by Violet Blue
Young woman sitting with older man has read a certain trilogy too many times. She needs to grow a backbone, then find herself a young blue-collar type, one who will give her the honest, solid fucking that she’s really craving. Why do women get involved with married men? It’s like they’re setting themselves up for failure. Wait! She looks pissed. She just pushed her chair back and stood up. Wow! She dumped her coffee in his lap and stormed off! Good for you, Blondie!
I snicker, and he glares at me as he dabs at his crotch with a wad of paper napkins. I shrug and hunker over my laptop. The soggy businessman hurries off, and another female employee rushes over to clean up the mess.
“Did you see that? They’ve been coming in here for the last few weeks; I don’t know what she saw in him anyway.”
“He probably has a nice-sized bank account.” I hate the way my voice sounds, always so small and mousy.
“You got that right. Little Blondie was a gold digger. You need a refill?”
“No thanks.” She gives me a smile and a nod and then heads back behind the counter. She’s cute, with a ponytail and Keds on her feet. I imagine her swapping hot kisses with red fingernail girl.
I wonder if the two coffee shop girls ever feel each other up in the back room between customers. I’d like to watch them. Small perky tits, henna tattoos; they would be sweet to each other. Maybe one would drizzle caramel topping over the other’s nipples, then slowly lick it off while fingers explore wet folds.
I wiggle in my chair, extremely hot and bothered. My eyes sweep the shop. There is one customer in line and another at a table with his back to me. It’s time. I contemplate how to do it. My long, gauzy skirt has pockets. I cut a hole in one of them, to allow for easy access to my pussy. All I have to do is slip my hand in my pocket and finger myself to climax.
However, I’m feeling extra naughty today. With tense fingers, I tease up the hem of my skirt, then stroke my swollen nub. Right there in the middle of the coffee shop. If someone dropped a quarter, and bent down, he could quite possibly catch a glimpse of my wet clit getting a nice massage. It doesn’t take me long to reach orgasm. The sweet sensation ripples through my body and makes me gasp just a little, under my breath. Once finished, I pull my skirt back down, lick my finger and resume typing.
Oh, that felt so good. My clit was so hard, like a tiny penis. I yanked up my skirt this time, laying my pussy bare for all the world to see. I fingered it quick, and almost made too much noise when I came. No one is the wiser as I sit here and smolder.
I drink my coffee and remember the first time I masturbated in public. It was six months ago. The therapist I am seeing for my social anxiety disorder advised me to get out in public more, instead of barricading myself in my dorm. I decided the library was a good compromise. It’s crowded, but still quiet, a cocoon of friendly books and comfortable chairs.
I found myself an isolated corner and began to read a historical romance novel. The prose was clean and virginal, so I filled in the dirty parts in my head. After a few wild fantasies, I became completely aroused, and decided to head home to the privacy of my dorm for a bit of self-love. A sudden rainstorm prevented me from taking the long walk home, so I scanned the library.
I found the perfect spot: it was secluded, yet still in the open. Anyone could have stumbled upon me, skirt yanked up, fingers inside my panties as I brought myself to a toe-curling orgasm. It was a life-changing experience, so thrilling and naughty. I was hooked from that moment. Suddenly, public places are not so terrifying. Instead, they are opportunities to bask in my new obsession.
Sometimes I fantasize about taking things too far, just to see what would happen. Like maybe I will sit on top of the coffee shop table, pull my skirt up to my waist and spread my legs wide. I will rub my clit with the bowl of one of those little plastic spoons until I scream in mad pleasure. Can you imagine the look on the customers’ faces?
I consider leaving, but I’m not quite satisfied. A few new customers have entered the shop. One is a burly construction worker. His faded jeans are tight, showing off a taut, muscular ass. I wonder what his chiseled male perfection would feel like under my hands.
As much as I obsess about sex, I’ve never performed the act with another. Only myself. More and more lately, I want to experience it. The heat of exchange, tongue kisses, hungry fingers, skin on skin. My disorder prevents me from moving forward. Still, I am close. The burly male sits at the table across from me. He’s reading something on his phone as he sips his coffee.
