The weekend after graduation was a particularly dull time for a bottle shop. Everyone that wanted booze had either left town, was still nursing the worst hangover of their academic life, or was still plowing through leftover alcohol. Or had to work. Which I was. It was a cruel form of purgatory, a slow, agonizing wait for a day that refused to move forward.
The late afternoon sun pounded through the dirty glass of the front, what little was not covered with signs loudly proclaiming a message of, in essence, “Get Drunk! Cheap! Here.” The weather in Cambridge had been particularly lousy, especially for June, our most promising month until October. But the thunderstorms and rain showers had given way to a passably nice day, a guarantee of misery because the owner of the store had scheduled me for an all-day shift.
The job sucked, a monotonous cycle of counting change and stocking shelves, but the alternative was home to Lancaster, PA, with my parents, a fate I would have gladly licked Mass Ave clean with my tongue to avoid.
I didn’t notice her at first, as all my attention was taken up by counting out change for a young guy who was buying a newspaper with a crisp $100 bill. He had a smile that I’m certain was intended to be apologetic, and if I had been in a better mood it might have worked, but I was inconsolable. A line had formed, and she joined the end of it, not stopping to pick anything up. With each sale, I noticed a little more of her, my gaze drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
Bottle of wine, $12.95. Short, blonde hair, a bright halo in the dim light of the store.
Two six-packs of Coke, $4.49. About 5′ 8″, she carried herself with a confident ease. A blue halter top, tight across her full chest, left her arms and shoulders bare. Her figure was nothing short of magnificent.
Bottle of gin, $6.80. A cute, button nose, a detail that was at odds with the serious allure she exuded.
She reached the front of the line and gave me a smile that broke through my lousy mood. It was the kind of smile that made your stomach flutter, an invitation and a promise rolled into one. Her blue eyes, the color of a perfect summer sky, seemed to hold a hint of mischief. A delicate necklace, all turquoise and silver, sat at the hollow of her throat, drawing my eyes down her body.
“I’m looking for Cedar Street? Any idea where that is?” she asked, her voice a low, husky purr.
My mind went blank. We were at the corner of Mass Ave and Cedar. This was going to be a short, disappointing encounter. I stuttered out the answer, a dumbfounded idiot.
“No, no, not that Cedar! Cedar in Somerville. I love Boston, but I hate driving in Boston.” She laughed, a sound that was pure music.
“Where are you from?” I managed to ask, my throat dry.
“California. How about yourself?”
“Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I’m going to Harvard…” I started in, but I seemed to have said the magic word.
“Lancaster! I have friends in Lancaster.” She was reminded me a bit too much of the Pennsylvania license plates, but she didn’t seem to notice. “They’re members of my sorority, and I just saw them at our June Weekend reunion. I’m in town for that…”
As she went on, a one-person conversation, I took in her voice (quite husky, considering her bubbly demeanor) and glanced (with appropriate discretion, I hoped) up and down her body. She was, well, well-stacked, the generous swell of her breasts threatening to spill from the confines of her halter top. Unfortunately, my discretion was insufficient for the task, and I looked back up to her face to see her smiling at my regard. The look in her eyes was knowing, almost predatory. As a fiery blush spread across my face, she leaned down over the counter, the fabric of her top straining.
“Some people get all the fun jobs,” she said, in a low, conspiratorial voice, her warm breath caressing my ear. The scent of her—something floral and sweet, mixed with the faint musk of her skin—was overpowering.
“Uh, yeah.” My witty reply. Cleaver. That’s right, I thought, wow her with your intellect.
“Place seems quiet, today,” she said, glancing around, a slow, deliberate stretch of her body. Her elbows sunk slowly onto the countertop, pushing her breasts together. The view thus created was almost too much to bear. I looked up from the sight to see her looking at me with a smile that had switched from conspiratorial to something else, a look that promised a world of sin.
“Think of anything we could do to make the job more fun?” she said, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper.
“Well, it’s cooler in the back,” I blurted out. Shit, I thought, did I say that? Did I just invite this goddess into the storage room?
“We could fix that,” she said, turning around and surveying the back of the store for the door, her hips swaying with a confident rhythm.
