Once upon a time I wrote a he said/she said scenario with one
P.S. Haven. It was called Open All Night and Ruthie's Club (now defunct) ran it and we got loads of nice feedback. I loved the story so much I ran my side in
Lucky 13. Now, for the first time, P.S. Haven has
generously run his part on his blog. So here I am, putting mine up. Read me first and then him, read him and then me, either way, I hope you like it.
It's true. There are two sides to every story. And sometimes, both sides are hot ;)
Happy Friday!
XOXO
Sommer
Open All Night: Claire
by Sommer Marsden
copyright Sommer Marsden
I’m fucking tired. Of course this isn’t new, I’m always tired now. Ever since Joey ran off with that slut from the pool hall, all the bills that once were ours are now mine. So, I do stupid-ass shit to stay afloat. Work the graveyard shift at the diner, for one thing. You get a little more pay if you’re willing to be live bait for every pervert and serial killer traveling through town.
I hear myself sigh before I know I’m going to do it. I sigh a lot these days. I slip my shoes off because no one’s here to see me break the rules—not a health inspector in sight. I glance at myself in the grungy mirror over the double sinks. There’s so much grease on it, I can barely see myself, but what I see makes me sad. A very tired woman who looks worn and beaten, where once I saw a fairly pretty, relatively happy face. I see a shell. A shell that looks like shit, to be honest.
I stare down at the dishes. Heaps of them, floating in disgusting water. It resembles the murky water of the fishing hole I used to swim in as a child. Back when I was young. Back when I laughed. But that water had been full of fish and river rocks and the occasional water snake. It was pretty in its ugliness. This water is just disgusting. I twist my hair up to get it off my face and steel myself to plunge my hands into the gray, greasy liquid.
Saved by the bell, though. And it makes me jump about a foot off the floor because it comes as a surprise. Once the dinner hour has passed and the truckers have had their fill of feeling my ass and trying to twist a nipple, I’m usually just baby-sitting the diner till the breakfast crowd comes rolling in. Tonight, though, I have a customer.
I make sure to bang through the door like Rita taught me. When she left the diner she was about eighty-eight and had dealt with everyone the interstate had to offer. She taught me how to enter like I meant it and I did—just to make sure that whoever was waiting for me knew that I wasn’t an easy mark. But when I see him my step falters. And my breath, just for a moment. No one but me would know it had happened. I’m the only one who knows that from just a glance a slow burn has started inside me. Something that I have not felt in a long time has been ignited by a total stranger.
“What’ll it be, honey?” I blurt and I’m almost certain he doesn’t notice the little tremor in my voice. He looks too tired to care if he does notice.
“Got a phone I can use?” he asks and his voice is deeper than I expect. The baby hairs on the back of my neck stand up at the sound. Not only is his voice deep but it seems unusually loud in the near silence of the room.
“There’s a pay phone across the street at Donnie’s,” I nod toward the door and when he turns I get to take him in. The dark hair that’s just a little too long. The fine webbing of laugh lines around his green eyes. The cut of his jaw and how the muscles stand out in his neck. Each feature is good—handsome. But put together, a little overwhelming. At least for me, because I haven’t looked at a man with interest in quite a while.
When he asks about a service station, my mind goes blank. I can’t seem to remember what’s around me, let alone the names. I pass it off with a joke about my cooking. If I can joke with him, I won’t feel so panicky. When he asks me if I’m Suzie, I do better—I’ve told this story so many times I can do it in my sleep. I tell him that Suzie’s brother Frank runs the place now, but he’s never here.
“Never?”
The way he says never makes my stomach turn over in a slow roll. I’m sure it’s just me, my imagination, so I blunder on, ignoring the uncertainty and excitement doing battle inside me.
“He don’t get here till about six. Not much traffic before then.” I can feel myself staring at him and what’s worse, it’s a hard stare. Not the way you’d stare at someone so you can prove they have your undivided attention. No. This is a stare that means I am taking you in. Every inch of you. I’m almost certain those green eyes are taking in every inch of me too, and it confuses me just a little. “You want something to eat?”
“Just coffee, please.”