Once again, I publish my thoughts.
Hot construction worker sitting across from me. Black coffee, so honest and unpretentious. His hard body drapes over the chair like he owns it. Black backpack at his feet, his boots heavy and dusty. Dark blond hair curls over his collar, diamond stud in one ear. I wonder if he knows how sexy he is, how he makes my mouth water. The hint of a tattoo peeks out from one tight sleeve.
I stop and take a sip of my mocha, which is now ice cold, then hit the enter key. My words appear as if by magic. Twelve point Times New Roman. Black. My fantasy begins anew, but this time with a twist as I weave myself into the story.
His shoulders are so broad. The skin on his handsome face is bronzed from working outside. Rough fingers. I can almost feel them on my skin. We will meet in a quiet alley. He’ll kiss me as he pulls up my skirt. Those rough hands will grip my ass tightly as his tongue explores my mouth. I will lift up one leg, and rest it on his hip, opening myself up for exploration. First, his fingers will slide over my dripping slit. Once wet, they will slide back, and his index finger will push against my puckered hole. It will make me feel like the dirty little slut I really am.
I am starting to sweat as my fingers tap against the keys. He glances in my direction and smiles.
“You’re working really hard over there.”
“Writing a paper for school.” I squeak. Mischievous Mindy is really Mousy Maggie.
“College?”
“Yes.”
My foot taps nervously. I want the floor to open up beneath me and swallow me up. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him; I do. It’s just that the anxiety has me in a choke hold. He is so attractive. In my head I straddle his lap and rub my pussy against his knee until I erupt. In reality, I can barely look him in the eye. There is Xanax in my backpack, a life preserver for when the anxiety threatens to drown me. Knowing the tiny bottle is there comforts me.
“Freshman?”
“Yes. Literature major.” Already I have divulged more about myself than usual.
“Going to be a writer, huh? Good for you.”
He takes a sip. I love the way his dusky lips caress the edge of the cup as he drinks. His fingers are thick. In my mind, I lie across his lap and let him pull up my skirt. He smacks my bare bottom lightly, just enough to leave a tingle. So much want inside, it consumes me. He looks into his paper cup.
“I need a refill. You?”
“Oh, no thanks.”
I watch him as he heads back to the counter, phone in hand, reading voraciously. My fingers find the keys.
If only I had the courage to ask for what I really want. His cock is probably glorious. Thick and hearty, it would spread me open so deliciously wide.
He actually comes back, just as I make the last of my words public, and turns his chair to face mine before his sits down. He stops reading and rewards me with a brilliant grin.
“What’s your name, cutie?”
“Maggie.” My tongue is thick, and I can barely speak. Can he feel my lust? Will he act on it?
“Ben.” He looks at me over his cup as he takes a sip. I notice his deep-brown eyes as they rove over my breasts. I’m wearing a tight light-blue T-shirt, no bra. I like the way he’s looking at me, like a hungry wolf eyes a tender lamb. He leans forward slightly. “Where do you go to school?”
“Western University.”
“I should have known. The campus is right downtown.”
His voice is deep and sensuous. It makes me squ
irm in my chair. A tiny bit of chest hair is visible at the neck of his T-shirt. I wonder what it would feel like to be wrapped up in those muscular arms while getting fucked by his hard cock. I need to know. The desperation of my lust-filled wanting takes over. Deep inside my brain, something snaps, and a floodgate opens. My mouth forms words, almost on its own.
“Do you start work anytime soon?” I feel my nipples harden and poke at my shirt.
He glances at his watch. “Look at that, I have an hour to kill.” He notices my nipples, and a sly smile forms on his lips.
I smile back. Then close my laptop. I imagine my desire is a brave warrior that slays my fear and frees me from its icy shackles. It’s time. I stand up and motion for him to follow. He does, without question. The shop is deserted, save for the two coffee shop girls. They are standing close, whispering to each other as they giggle. We head into the unisex bathroom, and he locks the door behind us.
