Last Call

Last Call

The last of the last call customers had left. Now was the quiet clean up time at Corner Café. Amy told the cook to finish the dishes and head out half an hour ago, and he was waving from his bicycle as he rode past now. She glanced at the clock and realized she had about an hour before the next shift would be in. Settling on the end stool at the counter, she flipped through the channels looking for something to pass the time. Few came in during this time, and it was the longest hour of the shift. Pulling the tray of silverware closer, she began wrapping the flatware for the day.
The sound of the bell on the door surprised her. Looking over her shoulder she saw a lone person enter. Clad in a hooded sweatshirt, holey jeans, and combat boots, the figure moved to the booth farthest from the front and flopped down, sliding to the corner. Amy put the flatware down and grabbed a menu. The hood obscured the face of the person, but she did notice a mustache as she approached. She was used to working the last of the shift alone and never gave a second thought to anything bad happening, but tonight was different. There was something about this man, the way he kept hunched in to himself, hiding his face, that set off a caution in her brain.
“Coffee?”
He nodded and she went back to retrieve a cup for him. There was none made, and she started a new pot, grabbing a glass of water instead.
“It’ll be a few minutes.”
“S’ok.”
He was looking at the menu and made no indication he was ready to order, so Amy walked back to wait for the coffee. She got into her purse and grabbed her mace, feeling better as she slid it into her pocket. The coffee had finished and she walked back, hoping the cup rattling on the saucer wasn’t as loud as she imagined. He reached for sugar and doctored the cup with one hand as he pointed to the pancakes on the menu.
It creeped her out a little that he didn’t speak, and she thought about calling for someone to come down. She gave that thought up, knowing that at this late/early hour, it would be too long before anyone could get here. Still about 45 minutes until the next shift was due in, and they were never on time. Pouring the batter to the hot griddle, she tried to calm herself. He wouldn’t do anything. She had the pepper spray and could handle herself. Collecting butter and syrup, she headed back out, grabbing the coffee pot on the way. Hot coffee, ya…that would be a good weapon if necessary. She set the plate down on the table, refilled his cup and scurried back to her silverware. She had a good view of him, and watched as he ate.
The television provided background noise to the sound of his flatware on the plate and his cup hitting the saucer. She saw him look up towards her, lifting his empty water glass. Amy grabbed a pitcher and headed over, her nerves catching her again. As she tried to pour the water, her hand began to shake and she spilled some on the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry, hang on.”
In her rush to set the pitcher down, she crashed it into the glass, spilling it on his lap. He jumped back in the seat and she thought “I’m dead now.” In the flash of movement, the hood flew from his head and she realized she was staring at Johnny Depp.
“Oh…Oh, my God.”
It’s okay, settle down.”
All she could get out of her mouth was “Oh.” Over and over again as she covered her mouth and backed to the counter to grab a towel.
“I am so sorry…I-I don’t know why… I didn’t mean it.”
Johnny started to laugh, watching as she went to her knees and began to mop at the wet spot on his jeans. She knew she was turning 20 shades of red. She felt the fool for being afraid, for acting so weird, for spilling water on him. As she worked at the soaked material, she heard him start to chuckle and felt movement under the zipper. Swallowing hard, she looked up into the deep brown eyes she had dreamed of, and found a small light in them. A smile curled the corner of his mouth and she jerked her hand back from his crotch, sure she was almost purple. He snagged her hand and put in back, encouraging the stroking motion she had been using. She fought at first, then realized his other hand had moved to her cheek, the thumb drawing lazy stokes on the flesh.
Feeling the delicious hardness growing under the jeans, it took no time for Amy to realize this was a once in a lifetime chance. She tossed the towel to the floor and began to knead the wet denim, working up to the zipper. Johnny spread out in the booth, keeping one hand on her head as she undid the zipper and released him from the soaking pants. His cock stood erect before her and she licked her lips in anticipation. With a slow movement, she took him in and went all the way down, her tongue cupped around the shaft. She dragged it up again then down, working up a momentum. She could hear him struggling to catch his breath, small moans coming from deep in his throat. Knowing she was making progress, she grabbed him with her hand and began to keep rhythm with her mouth. His hips began to keep time as well and he arched his back, reaching for her warm wet mouth. Her other hand caught his balls, and after a few minutes of manipulation, he let out a groan, cumming in her mouth. She felt the hot spunk running out the sides and down her face. After sucking through his spasms, she let him go, and reached for the towel.
Johnny was panting and watched her, then reached and took the wet towel from her and wiped her face for her. He cleaned himself while she sat back on her heels, watching as he tucked his cock away. Sliding to the edge of the booth seat, he reached to her waist and coaxed her to stand walking her backwards to the counter, where he lifted her to sit while he took a stool in front of her. His fingers found his way under the hem of her uniform’s skirt and worked a hot trail on her thighs, prodding her legs open to him. He slid the wet material of her panties aside and began to stroke her slit, holding her gaze.
“Breakfast was great.”
“You’re-you’re welcome.”
“The coffee was perfect.”
“N-nothing can beat-t a fresh pot of c-c-c-offffeeeeee.”
Amy was struggling to converse while his fingers played about the opening to her cunt. His gaze kept her locked on his face, his fingers slow and smooth in their movements. He had the sly smile again, offering the challenge for her to talk to him
as he stroked her off.
“Have you worked here long?”
“Three...yeeeearrrrs.” Years came out in a groan as he moved his fingers around to slide into her, his thumb finding her clit and working it. He began a rhythm for her, rocking her on the edge of the counter. She moved in time with his hand, warm waves fanning out through her body. Her orgasm was building, pulling in from her arms and legs, every part of her quivering in anticipation of the oncoming explosion.
“Tell me, pretty lady, what is your name?”

