Open Beneath

She moved carefully, minding herself, because she was open beneath.

A 50s-style diner, waitress uniform provided. A rockabilly dress, cut daringly high above the knee. Wasp-waisted, halter-necked. Layers of tulle petticoats, stockings and skates.

But open beneath.

She wasn't supposed to be, of course. The rule said she should wear pure white cotton. The fact there was a rule meant they knew the dress was short enough that she might reveal too much. Knew she might flash her panties as she swished to a halt on her skates and bent to place a milkshake on the table. Or leaned across the counter to pick up a tray.

They knew it and they courted it.

Because that was what brought the customers. The truckers and the sweaty-shirt-sleeved salesmen.

All surreptitiously, hungrily, craning for a lucky glimpse as she passed.

They'd get more than a lucky glimpse of white from her, though.

Because she was open beneath.

She knew she was not right for pure white cotton. Not her.

Besides, cotton would betray her. It would show, to anybody who looked up there, a little button of damp, a shameful tell-tale of what she really was.

So she'd left it in her locker.

And gone open beneath.

And so she minded herself, careful of what she was showing.

If she bent over, she'd show much more than just a button.

The whole of the diner would see the truth. That she wasn't a girl for pure white cotton.

They would all see she was open beneath.

Ready and glistening for whatever anybody might care to slip in there.

She was so ready.

Slick with the thought of how open she was beneath.

Even if she didn't bend over and show them, she was sure people must know the truth.

Must see it on her face.

She was sure she could see it reflected on their faces.

The hunger.

Still, she felt a crushing urge to tell them. A near-compulsion to blurt out her secret.

That she was open beneath.

She could tell that man over there, sitting at the counter. On his high stool, studying the menu.

Not the usual tattooed trucker or perspiring beslacked toothpaste salesman. This man was wearing his suit like a subtle badge. Filling his suit would be a better description, like an ex-quarterback turned coach on his way back from a try-out session.

She couldn't mistake or misunderstand the bulge in the front of his pants.

He seemed relaxed, cocksure. So would she be if she had a cock like that.

Maybe she could just slide up alongside him at the counter.

She could refill his bottomless cup of coffee, and then, casually, as if she were telling him about the specials, tell him about her specials.

Tell him that she was bottomless too.

Or she could perch herself on one of the stools, beside him, pretending she was waiting for the next customer, waiting her turn to serve, tucking the hem of her dress underneath to keep from smearing her wet onto the vinyl.

Then, when she was sure she had his attention, appraising her out of the corner of his eye, like they all did, she could just flick up the hem of her dress, just for an instant, to just show him.

That she was open beneath.

If she sat there too long, the wet would soak through the material of her dress. It would show when she stood up, betray her as surely as the cotton would.

So instead she'd sit on the stool bare, dress cascading around her, but open beneath. Feel the seat slickly warm to her, squirm herself over it.

Then, when she stood, quickly wipe it off so nobody would see.

One cloth for the tables, one for the upholstery.

Melamine and vinyl.

Melamine and vinyl and lust.

If she should happen to slip herself backwards just slightly on the stool, just over the edge of the seat, she'd open the way beneath, for anybody who just wanted to step up behind her.

She wanted that so much.

Her cunt wanted it so much.

She couldn't reason with it, not her cunt, not when it was hungry.

She just had to contain it, or not, when it was hungry.

It was hungrier than the diners, for sure, and she could see just how hungry they were.

It was needy, her cunt.

The man beside her, sipping his coffee, she could let him have her. She could tell him, if he didn't realise already, that she was open beneath. He'd know just what to do with that information.

She could just slip between the quarterback and the counter, all casual, like she was reaching past him for the salt, just lift up and let him slip in behind, into the wet, just settle down into his lap and squirm.

She could let him in, just pop him in, her spine curving to the shape he made inside her.

The other diners, they would all watch him claim her, each wishing they'd been the one.

So hungry for her.

They'd watch her get fucked, in her swing dress and her bullet bra and her back-seamed stockings and her no panties, and they'd kick themselves for not realising that all the time she had been serving them ham and eggs she had been open beneath.

