"Room 9"
The diner was the kind that curled out of the highway like a relic—silver-sided, with faded neon flickering "EAT." It was the kind of place where no one looked too long at anyone else, where the coffee came burnt and the pie tasted of the freezer.
But on this particular Tuesday, just after 4 p.m., two women looked too long.
Fran was sipping coffee at the counter when the bell above the door rang. Her eyes lifted. And there—entering like a hallucination—was a woman who looked exactly like her.
Mid-thirties. Brunette. Full hips, thick curly hair that couldn’t be tamed no matter what kind of conditioner they sold at CVS. Same shape of the eyebrow. Same annoyed arch of the left one.
Fran blinked. The woman blinked too.
Neither smiled.
The other woman—let’s call her Ann—sat two stools down. Close, but not too close. She ordered a grilled cheese, ignoring Fran completely. Fran, likewise, ignored her. Except neither one was actually ignoring. Not even close.
They kept looking. Glancing in the side of the chrome napkin holder. In the reflection of a spoon. In the faint mirror behind the liquor bottles. Matching faces caught and held and recoiled.
It wasn’t a spark. It was more like a wrongness. A sick twist in the gut. Something old and violent, like a memory of someone else’s fight. They hated each other instantly. Deeply. Without words. They both were single, in their 30's. Both used to being by themselves.
Fran paid her check and stood.
So did Ann.
Outside, rain had started. The parking lot was nearly empty, save for two old sedans that didn’t lock properly. Fran got in hers. She watched in the rearview mirror as Ann climbed into the other.
She pulled onto the road.
Ann followed by an uncontrollable urge.
Mile after mile, taillights and headlights dancing through the misting rain, until Fran took a hard right down a two-lane blacktop and pulled into the Pine Hollow Motor Court—a line of cheap, single-story rooms under sagging pines. She got out. Walked to the office. Paid in cash.
Ann waited. Then did the same.
Ten minutes later, Room 9.
They both stood in the middle of it. Wet hair curling around their shoulders. Clothes damp from the air.
They hadn’t spoken a word.
Ann reached behind her neck and pulled her shirt over her head.
Fran unlaced her boots slowly, not breaking eye contact.
One piece at a time, they disrobed. Stripped bare under flickering lamplight, their bodies matching in a way that felt obscene. Curves mirrored. Freckles and moles in the same scatter. Like someone had hit "copy" and forgotten to paste a soul. Their 38D breasts had the same sized nipples that hardened with excitement. But it was their now exposed pussies that really became the focus for both of them. Both had giant full thick brunette bushes. This silently became the target in each others mind but they didn't say it out loud.
No mirrors in the room. Just them.
And then—without warning—they lunged.
No words. No screams. Just flesh and heat and teeth. No rules. No endgame.
As if the only way to answer the wrongness was to destroy it.
The first hit wasn’t clean.
Fran’s palm slammed against Ann’s collarbone, shoving her back into the motel’s peeling wall. But Ann didn’t stumble. She snapped forward like a hinge and shoved her whole weight into Fran, tackling her onto the bed.
They weren’t graceful. It wasn’t choreographed. This wasn’t the movies.
It was elbows. It was knees. It was hair tangled in fingers and thighs grappling for leverage. Naked skin slapping against naked skin, slick with sweat, breath heaving, shallow and fast.
Fran twisted, kicked upward, and threw Ann off with a grunt. The other woman hit the carpet hard and scrambled up, biting her lip. Frances stood too, breathing hard, chest rising and falling.
Their eyes locked again. It wasn’t rage, exactly. It was disgust. Curiosity. Fear. Like looking at your reflection in a funhouse mirror and realizing the face staring back wants to see you gone.
Ann came in swinging—hooked her arm around Fran’s neck and dragged her sideways into the dresser. They crashed into it with a loud crack of particle board. The lamp fell, bulb shattering. The room dimmed, shadows slanting strange across their bodies.
Fran, coughing, elbowed backward. Felt ribs. Swung again, harder. Anna grunted, let go. Frances spun, grabbed a handful of curls and yanked, hard. Ann shrieked, her voice sharp and feral, and clawed at Fran’s side. Then the moment arrived: both right hands grabbed a handful of bush while the other clamped head hair for a mutual pull. Tugging back and foth they stood in the center of the room. Two fingers eventually found their way into the other's pussy and cxnt lips were pulled.
To Be Continued......