“This way,” I managed to gasp out with lungs that didn’t seem completely under my command. In one fluid motion, I had closed the register, grabbed a package of condoms from behind the counter, and locked the front door. No customers in the parking lot, good. Just one car, a little green sedan, must be hers. I saw the back of a head through the windshield, but nah, couldn’t be, anyway, who cares? My mind was a whirlwind of lust and disbelief.
I led her into the back room. It was even worse than the typical back room of a liquor store. Boxes were piled everywhere, both empty and full. The posters on the walls, a usual collection of terrible brands of bad American liquor, proclaimed that all you have to do is drink some terrible brand and amazingly women who would scrape you off their shoe now will fall into bed with you.
She surveyed the scene, with what I assumed was less than complete enthusiasm. Well, it is a bottle shop, not the Marriott. But when she turned around, she still had that infectious lovely smile on her face.
“I can cope with this.” She pulled the tank top over her head, revealing her lovely breasts still in a white bra. The sight made my blood surge. The bra came off a moment later, and her breasts, full and heavy, jiggled free. She was in my arms, pulling me down to a kiss that was both deep and soft. There are kisses that are sharp and angular-feeling, but this was a lover’s kiss, a deep, consuming plunge of tongue and lips that left no doubt about her intentions.
With a soft plop, the package of condoms dropped to the floor. She somehow managed to slither out of her shorts while still kissing me, her body sliding against mine. She did a lovely, slow descent to her knees, her hands running down my chest, unbuttoning my jeans. Kissing me through the denim, she unzipped them and applied her mouth to my already-hard cock with tremendous skill, her touch confident and knowing.
“Now…” Lick. “I don’t…” Slurp. “have…” Gulp. “much time for this,” she finally managed to get out, between licks with her tongue along my balls, “so let’s be quick!”
Nothing like a little performance anxiety to make an evening special, but I wasn’t going to turn this down for anything.
She retrieved the package of condoms and, with cardboard and wrappers flying everywhere, managed to extract one. As she stood up, naked except for her jewelry and shoes, she rolled one onto me with one hand, the other steadying herself on my shoulder. She was breathtaking.
“Okay, I’ll just bend over like this,” she said, as businesslike as if she was staging a play. She turned her back to me and bent over, her ass a perfect, round curve. She steadied herself on a pile of Guinness boxes, spread her legs wide, and with one hand, she parted her lips. The sight of her already-wet folds, slick and glistening, made my knees weak.
“Well? C’mon!” she said, always impatient. OK, OK, I was just enjoying the view. I stepped forward, rubber-clad penis in hand, and slid it in. The sensation was incredible. There was almost no resistance, a wet, welcoming heat that swallowed me whole.
I started slowly, with long, deliberate strokes, but she was having none of it. She started setting the rhythm, pushing back, in, out, in, out. Her free hand was playing with her clit, and she was starting a lovely pattern of moans in time with her thrusts. In, out, in, out… she came once, twice as I finally lost control and pounded into her, grabbing her hips and thrusting with a primal force.
She started screaming, loud enough that I was afraid the next-door dry-cleaners would hear. “Yes, yes, YES!” she yelled out as I came, much faster than I thought I ever would, my body shaking as my cum poured out of me.
I staggered back, a bit unsure of my balance, and came out of her with a pop. She gave a small whimper of displeasure, but was back into her shorts and tank top (bra tucked in the pocket of the shorts) before I even had the condom all the way off.
“That was very nice, thanks. I better go, my boyfriend’s waiting.”
“BOYFRIEND!” I yelled, my voice a cracked whisper.
“Yeah, he’s in the car. He’ll wonder what’s taking so long.”
“Boyfriend?” I said again, my mind struggling to process the information.
“Relax, he’s reading a newspaper, and nothing distracts him from that. Anyway, gotta go! Thank you kindly,” she said, with just a touch of an affected southern accent. With a small peck on the cheek, she was gone, a blur of motion as she walked through the store, unlocked the front door, and disappeared out of it.
I staggered into my clothes, cleaned up the condom package debris in the storage room, and put one condom-package worth of change in the register (the owner would notice, he’s that kind of guy).
I watched the car pull away and head down Mass Ave. Even through the grimy windows, I could see that it was the guy with the $100 driving.
I still don’t understand some relationships.