Before I can blink, our lips meet and we begin to devour each other with mad hunger. Ben tugs at my T-shirt, then pulls it over my head and tosses it aside. He pulls away from my lips and then yanks my skirt down to my ankles. I step out of it and kick it to the side. Now I am naked, save for my sandals. Standing there before him, exposed and vulnerable, causes a delicious thrill to trickle over my body. The deep-brown eyes take in every inch of me, and he smiles, then licks his lips. He pulls me close and takes one of my nipples in his mouth. First he sucks it gently, then grazes it with his teeth. An ember of smoldering heat seems to make a path from the tip of my breast, right down to my clit. I can feel it swell while wetness drips down my inner thighs.
He returns to my mouth and licks my bottom lip while he cups my ass. I mewl like a kitten. My fantasy is coming to life. I lift my right leg and rest my knee against his hip. I feel my pussy spread open for him, slick and juicy. His hand reaches between my legs, and his fingers begin to slide over my wet folds.
“You’re so wet, it’s dripping all over,” he whispers. His index finger slides inside my pussy, then retreats, only to press against my puckered hole. I suck in air over the dirty sensation as Ben’s finger slides slowly inside my ass. I feel my muscles squeeze against the intrusion, which only adds to the sinful pleasure.
Ben drops to his knees, keeping his finger inside my ass as he does. His hot tongue laps at my swollen clit. I lean back against the sink to allow him better access. His lips suck the hard knot, while his thumb pushes inside my pussy. The wicked delight of having both holes teased at once threatens to melt me from the inside out. His fingers dive in and out while his lips return to my clit. He sucks and licks until I am clenching in blissful release, pleasure like I have never known.
The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave and drowns me. Panting, I push his head away. The fingers slide out and he stands before me, the tip of his hard cock sticking out of the waistband of his jeans. Wordlessly, I too drop to my knees. The tiled floor is frigid under my skin, in sharp contrast to the fire that is licking my body. I can’t get his pants unzipped fast enough. His erect cock is like a steel pipe under my fingers and even more glorious than I imagined.
First, I lick the flared tip, lapping up the pearl of liquid that hangs from it. Bitter heat floods my mouth, while his gentle fingers twist into my hair. He emits a soft moan. It’s so much better than my wildest fantasies, flesh and blood throbbing beneath my lips; his musky male scent intoxicates my senses. My virgin mouth continues to suck as I explore his body. I slide my fingers back and stroke him behind his scrotum. The skin feels like velvet under my fingers. I knead his balls next and then take one into my mouth. It causes Ben to arch his back and cry out.
“That’s so fucking good.”
Hearing his lust puts me over the edge. I continue to lavish attention on his scrotum while I use my free hand to finger my clit. In seconds I am dropping headfirst into ecstasy as my body shudders in yet another powerful orgasm. Ben gasps as I take his cock behind my lips and suck him in deeper.
“I’m going to…”
He tightens, and I feel a vibration in his scrotum. I do not pull away; instead, I drink in his essence. The salty tang burns my throat as I swallow, yet I welcome the sensation. Never have I felt more alive than at this moment. I lick the head, taking every drop he has to offer. Ben pulls me to my feet and gives my ass a gentle slap.
“I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, Mischievous Mindy.”
I HATE SEX
Tamsin Flowers
I hate sex. There, I’ve said it out loud. I know, in this world, that makes me some kind of freak but, with billions of people on the planet, there are bound to be a few of us who just don’t get it. The mess and the intimacy.
I hate sex and I work in a sex shop. I can see that puzzles you. No, it really doesn’t make sense for someone who hates sex to work in a sex shop. But the job ad simply said retail experience required, and I’ve got plenty of that. I was laid off when my last place closed down, I needed work and so I answered the ad.
Of course, I didn’t mention during my interview how much I hate sex. Or admit the fact that I hadn’t had sex in, let me see, going on five years. No, when I went to meet with Archie Bennett, the oleaginous owner of Silicone Dreams—sex emporium for the discerning—I dazzled him with my resume. Years spent in big department stores and upmarket boutiques. If anyone knows anything about selling on the shop floor, it’s me. And that’s what Archie employs me to do, not to have sex with the customers.
