Page 13 of Hurts So Good
Jack stroked her back and ass gently as she trembled, and then drew her up and pulled her to sit in his lap, holding her almost as if she were a child as she clung to him.
Finally, the room stopped spinning. She opened her eyes, squirmed into a more comfortable position, and said, “Thank you, Sir.”
“I’d ask how you liked it, but the orgasm gave it away. How does your butt feel?”
“Well, I can feel every fiber in your pants. I love it.”
“And I can feel the heat through the fabric—which makes me want to feel your hot ass against me as I fuck you from behind. Would you like that?”
Seconds before, Serena had been blissfully boneless, and, she would have sworn, sated for the time being. The time being, it seemed, could be awfully short when Jack was around, because suddenly she wanted nothing more than Jack’s cock inside her.
She wriggled off his lap. “Here?”
“Bedroom. I plan to wear you out, and you might as well have someplace comfortable to fall down.”
She grinned.
They raced for the bedroom together.
NEVER A ROOKIE
Craig J. Sorensen
Pastrami on rye with fries, cheeseburger and fries, and a New York, rare, with a baker.”
The familiar song of feminine voices was punctuated by syncopated snaps as tickets collected on the worn chrome order wheel.
“A Reuben with chips, and a club with fries.”
“Ham and cheese omelette with home fries, two over easy with wheat toast and a short stack.”
Sizzling of steaks and burgers, crackling of eggs on the grill, the hissing of flare-ups all blended with the rhythmic cycles of the dishwasher. The three servers practiced their dance in the narrow waitresses’ station. Though it supported as many as eight waitresses at a time, there was always something special about the movements of a scant staff on these off-peak rushes.
Phillip noticed that this dance was different still on this day. The movements seemed more strained. A feather glide across the station by a seasoned waitress was interrupted by the clumsy steps of a rookie. Their hips collided and the veteran steadied her heavy tray.
“Goddamn it, girl!”
Phillip returned his focus to the order wheel, which still had two open spaces. He stepped up his pace to keep it that way. How he hated when orders started stacking along the silver counter.
Phillip recalled his first Saturday night in the restaurant, and his first job as a dishwasher. What seemed an eternity before had only been a year.
The dishes flowed in like high tide. Phillip had to struggle just to clean enough glasses, plates, and silverware to keep the restaurant from grinding to a halt. He hovered every moment on the verge of abject failure. Somehow, he got through, but that night, his favorite dreams of beautiful women ruthlessly ravishing his body were replaced by towers of dishes that loomed like midtown Manhattan.
Within just a few weeks he was the maestro. As he refined his skills, he found spaces to linger between flurries of activity. The raging hormones of a nineteen-year-old kicked in as he luxuriated between loads to graze on the smorgasbord of waitresses. Their uniforms were black one-piece dresses reaching no lower than mid-thigh. With the lace collars and hems, the uniforms conjured a French maid’s outfit, especially with the small lace-trimmed white aprons where they pocketed their tickets, pens, tips, and after-dinner mints.
In only six months, Phillip had been promoted from the auspices of the sauna-like dishwasher to the oven-like front kitchen. Another first day, and he settled into the task of sandwich preparation while his new mentor worked the grill side. An early rush came in, and the wheel on Phillip’s side of the kitchen filled up. Orders began to stack on the counter while the waitresses continued an endless stream of demands. Like that first day with the looming dishes, Phillip felt a welling desperation. Flight instinct began to take hold.
His mentor, a fifteen-year veteran of the kitchen, started to read the orders on Phillip’s wheel. “I got it. I got it,” Phillip insisted.
“You sure? This is a pretty nasty rush. We don’t want to break you on your first day.”
“I got it!” Phillip fumbled proudly through the mounting orders. The mentor watched skeptically.
When the rush relented, Phillip had fought through it all by himself. He felt an adrenaline rush like skiing down a slope of densely packed snow peppered with moguls for the first time. The order wheel hung askew like wind chimes in the calm after a violent storm. The mentor gave him a thumbs-up.
Phillip looked out proudly at the waitresses. He felt the blood rushing, focusing. He felt his zipper tighten. Perhaps it was just beating the rush, or maybe the leggy, honey-haired, pre-law student who picked up his last order had something to do with it. She winked as she admired the club sandwich and corned beef on rye—“looks delicious, babe!”
Pavlovian response or adrenaline, no matter. A nice, crisp boner became the perfect closer in the cycle of the morbid rush for Phillip, and so was his habitual short break in the walk-in fridge, where he would sit on a box and cool down. A nice bottle of Michelob fed his belly then soothed his groin until his desire deflated.