Served, on Wheels
by Sue Williams
I’m not going to lie. I didn’t need the money. It was all about the power, and there was plenty. I was there to serve the men, to bring their drinks and food; to wear that tiny outfit, and smile, and let them watch. Always, their eyes were on me, their thirsty tongues laid bare, as I glided by in roller boots, oozing sex like honey. I held my tray up high, my breasts pushed up and out – and oh, they’d fall so silent when I passed!
There were rules in the Roller Bar: no groping, no sleaze, no sex. Naturally, I planned to break all three. Of course, I had my reasons. (He’d dumped me for a redhead with big, synthetic tits. You can work the rest out for yourself.) My second week in, I wore stockings beneath my skirt, so when I swept past, the men would glimpse a flash. Some of the bolder ones would slip their hands up and stroke the strap against my thigh. To be honest, it was nasty – most of them were gross – but it put me in control. They wanted me, desired me. They couldn’t get enough. They touched my flesh again and again.
But Justin was different. He was tanned and strong. His eyes always glossed me in a drowsy way, as if I was a gorgeous piece of art. His friends were big-boned jokers who loved to cop a feel. The one they called Lee was the worst: when I cleared his plate, he’d slurp his beer and leave the foam on his lips. Then he’d stare down my cleavage like a salivating dog. The others would laugh – all except for Justin. “Guys,” he’d say. “Leave it! I’m surprised she even serves us. She’s so amazing! We should be serving her!”
Valentine’s Day was hard that year. The boy, who’d torn my heart in two, didn’t even call. In the Roller Bar, I let down my hair and spun like an angel on wheels. The mens’ hands moved over me, as if my body could cure them. On my way to the bathroom, I met Justin’s friend, Lee. He glanced around, and seeing we were alone, shoved me back and ground his hips on mine. I struggled, but he was heavy. I said, “Let me go!” His hand mauled my breasts; he shoved the other up my skirt. “You want it,” he groaned. “Don’t fight!” I felt him jerk his zipper, felt his wetness on my thigh. His eyes rolled up. His breath was hot with beer. “Yeah, God, you want it…”
“Not from you!” I yelled, kicking his shin. He gasped, jumped back, and I turned to run. But there, in my path, stood Justin. “What’s going on?” he asked, gaze searching mine. Hearing nothing from me, he glared across at Lee. “You?” he said, striding up. His arm-muscles swelled.
Lee was backing away, fat palms raised. “Slut was up for it, man.”
Justin flung a fist at Lee’s stomach where it landed with a thump, and the bastard gave a moan and doubled up. “Is that what you get off on?” he cried. “Screwing with people’s lives?”
“She… asks for it,” gasped Lee. “Look, mate! She’s… a whore!”
It was my turn to lock up: a job I loathed. I was scared of being alone – scared of that thug with a grudge. Once the lights were off, I rolled to the door, but jumped to see a man outside. I couldn’t see his face. I fell against the wall. The stranger started knocking. I sobbed, then looked again. He was kneeling, with what looked like a flower between his teeth. He splayed a hand against the glass and said, “It’s Jush’tin, baby!” I swear, I could have fainted with relief!
I put on the lights and opened the door, and this is what I saw: a shirtless Justin, on his knees: a spaniel with a rose. I laughed, but he stayed serious, pleading with his eyes. His body was exquisite: golden, smooth. “Sh’weet angel! I’ll help you forget him!” I rolled in close, so he could see up my skirt, and lifting my roller boot, placed it on his shoulder. His breathing quickened. He glanced up my skirt. I watched him, as lust filled his eyes. He let out the breathiest moan. When his jaw dropped, so did the rose.
“You want me,” I said, “don’t you?”
And smouldering up with those come-to-bed eyes, he licked down the length of my boot.
I had an urge to skate around and have him sit and watch, as if he’d come to eat and I was serving. He grinned when I told him and his eyes darkened up. He held me round the waist and pulled my hips to his. Our mouths fell together and he kissed me, long and hard. “So?” he said, his breath on my mouth. “Show me to my table.”
