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grunts for me in a way that clasps my whole body, close to orgasm but not quite going over.
My clit is aching, just aching, and I can’t deny it any longer. I have to touch myself – I don’t care how much of a slutty bookworm it makes me.
My finger skids in all the wetness soaking my slit, prompting a frustrated sob from me that apparently goes directly to his cock. Every sound I make forces him to buck forwards, so it’s no surprise that when I finally find my clit and press just once, lightly, my long moan of delight triggers his orgasm.
I’m still shocked, however. He cries out and spurts thickly into my mouth as I frantically rub at myself, but it’s not the sweet-salt taste or the swell of him or his cry of pleasure that wrenches out my climax. It’s him pulling away from me, mid-spurt, to stripe my face with the last of his come.
Chapter Three
I CAN TELL HE’S seen. It could be that I meant for him to. I’m no longer sure of myself or what I might do at any given moment, and letting Gabriel see my ass-print on that glossy countertop is no exception to this problem.
I’m only surprised that the countertop held the print so well. I thought it might fade overnight, but when I come back on to the shop floor with morning cups of coffee and he’s polishing the top as though devils possess him, it’s fairly obvious that the fading didn’t happen.
I wonder if he knows. His blushing face tells me he does. Though exactly what that restrained little brain of his is conjuring up, I’ve no idea. Me flashing a customer with some ankle, and accidentally riding up a little bit too much skirt so that an arse print gets left? Maybe he imagines that my arse cheeks got a little hot, and I felt the best way to cool them down would be to plant them on the glossy wood.
It can’t be sex. He might be as horny as a horn-riddled dinosaur, but I don’t think he’s capable of processing real, actual, dirty thoughts. He’s probably still stuck on bra straps and snogging as sexual fantasies.
I have a brief flash of delicious pleasure as I leave him to take care of the shop, thinking of him trying to make sense of an arse print in his innocent pigtailed mind. Imagine if he’d forgotten something yesterday, and come back just at the wrong moment! Then seen me and Andy doing terrible things, through the inch of glass not covered by posters and sheltered by book stands.
Poor, innocent Gabriel. I just want to hug him, and make it all better. And maybe when I hug him, I’ll let my hand stray to his neat little backside.
I buy the collected Poirot and a sensible winter coat to calm my fevered brain, and then enjoy a delicious non-sexual lunch at a restaurant that doesn’t have a hot waiter, to further my progress. Of course, the whole time I know I’m just delaying my return to the shop. I mean, that was the purpose of hiring Gabe – so that I could have more time to myself. So that I could shop for things I need, and sleep, and suss out the competition.
I didn’t hire someone so that I could spend my time harassing him. Especially when it’s someone who’s likely only going to be confused by that sort of attention. He needs a nice girlfriend, someone who is patient and sweet and as unknowledgeable about sex as he probably is. They can fumble under the sheets together, in the dark. She’ll be vaguely unhappy for the rest of her life, but become an expert at baking pies. He’ll start stashing gay porn in the toilet cistern.
I’ll fuck Andy until I die of exhaustion. It will all work out for everybody.
Or at least, that’s what I think until I catch him reading Sins of the Flesh .
I think I give him an out. And by that I mean – I bustle into the shop overloaded with bags, get a little tangled, and give him the perfect opportunity to pretend he wasn’t reading anything at all. He stands up from his seat behind the counter, with absolutely nothing in his hands and no book anywhere to be seen in front of him.
But
My clit is aching, just aching, and I can’t deny it any longer. I have to touch myself – I don’t care how much of a slutty bookworm it makes me.
My finger skids in all the wetness soaking my slit, prompting a frustrated sob from me that apparently goes directly to his cock. Every sound I make forces him to buck forwards, so it’s no surprise that when I finally find my clit and press just once, lightly, my long moan of delight triggers his orgasm.
I’m still shocked, however. He cries out and spurts thickly into my mouth as I frantically rub at myself, but it’s not the sweet-salt taste or the swell of him or his cry of pleasure that wrenches out my climax. It’s him pulling away from me, mid-spurt, to stripe my face with the last of his come.
Chapter Three
I CAN TELL HE’S seen. It could be that I meant for him to. I’m no longer sure of myself or what I might do at any given moment, and letting Gabriel see my ass-print on that glossy countertop is no exception to this problem.
I’m only surprised that the countertop held the print so well. I thought it might fade overnight, but when I come back on to the shop floor with morning cups of coffee and he’s polishing the top as though devils possess him, it’s fairly obvious that the fading didn’t happen.
I wonder if he knows. His blushing face tells me he does. Though exactly what that restrained little brain of his is conjuring up, I’ve no idea. Me flashing a customer with some ankle, and accidentally riding up a little bit too much skirt so that an arse print gets left? Maybe he imagines that my arse cheeks got a little hot, and I felt the best way to cool them down would be to plant them on the glossy wood.
It can’t be sex. He might be as horny as a horn-riddled dinosaur, but I don’t think he’s capable of processing real, actual, dirty thoughts. He’s probably still stuck on bra straps and snogging as sexual fantasies.
I have a brief flash of delicious pleasure as I leave him to take care of the shop, thinking of him trying to make sense of an arse print in his innocent pigtailed mind. Imagine if he’d forgotten something yesterday, and come back just at the wrong moment! Then seen me and Andy doing terrible things, through the inch of glass not covered by posters and sheltered by book stands.
Poor, innocent Gabriel. I just want to hug him, and make it all better. And maybe when I hug him, I’ll let my hand stray to his neat little backside.
I buy the collected Poirot and a sensible winter coat to calm my fevered brain, and then enjoy a delicious non-sexual lunch at a restaurant that doesn’t have a hot waiter, to further my progress. Of course, the whole time I know I’m just delaying my return to the shop. I mean, that was the purpose of hiring Gabe – so that I could have more time to myself. So that I could shop for things I need, and sleep, and suss out the competition.
I didn’t hire someone so that I could spend my time harassing him. Especially when it’s someone who’s likely only going to be confused by that sort of attention. He needs a nice girlfriend, someone who is patient and sweet and as unknowledgeable about sex as he probably is. They can fumble under the sheets together, in the dark. She’ll be vaguely unhappy for the rest of her life, but become an expert at baking pies. He’ll start stashing gay porn in the toilet cistern.
I’ll fuck Andy until I die of exhaustion. It will all work out for everybody.
Or at least, that’s what I think until I catch him reading Sins of the Flesh .
I think I give him an out. And by that I mean – I bustle into the shop overloaded with bags, get a little tangled, and give him the perfect opportunity to pretend he wasn’t reading anything at all. He stands up from his seat behind the counter, with absolutely nothing in his hands and no book anywhere to be seen in front of him.
But