her legs.  Her slender fingers are not typing up his bill; they are circling her clit.  She is moaning through his hot flesh throbbing in her mouth rather than telling him the price of his order.  When he comes she will drink him down like champagne while staring into his eyes, her lips shining wet and her eyes as dark as homemade fudge.<BR> <BR> Five minutes to closing and the diner is empty.  The cook has gone home and she's left to close up and he watches her draw all the shades and bolt the back door.  She wipes down the tables, rolling her hips with every swish of the cloth, and her earlobe would be a cool mint julep between his lips.  She doesn't ask him to leave when she's done and waits with her back pressed up against the counter, both arms crossed and breasts pushed up and out like an offering as he crosses slowly around the counter and pulls her into his arms.  Her kiss is warm like chocolate syrup on his tongue, her body close and throbbing.  She throws a leg up over his hip and moans from somewhere deep and feral, arches against his erection and looks wildly into his eyes.  She leans back against the counter and he bares her breasts to his lips and teeth.  She is a banquet to him, a banquet to him, and here, now, he will lay her out like a feast and partake.<BR> <BR>   </FONT></TD> </TR> <TR> <TD ALIGN="CENTER" VALIGN="TOP"><B><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="5"><IMG SRC="graphics/onthedottedline.gif"></FONT></B></TD> </TR> </TABLE> </FONT></TD> <TD ALIGN="CENTER" VALIGN="TOP" WIDTH="226">  </TD> </TR> <TR> <TD WIDTH="488"><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="2"><TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="2" WIDTH="474"> <TR> <TD ALIGN="LEFT" WIDTH="8"><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="2" COLOR="#CCCCCC">..</FONT></TD> <TD ALIGN="CENTER">  </TD> </TR> </TABLE> </FONT></TD> <TD ALIGN="CENTER" WIDTH="226"></TD> </TR> </TABLE> </P> </BODY>