Naturally, you might think that working in a sex shop would gradually thaw my froidure but, no, it hasn’t. I’ve been working here for six months now and I still hate sex just as much. Possibly even more. After all, if it’s sex all day at work, so to speak, it’s the last thing you’re interested in when you get home at night. A delicious meal, a glass of wine, my feet up on the coffee table as I relax on the couch with a good book or a great movie…that’s what works for me. Not humping some sweaty idiot whose name I can’t remember.
But don’t think for one minute that my distaste for the act itself detracts from my ability to peddle sexual accoutrements. I can advise you in minute detail which strap-on would be right for you and your loved one; I can run through the relative merits and functional variants of the sixty-three vibrators we hold in stock; or if you tell me a bit about your girl, I’ll tell you which condom to pick. Just don’t expect me to measure you up for a butt plug.
So I hate sex—but I don’t hate my work. Actually, I quite enjoy working at Silicone Dreams. It’s a little less formal than Macy’s, a little less up its own ass than some of the boutiques I’ve worked in and the customers are more colorful. I have three coworkers: oily boss-man Archie and the other two salesgirls, Alexa and Honey. We get on, we have a laugh even with Archie and, though the pay’s not great, I’ve worked in far worse places.
It would be safe to say that both Honey and Alexa do enjoy sex—in a big way. They enjoy doing it, they enjoy talking about it and of course they enjoy their work. They flirt with the customers more than I do or, should I say, they enjoy it more than I do. We all do it; flirting with the customers is the best way to make sales and we’re working on commission. Honey makes the most money. Long blonde hair, serious curves and wide blue eyes that make her look like an innocent schoolgirl, even though she’s pushing twenty-five. She has her own little fan club, a bunch of men who come into the store when they know she’ll be working and buzz around her for hours. She humors them, they spend money and Archie’s happy.
Fly Guy is her biggest fan. Honey works five days a week and you can set your watch by the fact that Fly Guy will come in, just after lunch, on at least four of those days. He’s smooth, slick, in his midthirties with the looks of a male model gone to seed. Just a little softening of the jowls, a small overhang of belly nudging at the top of his Levi’s. Shirt undone one button too low. One spritz too many of a cologne he should have spent more money on. But his eyes light up when he walks into the store and sees us standing behind the counter, Honey always ready t
o show him the newest stock or plug the merits of an old favorite. He’s a little shy but he’s polite, which is more than can be said for some of the guys that come in here.
When he’s gone, I tease Honey.
“Fly Guy’s gonna ask you out. He’s just working up the nerve. Next time, I’d put ten on it.”
Honey laughs her throaty, sexy laugh but she’ll never take the bet. I wonder if she’ll say yes or no when it finally happens.
It’s a rule that there are always two of us girls working in the shop together in case of weirdos. Which we get plenty of. Most of them are friendly and harmless, but there have been incidents. So now we always work in pairs. Usually Archie’s up in his office above the shop, and I happen to know he’s keeps a piece in one of his desk drawers. So weirdos, beware.
But Honey’s blue eyes and winsome smile have made her a little spoilt. She’s used to getting what she wants, and she can be a bitch if she doesn’t. So every now and then, when she’s in the hot throes of a new passion, she sneaks off, mid-shift, for a little afternoon delight in the back of her boyfriend’s car on some parking lot around the corner. She’s never gone long; it doesn’t take Honey more than fifteen or twenty minutes to get her guy’s rocks off and her own. Then she’s back, breathless and smiling, full of charm for the rest of the afternoon.
Tuesday afternoons are always quiet and, on this particular Tuesday, Honey was out on one of her little field trips. I was alone in the store and there hadn’t been any customers for some time. It probably wouldn’t pick up again until the after-work rush. I was propping up the counter, processing customer orders; you’d be surprised at some of our best-selling items.
The bell jangled and I heard the door swing open. I looked up to see Fly Guy coming in. He walked straight up to the counter.
“Honey’s not here,” I said.