That voice again and the hint of a smile, enough to make my knees a little weak and make me aware that I am barefoot and most likely disheveled. But despite that, something in the smile makes me feel sexy. It makes me remember when I wore heels and cared if I had on make-up and knew how to wear a short skirt. It startles me to realize that I like the feeling of his eyes on me. I can feel them as surely as I can feel the filthy, greasy floor under my feet. So, when I reach for his mug, I put my ass into it. Do a little pinup girl pose as my Aunt Dot used to call it, standing on tiptoes, though I don’t really have to, arching my back and pushing my ass out. And all the while I can feel his eyes roving over me as if they were his hands.
“Nice car.” I hand him the coffee as he glances out the window as if my words have made the car disappear. “First boyfriend had one just like it. Except blue. I’ve loved Impalas ever since.”
I get a slow nod and nothing more. My nerves force me forward and I’m rambling. Just trying to get him to talk, so I can hear that voice again. “So, you from around here?” I can tell that he isn’t. This man is passing through, but it might keep him talking. Finally, he tells me he’s headed to New York and this makes me curious. He looks as though he’s got a lot on his mind. He’s traveling in the middle of the night. He’s headed to New York though I can see the Maryland license plate through the window.
“Business or pleasure?” I’m shocked to hear how I draw out the word pleasure as if it’s a filthy word and I’m whispering it right in his ear.
“Nah, no pleasure in New York.” He draws the word out, too. Echoing me, I’m certain. Not mocking in any way. Maybe just letting me know that he’d caught how I had said it.
“That’s a shame,” I say but it comes out as a sigh. And then we’re staring. That slow burn turns into a shower of sparks and I have the urge to kiss him. Right there, over the counter. Just grab his face and kiss him. I haven’t been kissed in ages and I want to know what it feels like to touch that serious, set mouth. And when I feel like I might burst, I start laughing. The urge to kiss him gets worse when he starts laughing with me and I see those lines around his eyes in action. The way his mouth curves up and never quite loses its serious set, but loosens somehow.
“Listen, there’s a phone in the office—you can use if you want.” I try to tell myself I’m taking pity on him but I know deep down that part of me just wants to get him in the back. I haven’t made up my mind yet what I’ll do, but I know damn well which side is winning.
I don’t let myself think about it, I just do. This part right here is sealing my fate and I know it. I can feel him watching me again and I’m pretty sure he knows it, too. I lock the front door and hit the switch for the Open sign. I can hear its popping electric death from inside. It should have been replaced years ago. All the way through the swinging doors he watches me and it’s like being eaten alive and I love it. It makes me smile. A feeling I had forgotten. Want. Somebody wants me.
The kitchen is my territory and yet is seems unfamiliar with him behind me. I can hear him breathing, I can smell the new smell of him mixed in with all the mundane ones, and I can feel that electrical feeling of him staring—the awareness of an intense gaze raking my body. It’s as if I have never felt it before. I’m back at the sink, still stocked with rancid water and cracked dishes but it doesn’t bother me. He’s here and his presence is huge and a little scary, like a beautiful predator. So intriguing that your first instinct is trust. I turn to face him and, for just a moment, I’m afraid. Is he about to take something from me or am I giving it? This is not the smartest move I’ve made but I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want it.
He looks me right in the eye. Not my tits. Not my dress. Nothing but my eyes, and that does it. I don’t question it, I just reach for him. The urge to kiss is now a compulsion. And we’re tangled. His hand pulling me close, almost crushing me to him. He tastes like cigarettes and salt. I work my hand into his button flies because now that one urge has been sated, another has taken its place—the need to feel his skin. His cock is already hard and I love the feel of him in my hand. Soft skin over hard length. Perfect.
“Turn around,” he growls and there it is again. That sizzle of fear shooting straight down the center of me. Growing around it, though, is an urgency, a nearly desperate desire to do what he says. Anything he says. Give him whatever he wants. Simply because he wants it. And because I can. He gauges my look and says a little softer, “Turn around. Show me your ass.”
So I do. I do it slowly, calling up in my memory how I had once loved to taunt a man. Make him pant. I know he’s watching me as I pull my dress up, taking my time. I can hear the whisper of cotton over nylon and the deeper sound of his breathing. I imagine his gaze. Never straying. Steady and hard where my hands move over my own body.