“Amy. Amy? Hon, wake up. We’re here.”
Amy raised her head and blinked. She had fallen asleep at the counter. The last remnants of her dream hung at the corners of her mind. She heard his voice and looked around, her heart falling to see there was no Johnny. Only the movie on the television. It had all been a dream. Read more!

Sunday Scribblings 03-01-08: Time Machine

When Your Past Comes Back


Who is ever prepared for when the past comes for a visit?
It catches unawares, and often cold.
We marvel at the wonder, or stare in horror there
Wonder, when did we get so very old?
A treasure from our childhood, can turn us back to ten
And bring the simple joy of life anew
We remember carefree days, or a second froze in time
As captured in a fragile drop of dew.
A person we once knew, can walk right through a door
And hit us with emotions buried long
Seems I find these times, their entrance brings to mind,
the strains of a long ago time's song.
Whether bad or history good, the years have gone away,
And you remember the epiphany with them.
That moment that you met, or parted or fought or cried,
The time that was forgiven, or condemned
A scent, a smell, a perfume that wafts along the breeze,
and takes us somewhere once we used to live.
In someone’s house or someone’s heart, the aroma that we know,
And, oh, such comfort does it give.
The sights, the sounds the smells, all creep into our mind
And unlock what once we buried deep inside,
It travels to the heart and finds the source therein,
the place where these memories reside.
Who is ever prepared for when the past comes for a visit?
It catches unawares, and often cold.
We marvel at the wonder, or stare in horror there
Wonder, when did we get so very old? Read more!

Sunday Scribblings: 02-09-08: Fridge Space

Vengeance is a dish best eaten cold.

He couldn’t remember when or where he had heard that, but he had known it all of his life. To that end he created what he called his mental “fridge space”, a place to put the wrongs and injustices in his life and let the sit, waiting until they were properly chilled. Sometimes, it took years. And the thing he learned was that most of the time, by letting them sit, karma came into play and he had to do nothing to enjoy the revenge, and that was good for his karma since he was not putting anything negative out to come back to him. As a matter of fact, most times once a revenge was extracted, he found that he had a few good things come to him.

Waiting could be hard for him, though, depending on the who and the what. People who had hurt him the deepest, caused him the most anguish, haunted him. It took a lot to not act on that, almost as much as it took to not turn the situation around as if he had done the wrong. Others he forgot about until some little gossip came to him, reminding him that they had fouled his life and now theirs had been fouled. He’d smile a little smile and be thankful there was no baking soda to sanitize his mental fridge. No one cleaned out the containers in the back, black with ages of mold and vile deeds. The longer they sat, the sweeter the revenge.

He placed the latest betrayal into its container and shoved it way back…behind his
Ex-girlfriend from college, behind his cousin’s thieving two years ago. This one had to go way to the back so he would forget, because the betray was so heinous, so deep and so vile, he wanted it to ripen for a long time. This was the worst one and it had to wait a life time, and he had to remain strong enough to let it. Read more!

Sunday Scribblings:1/18/08:Fellow Travelers

In His Eyes

The greatest story
I ever read
was in the lines
on the face of an old man
on a flight to Wisconsin.

He told me of his life.

How, as a young man,
he left his parents to take part in
the drama of war. On
foriegn soil he was witness
to humanity's inhumanity.
He returned with blinders
to the differences in his fellow man.

His sweetheart awaited him.

and within her arms
the love story of marriage.
They courted, and had
the traditional wedding, taking to heart
the vows to stay as one.
Those vows produced the
tragi-comedy of children,
five boys who did
all the things he did:
caught frogs and crawdads,
climbed high into
the trees, got into
fights, and scared their mother. And he
wavered between wanting to hug them
and scold them
at the same time. The middle boy
was lost young, to
fever. The strength
of unspoken love from his wife
pulled him through,
as his did for hers.

Now, on this plane,
he was taking her to be
with the middle son.

I watched in silence
as the memories returned to him.
The horrors and the hurt.
The love and the laughter.
This all marched through his eyes.
So much those eyes had seen.
I wanted to reach to him,
to offer him my shoulder.


I stayed mute.
Storing his strength,
the glory of his story,
the beauty of his spirit,
the depth of his love.

It is the touchstone,
the well of experience,
upon which I still draw. Read more!