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.