When he moves it’s so fast I can’t react. His hands bunch in my hose, yank at them, forcing my panties down in their wake. I gasp a little, wriggle just a touch, and toss them aside. I turn to look over my shoulder and watch him step back and observe me, eyes everywhere as if I am a work of art. I go with the feeling. The feeling of being beautiful and having someone look at me like they can’t not have me. His want is palpable and I can feel it settle over me like a mist.
I can hear him murmuring but it’s hard to make out so I just watch his face. I think I hear him say, “Not every girl has an ass like yours,” and I feel a perverse pleasure at the compliment he has offered.
Then his hands are on me. The kind of hands I like—large, rough, nicked from physical labor.
They push at me, knead me, travel my skin as if by memory. The heat spreads and my heart bangs. I’m not sure if it’s the desire or the danger or simply him. I don’t care. I’ve gone past thinking and now I want to feel.
“Fuck me.” The words tumble out of my mouth and he’s there. Right there. Ready.
His fingers move into me and my cunt clenches. Instinctive. Greedy. Even I know that’s not where he’s going with this, but that’s fine. It’s not normally my first choice but I will take it. Just the feel of him in me, moving with me, taking over. His wanting is what’s important—how is not the issue. His broad, blunt fingers are gone far too quickly but his mouth is on my skin and I feel my nipples go taut with a pleasure that’s nearly painful. My pussy is weeping, wanting something I’m positive it will not get. I feel him push against the bud of my asshole. Slowly.
Carefully. Making sure I am ready. I can feel his restraint. Hear it like a low electrical hum.
My pulse is fluttering in my throat and I find that I am ready. There is very little resistance, even as he pushes against me a little harder. “Do it,” I hiss, giving into the submissive need to be with this stranger. I give over to it even though the most feminine part of me is empty. His breath is harsh in my ear and I don’t even tense. I sink into it. Let him take me. This way, any way. The taking is what I want.
I move against him, loving the feel of his hand on my skin. Each thrust gets a little easier. Deeper. I enjoy each one a little more. I feel completely full. Filled to bursting and a little frenzied by the sounds he’s making. Hot breath on my back. Fingers roaming my skin. And when he clutches at me like I might drift away, hauling me against him so tight, I feel like I can’t breathe, I feel the first hesitant flicker. The fact that he’s fucking me is a joy. How much he wants it a pleasure. And the pleasure is coursing through my body with each greedy slide of his cock into my ass.
I can hear myself grunting like an animal, sighing, moving against him. His body tenses, arms trapping me and I know that this is about to end. Knowing soon it will be over means I want mine too. I finger my clit, my fingers are wet and the sound of his body crushing mine only makes them wetter. It doesn’t take much—baby strokes, butterflies walking over my skin. Three or four, maybe but I’m not counting because as I come in a long liquid wave, he’s coming with me. Panting like an animal, clutching me fiercely. He doesn’t even know I came. And that’s just fine with me.
I let him into the office and stand at the sink. The water isn’t so gray. When I look in the mirror over the sink, she’s back. The girl who can smile. The one who can wear a short skirt. He’s only in the office for two minutes or so. He walks out and smiles. Almost shy, almost apologetic.
“You’re beautiful,” he says as he’s getting ready to leave. I believe him, because now I agree with him.
“You never told me your name.”
It really doesn’t matter. But I would like to know. Just for posterity.
“Jake,” he says and that voice lights me up inside all over again. I hear the grumbling roar of the Impala’s engine. The headlights jump to life in the dark. And he pulls out. Gone.
I hit the switch and the Open sign jumps back to life. He was just what I needed. Could have used more of, actually. But he has the air of a man on a mission, one that his life may depend on. And maybe he’ll come back this way one day. A girl can always hope.
as much as possible, especially in public, but sometimes...it just doesn't work. *snort*. Okay, the actual question was panster or plotter and do I multi-task (who is laughing? I hear you!) and all kinds of other stuff including if I had a warning label what would it be. Find out what I said here.
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