They'd wonder whether, if they had known the truth sooner, they might be the ones plunging into her sopping cunt right now.

She'd like to see the consternation, the jealousy, written on all their faces.

Seeing the wrong cock in her cunt.

Or in that other place. The tighter place.

She wouldn't stop him, if he wanted to do that, not the quarterback.

The right cock, the wrong place.

He'd have to spit on it, or she would.

It might hurt.

Like she was naughty.

Make her burn with shame.

He might take her there, the man sitting beside her, he might take her back there, if she was naughty.

And she was naughty, wasn't she? A naughty waitress.

So naughty.

Because she was open beneath.

Probably they wouldn't do it at the counter. Not that. Not there. She'd probably have to take him in the back if he wanted to take her in the back.

Standing up on tiptoes to meet the press of him. In her swing dress and her bullet bra and her back-seamed stockings and her no panties.

Her back to him, her cheek pressed against the door of the freezer. Trapped between ice and fire. So cold, and yet so hot too.

She'd be unsteady, tottering on her skates, so he'd have to brace her, his hands up beneath her skirt and her petticoats and her no panties, gripping her hips to hold her steady, fingers marking her flesh as he ground his heat into her body.

Pinning her in place.

Fingers splayed over her belly.

Cupping the place he sought to possess.

Maybe one of his fingers would slip down and brush against her button.

Just accidentally of course, he wouldn't be thinking of her pleasure so much as his release.

But it would make her close her eyes and clench her fists anyway.

While he made her his up-the-butt girl.

That would be all he'd remember of her. The girl who'd let him go up her butt at the 50s-style diner.

But oh, if she took the man in the back, where it was more private, might he strip her naked?

And what would happen then? What if he stripped her naked in the store room, among the boxes and barrels of cooking oil and the knowing glances from the other waitresses? What if he peeled away her swing dress and her bullet bra and her back-seamed stockings and her no panties? What if he stripped away all the layers to expose her, removing all the costume and the artifice and the show and the pretence? She couldn't hide behind the character of the naughty waitress then, could she? She'd be completely open beneath his gaze.

Anything she did naked would be all her own choice, there'd be no place to hide from what she chose to do, would there?

No pretence.

No hiding from what she was.

Fine. Nude in her cunt it would be, then.

Facing him, looking him in the eye. Her ankles up on his shoulders, wheels spinning uselessly. His muscular body supporting all her weight on his spear in her greedy cunt.

She'd moan. He'd have to put his hand over her mouth as he fucked her, to hold in her squeals.

She'd will him silently to finish in her.

To finish her.

His nude cock in her nude cunt.

There'd be no way to climb off as he rose within her.

She'd have to stand there and just take it. Stand there as he used her, as somewhere to spend himself, empty himself. Stand for anything he wanted to put in there.

Or leave in there.

Maybe he'd leave her a tip.

Just the tip.

He'd be able to do it, just like that, just spurt his lust into her, like she was nothing more than a place to relieve himself. Nothing to protect her.

Because she was open beneath.

With no cloth to hand, she'd have to kneel to clean the last drops of it from him. There'd be so much, it would drool from her, above and beneath. She'd try not to waste any but there'd be too much.

She'd smear the vinyl seat even more then, his and hers.

She'd have to stay naked after they'd done, because she wouldn't be able to hide the secret. It would be shiny-slick on her thighs, glistening in her hair, even if they couldn't see it quickening inside her.

She wouldn't want to hide it. It wouldn't occur to her.

If he was half the man he appeared, the secret would show eventually anyway.

So what then, if she walked back to the counter, naked, smeared down the inside of her thighs with the filthy evidence of what she'd done, of what he'd done in her? They'd all know then.

They'd all know what she really was.

They'd know how she'd behaved.

She would never really do it, of course.

Would never strip herself bare and let a stranger open her beneath.

It was beneath her.

All beneath her.

But she could.

Just as her own fingers could slip down there now, as she sat on the stool, waiting her turn, all prim and proper.

Find the button, hit it hard and fast.

Because she was open beneath.

Open and ready.

Open.

Beneath.

Open.

Beneath.

OpenBeneathOpenBeneathOpenBeneathOpenBeneath

Open

Open

Oh!