I switched on the lights. He lounged in his seat, his arms along the length of it, his eyes trained on me. I held my tray high, then took off, gliding round. He watched, lips parted. I could see his tongue. “Angel,” he said, gazing at my skirt. I moved my hips to make it flounce.
“You like the way I serve?” I said. He reached and touched my thigh.
“Oh God,” he said, rising. “So much!” He climbed onto the table, and sat there as I twirled. Looking right at him, I reached inside my top, unhooked my bra and flung it away. I unpeeled my skirt, and watched him staring at my sex. The striptease took me over. I shed my layers like glitter. I felt so powerful, skating round so bare. My breasts leapt, as the air licked round my thighs. I passed him and he reached for me, but I swerved away. “Think you could take me?” I called, throwing back my hair. He climbed to his feet, mouth all soft. I sent him a smoulder and rolled right up, but I lingered too close, and he grabbed my thong. “Caught you,” he said, with a skewed-up smile. He yanked the elastic. His clutch threw my balance. I slammed into him, then gasped against his chest. Our gazes fused. The tray crashed to the floor. His flesh felt warm. He smelled of mint and heat. “Right,” he said. “I’ll have a portion of you.” I laughed, until he pushed me, right hard across the room, the wheels beneath me whirling, as he slammed me to the wall. “God,” he gasped. “You feel…” Then he sank his mouth on mine and tore my shirt right from me and kissed each aching breast. I was gasping from the shock of him, the power of him, his mouth… “Beautiful,” he murmured. I pulled him to my nipples. His mouth – so wet, so perfect! His teeth – so smooth and hard!
He sank to his knees, and kissed me, through my panties. “Roller Girl,” he murmured, as he peeled back my lace. And his tongue… How to explain it? The feeling of him… oh… he found the spot so perfectly, that I became a sea – I swear, I’d never been so wet, so grateful, or so crazed. My splayed hand smacked the paintwork. I flung back my head.
I could tell you of each shudder, and each long, unbridled moan; or how he gasped and panted and thrust himself in me. I could tell you what it felt to place my hands upon his chest: his warmth, his muscles, the way he gripped my thigh. But what you really need to know is just how damp I was: my sex was like a tongue that lapped him up. I felt weightless, in his arms, as he slammed again, again, my bones knocking harder, my sighs so loud and long. “Honey, go hard!” I cried. “Oh honey, go hard, don’t stop!” And he worked me ceaselessly, his sex so large and deep. God, the way he felt inside me, his muscle and his length, and how my eyes upturned with each exquisite thrust… Our bodies were so wet that the wall grew slick as oil; and at last, he was so fierce – so gloriously firm – that the very floor beneath us seemed to groan.
Afterwards, he left me sitting in his seat, and returned with a pot of honey. “I’m too tired,” I said.
“Baby, it’s just snack-time!”
We lay together, as he fed me sticky spoonfuls. He licked the back of the spoon, then pressed it to my breast. “So,” he said, as I giggled and pushed his hand away. “I hate to bring it up, but this guy…”
I could hardly think about Lee. “I know he’s your friend, but …”
He lifted my chin. “I didn’t mean Lee,” he said. “He’s no friend of mine.” I blinked at him, unsure. He stroked my hair. “The boy that left you, angel…” I blushed, as he added, “I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you’re here.”
“I don’t understand!” I said. “How…?”
“It’s obvious. You, working here…” He reached for my breast, and circled my nipple. “You don’t still love him, right?” he said, arching an eyebrow.
I glanced around the Roller Bar,
and knew I had the answer. “Tomorrow,” I said, “I’ll quit this job.”
He played with my rollers, grinning and spinning the wheels. “That’s great,” he said. He tipped a wink. “But don’t lose the boots!”
Neighbours
by Elizabeth Cage
‘Shut up. Just shut up!’
I buried my head in the pillow, trying without success to block out the noise of the party that was in full swing in the house three doors away.
I was fuming. I’d been working all day on the computer, trying to finish a load of reports from work that were due in Monday. OK, so it might sound a bit sad that when most of my mates were out enjoying themselves on a Saturday night, here was I, at home in bed by midnight. Trying to sleep. But it had been a busy month, I’d been travelling most days and now all I wanted to do was relax at home, get a bit of peace and quiet. Fat chance.
