Morgan Hawke - Night Waitress - A Victim And His Unwilling Succubus.pdf

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places, and incidents either are products of the

author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Phantasy – One Erotic Tale from Phantasmagoria -

For your Individual Pleasure.

Copyright © 2003 Morgan Hawke

ISBN: 1-55410-020-8

Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the

reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in

part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or

other means, now known or hereafter invented, is

forbidden without the written permission of the

publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya

Publications, 2003

Look for us online at:

www.zumayapublications.com

www.Extasybooks.com

Morgan Hawke

Night Waitress

A Victim and His Unw ing Succubus

For Jazmin & Blue

t was four hours until dawn. The tiny diner I work in

sits cheek-to-jowl with some old brick high-rises in

the heart of the oldest part of the city. This used to

be considered a decent part of town.

I

The diner was full to the brim with drunks that

had spent last four hours drowning in over-loud

dance music. The smell of ripe, sweaty bodies and

sour beer-breath floated just above every Formica

table. The noise level was appallingly loud as the club

flunkies yelled back and forth across the tables to

their equally deaf companions and shouted their late-

night breakfast orders to the waitstaff.

With a damp rag in one hand and a coffeepot in the

other, I swiped tables and refilled cups as I went. My

black sneakers made tiny squeaks that I felt more than

heard as I hurried across the linoleum tile. Light

gleamed on the silver frames of my pink-tinted

glasses, reflected in the plate glass mirrors that lined

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Night Waitress

the walls. My long red hair, pulled back in a severe

ponytail, poured straight down my back like blood.

“Hey baby, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here

waiting tables?”

I stopped abruptly, sloshing coffee in the pot.

Calling me pretty was like saying Fred Astaire could

dance a little. It was not my fault—I had been made

that way. Unfortunately for me, I had been designed

beautiful in the Victorian ideal, a delicate face, long

harlot-red hair, full breasts, rounded thighs, a tiny

waist, a pronounced ass and I was short. Very short,

as in less than five feet tall.

Turning slowly, I looked at the long slim fingers

that gripped my black polyester uniform. My eyes

traced the fingers up a muscular arm onto a body that

looked as though it had been pumped lean and hard

by years of athletic machines. I stopped at crystalline

blue eyes framed in black lashes. His face was lean

and well-made with a full, kissable mouth. His soot-

black hair was pulled into a neat tail held by a silver

clip that curled to his shoulders. He was dressed in a

snug, short-sleeved silky pullover that showed off

every bulge and curve of his sculpted torso. He had

one knee out of the booth, so I could see the black

dress-slacks he wore and how they showed his tiny

waist to perfection. Yummy. My infernal appetite for

handsome young men kicked in, making me salivate

and moistening my panties.

“Hi.” he said, leaning over to read my nametag.

“Hi, Lili, I’m Bruce.” He continued smiling, turning

up the electric charm, all one hundred watts worth of

perfect teeth. “You busy later on tonight?”

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Morgan Hawke

To use the modern vernacular, he was a hottie and

I could tell by the smug way he was looking at me

that he knew it. Guys that hunky always seemed to

feel that they were entitled to harass any vaguely

attractive girl in range. There was no way this cute

idiot was going to let me go without attempting to

charm me into having sex with him. How did I know?

His hand was inching the hem of my skirt up my

thighs, exposing the top of my nude stockings and the

pins that held them to my garter belt. Terrific, just

what I needed.

“I need to go back to work, sir.” With a mostly-

clean hand I pushed my red bangs out of my eyes.

Tipping my head forward, I glared into his eyes over

the rim of my pink-tinted glasses. Apparently, Bruce

was too drunk to notice the flame-red glints that my

eyes tended to reflect under fluorescent lighting.

That’s what the tinted glasses were for, to hide that

uncanny flicker of hellfire in their depths. I

accidentally scare people all the time.

I felt like groaning in annoyance even as I assessed

what I thought he’d be like in bed. I really was not in

the mood to fend off another silly foolish man with a

death wish he didn’t know he had. He was probably

convinced that I had been made with him in mind.

Technically, my first master had hoped to create the

perfect sex toy, and technically, he had succeeded.

Unfortunately, and to his everlasting and rather fatal

dismay, he gave me a hellish sexual appetite.

Bruce began pulling in earnest, probably

attempting to get me to sit down next to him. I braced

my feet and watched the muscles bunch in his arm.

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