Ahhh, Christmastime at the underwear store...
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There's nothing quite like driving along the sea on a nice, warm day, windows down, smelling the salt and letting the sandy sun soak into the car, driving out the smells of stale coffee and old fast-food wrappers. Today was a delight, one of what had to be the last truly warm days before the winter came. It was weird to see bikinis on the sand despite the tinsel hanging from the bathhouse: Thanksgiving had been two weeks before and so there'd been Christmas decorations out for about thirteen days now.
Runners were loping along the boardwalk, and I let my eyes linger as the traffic lurched past them. The Shore Road was predictably clogged; of course, I hadn't been the only one with the idea of enjoying the scenery.
Bodies. Everywhere, bodies. Every shape and size, every color, all of them free and easy and largely naked. I love the beach. It feels like a cafeteria, especially when I'm horny. Especially today, when I expected to hear Jenn tell us that everything had gone perfecto with Eric, that we were in the money. She'd better have closed the deal, too; the value of our stolen panties was decreasing by the day. The bodies cavorted on the sand, and I watched happily as the crowds drifted by.
Like the guy walking toward me, owning the sidewalk, striding tall and proud with his chin up and his eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses like Goose's replacement wore in
Top Gun
. Good God, but he was fine: a big guy with skin the color of milk chocolate, his pecs sprinkled with dark tattoos, about thirty or thirty-five maybe: it's hard to tell sometimes with black guys. I felt my mouth open slightly as I took in a sublime six-pack, defined like an artist's chisel marks on onyx, the muscles descending in a tasty V-shaped march down into a pair of shorts cut high enough to show the whole long, tempting expanse of his thighs.
There had to be a big, sturdy pair of balls in there. Had to be, the way he was walking, disdainful of everyone else in sight.
The sudden rush of lust surprised me a little. I'm dating a woman right now, a delicious morsel named Fathia, who can do really amazing things to my pussy, but every now and then I just crave the harsh, hot bluntness of a thick cock twisting in my body. The kind of cock that black guy had to have. Just had to. He moved with the kind of confidence that told the whole world he knew exactly what to do with a woman.
For a blinked instant, I thought about pulling over... well, double parking at least, then leaning out the window of my shitty Rav4 and soaking up the stares from the rest of the passersby; the women would hate me for daring to chat up such a fine specimen, the men? Well, they'd just be looking at my tits, shelved on my car door, meant for just one pair of eyes behind some mirrored shades. I'd let him see me check him out, my eyes drifting down his body behind my own Wayfarers, and then I'd lick my lips.
He'd saunter over, leaning down, a drop of sweat rolling over the taut skin of his abs, and I'd reach out a lazy hand to collect it, giving him a smile around my finger after I sucked it clean. He'd taste like the ocean. I'd drawl confidently when I introduced myself, then he'd climb shrugging into my passenger seat; I'd take him to the bathhouse, lock the two of us in one of the dirty stalls, and then I'd shriek as I let him breed me over the toilet.
But no. No way. A man like that? I sighed and drove away, knowing the sad truth: alas, I had insufficient booty for the likes of him. He was a cocky, strapping man who'd want something to grab onto while he took his woman, and me? I had ass enough to be a really, really good underwear saleswoman, but I just didn't have what it took to become this man's bitch.
A big part of success in the sexual sweepstakes is knowing your place.
But he saw me stare at him as I drove by, and he rewarded me with a quick curl of that gorgeous wide mouth of his. That one curl had me damp immediately, and I figured that by the time I got to work I'd need to change. I was pulling a double today, and Secret Whispers didn't need me smelling like I was in heat.
Down along the beach, then, and into the dingy employee area of the parking garage. They kept us in the back corner, as if we smelled or something, the mall management mortified lest the well-heeled Gallery shoppers stain their eyes by looking at the likes of the mere Nametag-Wearing Classes. Ever since The Gallery had opened, following all the cost overruns and the materials shortages and that one big Teamsters strike back when they'd been just about ready for the Grand Opening, we'd been shunted back here among the rats and the sex offenders.
Ah well,
I reflected, checking my lipstick in the rearview mirror once my engine had shuddered to a halt.
Could be worse.
Last Christmas the store had been in temporary quarters in the older part of the mall, the shittier part, and it came to me that it was a lot better to be working in the glitz and parking in the shit, than both working
and
parking in the shit.
The grittiness under my shoes reminded me I needed to be careful: I'd worn the long slacks today, the ones that made my legs look five miles long, but there were puddles down here. I thought a moment about reaching down and actually hiking up my pants, but no: I'd worked hard on the creases this morning, struggling with the linen-blend fabric at my half-size ironing board while my sister brayed in my ear on the speakerphone.
"It was so fucking crazy!" she'd announced in that spazzed-out Sunday voice. "I'm telling you, I'd never seen anything like that."
"Seen what?" I snarked back, not in the mood to be nice. She was a lawyer, and I didn't need her tossing it into my face that she could still go out and get wasted on Saturday nights. "A penis?"
Her silvery giggle came floating out of the speaker and I bit my lip, the crease disintegrating in my hand again. Fuck. "Oh, honey," she sighed, "no. Just no. Penises, I've seen. This?" I heard her pause as her lips ruffled the surface of her coffee. When she went on, I heard reflection. Thoughtfulness. Awe, even. "This was an orgy, Chels."
"An orgy." I found that hard to fathom. I knew the bride, and doubted she'd have let her bachelorette party go that way.
Eve laughed at the disbelief in my voice. "I'm telling you. It was the maid of honor setting everything up. Kathleen D'Arrico?" I vaguely knew the name. Beth didn't do any of the planning. You'd have been blown away." She paused. "Literally, maybe. The strippers were fucking hung, and they weren't shy about going down."