I switched on the radio, trying to drown out one source of noise with another. But the boom, boom of the bass speakers was too much for the soothing tones of the Radio 4 announcer. And it was far too hot to shut the windows, which would have helped a bit. But why should I swelter more than I was already on this stifling summer night because some selfish git had decided to have a full-on, very loud party.
‘Bastard!’ I shouted, leaning out of the window, not caring if anyone saw my exposed breasts as I looked out onto the road below. This was normally a quiet, peaceful little cul de sac. One of the reasons I liked living here. I’d figured out which neighbour it was, the one with the big house right in the far corner. He’d only moved in a couple of weeks before. And from the lights flashing it looked like the party was happening outside in the garden. No wonder the noise could be heard for miles. I just couldn’t put up with it. There had to be laws against such things, noise pollution and all that. My head was splitting by now and the aspirin I’d taken earlier didn’t seem to have helped. I’d endured this situation for over an hour. I picked up the phone and left a message for the poor sod who was on the noise rota in the council’s environmental health department. Twenty minutes later he called back and I let rip about the party.
‘Sorry, love, but Saturday is our busiest night and there’s only two of us on duty. At this time of year we can’t keep up with all the noisy parties. It could be another couple of hours before we make it over to your side of town.’
‘And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?’ I protested angrily.
‘Hope the party runs out of steam. Sorry.’
I slammed the phone down. I wanted to scream. Instead I thumped my pillow. I wasn’t going to put up with this any longer. I was going to tell my inconsiderate neighbour to turn it down – or else! ‘Right, that’s it, you asked for it,’ I yelled, as I felt myself rapidly metamorphosing into Basil Fawlty. I pulled my light summer trenchcoat on over my naked body and slipped my feet into a pair of kitten-heeled sandals. Before I shut my front door, I picked up a heavy-duty torch – not only would it help me illuminate the road, it would also serve as a weapon if things got nasty. And the way I felt, I was more than prepared for a fight – in fact I was spoiling for one.
A set of heavy iron gates prevented me from entering the garden from the back entrance and as I approached I saw a couple by the wall, indulging in a knee trembler. The guy looked up at me sheepishly and smiled.
‘Hi, have you come for the party?’ he asked breathlessly between thrusts.
‘No, I’ve come to tell your fucking host to turn the fucking noise down or I’ll call the police.’
‘Hey, chill,’ the guy said before letting out a long groan as he shot his load into the girl he had pinned against the wall. He slid out of her and she said irritably, ‘You’d better go and get Alex. She seems a bit pissed off.’
When the guy smoothed himself down, I realised that he was wearing a dog collar – the kind that a man of the cloth wears. Either the local clergy are having a jolly little social gathering, or this is a vicars and tarts fancy dress do, I decided. I wondered if there was much likelihood of getting any sense out of anyone.
The vicar returned minutes later. ‘Alex is busy but said do come in and help yourself to a drink.’ He pulled the gate open and I hesitated, wondering what I was walking in on.
‘I don’t want a drink. I want some bloody peace and quiet,’ I told him.
‘Please yourself,’ he mumbled, taking a swig from a can of Red Bull.
Cautiously, I stepped into the garden and made my way towards the brightly lit house and the wide open patio doors.
‘Fancy a drink?’ asked one of the guests, who appeared to be the Pope.
I glared. Inside, I pushed my way purposefully through a variety of tartily attired females sporting fishnets and garters with tight mini-skirts and men wearing black trousers and shirts, with feeble cardboard white collars. What a cop-out for the men these themed parties were, I reflected. Little effort was required, or indeed put in by the males in these situations. Admittedly, there were a few guys in monk’s habits and the odd bishop or two. By contrast, most of the women had gone to a lot of trouble, as was evident in the variety of their outfits – ranging from tight, shiny slit skirts, rubber minis and Kylie-style hot pants with long thigh boots. Ample cleavage was on display, and lots of stocking tops. Great for the men. I felt more irritated than ever by the unseen host, who I’d decided was not only an inconsiderate bastard but sexist with it.
