All characters depicted herein are 21-years-old or older.
*****
I'd like to think that the people that might read this aren't so dissimilar from me. On a superficial, because we're reading these things, we're all interested in the kind of thrills and excitement that appeal to both our imaginations and our more rational, logic-centered minds. Deeper than that, though, I get a certain amount of satisfaction believing that this is a community of like-minds and different tastes or fetishes. I have to believe that many of you are like me: introverted, observational, clear-headed. Methodical. If I was being less generous, I'd call myself inhibited. That's why this recent change in my lifestyle is so exciting to me.
I've never been one of those guys who fancies himself a pick-up artist. Instead, I've usually put my best foot forward and worried about grooming, fitness, style, and wit to just set myself apart from the pack and hope that women are interested enough to make that aggressive first move. Frankly, being on the hunt every night for pussy just seemed too exhausting.
Who knew my epiphany would occur in a fast food restaurant late one Tuesday night?
I had just finished up in lab that night and I was incredibly hungry. Medical school is infamously arduous and my experience was no different; my lab work on Tuesdays and Thursdays occurred immediately following late-afternoon lectures and generally with my attentions focused on studying and preparing for those lectures I neglected to pack anything resembling dinner. Two blocks off campus, there was a string of fast food restaurants in front of a strip mall five years from becoming completely decrepit and I picked the one I was least likely to see any of my classmates (although that chance was probably infinitesimally small—either my classmates had families to get home to see or, as non-hypocritcal aspiring health professionals, they were diet-conscious).
Walking in, I was self-conscious because of my attire. At 28, I was older than a lot of my classmates and tended to err on the side of overdressing—this was less a school to me and more of a profession. And I always thought that adults that wore sports jerseys or shorts looked stupidly immature. I was wearing a tailored grey suit and open-necked white dress shirt (with french cuffs!), attire better suited for a romantic dinner I could only dream of finding the time to organize. I pushed that out of my mind because, hey, it was fast food. It was much better than having a late night sit-down alone somewhere and getting waited on or, heaven forbid, cooking for myself at 11PM. It didn't matter that much anyway. Besides the staff, there was no-one there.
I took a quick minute to look at the glaringly bright, almost cartoonish menu, before I looked at the cashier. I hadn't noticed her before I walked in and I was more than pleasantly surprised by what I saw. She was about 5'4 and thick. Her brown hair was dyed a cheap blonde and tied in an immaculate bun above her visor. I tried to ignore the corrosive damage to the atmosphere no doubt perpetrated by her hairspray habit. Her issued polo shirt was strained by her pale plump arms and her impressive cleavage. Below those big tits I could just make out the beginnings of a slight potbelly before the counter obscured my view.
"Can I...help you?" She looked incredulous, as if I had wandered into the restaurant by accident. I'm a pretentious, vain asshole a lot of the time, so I reveled in this kind of reaction to my appearance. I'm 6'2, blond hair, blue eyes, the whole deal.
Now, before tonight I would've plastered on a shit-eating grin and not really acted on a possible attraction, but this cashier's tits were incredible. It wasn't a class tourism type of thing, she just really turned me on. I looked at her nametag, savoring those fat jugs and then back to her deep brown eyes.
"Well...Brandy. I've worked up a little appetite so let's start with a number nine. Medium. For here, please."
She gave me a small smile.
"We close pretty soon, sir. Are you sure you don't want that to go?"
I rested my hand on the counter and leaned slightly towards her.
"Definitely for here."
Brandy rang up my order. When she turned to fill up my fountain drink, I was able to check the rest of her out. I had to adjust my pants around my erection when I saw her ass straining against the fabric of those tight black pants. If she didn't work at the fast food place and didn't have some thick thighs, I would've guessed she had ass implants it was so ridiculously fat and round. I savored the five steps she made back to the counter, watching those giant hips sway left to right.
As she set the drink down I enveloped her hand with mine, making her nervously giggle.
"Oh, sorry about that," I said.
"It's definitely fine. Do you think that's going to be all for you tonight?"
Her body was an epiphany. I knew this was when I would kick my inhibitions to the curb.
"Not quite. I'd love to get your number." I extended my hand, "Grant. Pleasure to meet you."
She giggled and put her hand briefly to her mouth before taking my hand. Her grip was light and airy and when she leaned forward I could make out the light sheen of sweat on her cleavage.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, too. I would love to give you my number, but I have a boyfriend."
This was already uncharted territory for me, but her body language remained flirtatious and her tone indicated she was genuinely apologetic. To paraphrase a movie I had always loved and never before internalized, sometimes you just gotta say fuck it and make a move.
"That's alright, it would be nothing official. I just wanted to hang out a little," I said and smiled, never breaking eye contact. She considered this a moment and made a slight production out of checking me out before returning my smile.
"How about you finish that number nine, Grant, and then you can be a gentleman and walk me to my car when I close."
"Sounds like a plan, Brandy."
* * *
I took my time with the number nine, eating that burger slowly in order to pass the hour it would take before Brandy could close. In the interim, no further customers came and her other coworker left early. I ate at the counter the entire time and learned a little more about her: she liked science fiction franchises, nu-metal bands, and getting stoned-the kind of stuff I couldn't give a shit about, though I liked her attitude. She was warm and laughed easily, which made her big jugs shake. A little bit prior to 12:30, she started closing down the register and asked me to meet her out back near the dumpster.
"Oh shit, I forgot my keys. Come in real quick while I get them," she said, keeping the door open for me. I walked in slowly, brushing my arm across her tits, feeling them swell against her nylon polo. I paused in the doorway and looked back at her. She pushed up her visor and her head and kissed me. I grabbed her hips and pulled her into me, letting the door shut behind us. She pushed me up against one of the refrigerator doors and palmed my raging boner.
Brandy let out a low moan and said, "This is so bad. I can't help myself. I love my boyfriend, but you're just too fucking hot."
I kissed her and let out a moan of my own when I reached back and grabbed her ass, tightly constrained in her black uniform pants. I felt just a little evil when I said, "I think we deserve to just have a little fun and do what we want." I slapped her ass lightly.