‘Have you come as a tart?’ enquired an alcohol-fuelled male voice. ‘Are you wearing a thong under that coat?’
‘Fuck off,’ I told him curtly, in no mood for wit. The music was thumping and I thought my head would burst.
‘Go on, have a drink,’ offered a pretty brunette with black hold up stockings and a short leather dress. ‘You look as if you could do with one.’
Sighing, I put down my torch and took the glass she offered, which I assumed to be orange juice. After one sip, I realised it had a kick that told me it was mostly vodka. I looked around me. Everyone seemed infuriatingly merry and happy. The air was thick with the current dance hits, cigarette smoke and laughter. Under normal circumstances, I might have enjoyed a party. And it was hard to get annoyed with people who were being nice. However, I was here for a reason and I was determined not to be seduced by the party atmosphere and the hypnotic rhythmic grooves.
‘I need to speak to the host,’ I insisted, my voice directed at the brunette and anyone else who would listen.
‘What? I can’t hear you!’ she replied, her hips swaying to the music.
‘Alex. Do you know where I can find him?’ I persisted.
Suddenly a voice behind intoned deeply, ‘I understand you’re looking for me?’
I turned, ready to unleash my wrath and my mouth dropped open. I was confronted with a dark-haired guy at least six feet tall, clean shaven with penetrating blue eyes. He was wearing four-inch spiky heels, black, lace-topped stockings and suspenders and the most beautifully crafted Victorian corset in pale blue silk. His mouth was a gash of deep scarlet, his eyes heavily kohled. A snake tattoo encircled his right arm and a rose adorned his left shoulder. His upper torso was toned and muscular. I was instantly reminded of Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, who I’ve always had a thing about. Specifically dressed like that. I felt myself melting. Quickly, I attempted to regain my composure.
‘This party can be heard from miles away,’ I pointed out sternly.
‘Really? That’s good, then,’ he replied, grinning annoyingly. ‘So you decided to gatecrash?’
‘No, and it isn’t a laughing matter,’ I replied tersely, trying not to wonder what it would feel like to be fucked by such a vision of sensuality.
‘Hey, you live down the road, don’t you? I’ve seen you driving around. Nice car. Good choice. Racy.’
‘I’m not here to discuss your automobile preferences,’ I responded, trying to sound di
gnified and businesslike.
‘Well, why are you here?’ he asked, and I realised his eyes were scanning my figure, assessing the outline of my breasts, caressing my knees, my shins, my ankles, lingering on my painted toes. ‘Nice feet,’ he muttered appreciatively. ‘Like the shoes.’
‘Forget the feet. I want you to turn down the music.’
‘Why? It’s great music. Wanna dance?’ and he offered me his hand.
‘It’s loud music. Too loud. I was trying to get some sleep.’
‘But the night is young. And it is Saturday. Party time.’
‘Not for me.’ I sighed. This was going nowhere.
‘It could be. You’re welcome to stay. It’s really hot in here.’ He gave a teasing grin. ‘Shall I take your coat?’
‘That won’t be necessary, as I don’t intend to stay,’ I insisted, blushing. Did he realise I was naked beneath my coat? ‘You’re not listening, are you? Turn the bloody music down. Please.’
He considered for a moment then said, ‘OK. On one condition.’
I groaned. ‘I’m not in the mood for this.’
‘One tiny condition,’ he repeated, moving closer. I could smell his aftershave. Unfortunately one of my favourites.
‘I don’t like playing games.’
‘It isn’t a game.’
‘So what do I have to do to get you to turn the music down?’
‘Kiss me.’
I froze. ‘What?’
‘Kiss me. Then I promise you I’ll give in to your request, however unreasonable.’
‘Unreasonable! This is pathetic.’ I began to walk away.
‘Your call,’ he said. ‘I reckon it will be ages before the council send someone out to tell me off and the police are far too busy dealing with drunks and fights in town to come all the way out here. Like I said, your call.’
I glared at him. ‘Fuck you.’
‘Well that would be even better.’
Sex, Love & Valentines Page 12