Under the Counter

It's been a long day and my shift's not even half over yet.

Working the hours I do is a blessing and a curse. I like having more time to myself, and having to deal with the customers less can be a real load off. On the other hand, though, it gets boring being stuck here by myself among the chintzy decor and the glo-strip lights. And stuck is where I am indeed, stationed here behind a familiar glass counter. Surrounded on all sides with prizes and goodies. Counting the minutes and hours till release. Watching the flickering lights till they synch up and listening to the faint and distant sounds from the arcade running in idle.

Wish I had a snack. But my bitch of a boss gets on my case any time I eat on the job.

Well, that's not fair. She's not a bitch. I'm sure she's a good person. We all got rules to follow.

But sometimes, rules were meant to be broken.

With a casual slouch, I deftly slip my hand into my bag and fish around for something to eat till my lunch break. Maybe I've got something in here I forgot about.

I bump something firm. Sure enough, there IS something I forgot about. And something I'd love to wrap my lips around right about now, for all the trouble that would get me into. I'm halfway into zipping him away -- I'm sure he can wait till my shift's over -- when a thought creeps into my head, so naughty as to send a shiver up my spine, yet so insistent it refuses to be swept away.

The place is empty. Dead as it's ever been. Last patron left a half hour ago and not a soul's come through since then. I'm not surprised, I mean, it's the middle of the week, during normal work hours. Not exactly a time for family outings. A quick scan confirms what I already knew: I've got the corner to myself.

I subtly slip my long, thick silicone friend out of storage and, in a move that's downright bold, I dare to place him in front of me on the glass counter.

"Hello, Mr. F," I whisper, smirking to myself. "Long time no see."

I wiggle him a bit to simulate a response. God, I really AM lonely.

"Oh but Mr. F," I cover my mouth, "What if someone sees us?"

My friend doesn't respond, but tracing my eyes up and down his realistically-casted figure, tracing every lifelike vein, I can feel myself poking through my shirt, despite the warmth in here. (When ARE they going to fix the heaters?)

"Well! You do know how to make a convincing argument." I heft the weighty toy, standing up from my stool.

I must be fucking crazy.

Apparently, that doesn't stop me.

With one swift motion I drop my panties from under my skirt, letting them get real comfy in their new home, which is the fucking floor around my ankles. I place Mr. F down on the stool behind me for a second while I get to adjusting my skirt. It's part of the uniform -- not really my standard fare by any means -- and right now it's proving to be a hassle. I'm trying to hike it up so I can do this at least semi-discreetly, but it's not working and my head's swimming from a mix of excitement and the wrongness of this all, so to hell with that. If you're not gonna play ball, you can join my panties.

With a zip and a quick shimmy of my hips (one asset I can definitely be proud of), my uniform skirt hits the floor, where it belongs. I've never been bottomless at work before, but the sensation is making my brain boil and without even checking I know I'm as wet enough I could take Mr. F (or just about anyone else) in a single thrust. But I've got all day, and I sure intend to take my t--

Ding.

Fuck. In a second my hot blood goes ice cold and I'm suddenly standing stiffer than my friend.

Bells chiming indicate new patrons coming in. I scramble down for my panties only to smack my head into the glass counter so hard I'm almost seeing stars. A shake of my head snaps me out of it but I get distracted wondering if I've cracked the surface. Click-clacking footsteps are coming up. Hurry. I make a second grab for my skirt but in my scramble I ended up standing on it with my heels (who the fuck designed this work uniform??) and it proves impossible to snatch up in my limited time. Fuck. Fuck. This is what I get for trying to have a little fun. I'm gonna be fired. Or arrested. Depends on who just walked in.

Time's up. With no other options and not wanting to be caught with my pants down, I quickly take a seat, hoping the opaque shelves will be enough to hide behind.

Unfortunately, I forgot about my friend.

Mr. F takes the unique opportunity to test my theory about a single thrust -- not to mention wrapping my lips around him -- and all at once I'm filled to the brim as my inanimate friend hilts me in one smooth motion. I make a decidedly unflattering noise and hunch forward, shuddering from my toes to my shoulders, gripping the counter for support. If I wasn't so panicked, I'd be in heaven right now.

My timing's perfect, at the least. A familiar, stout figure plods into view from around the corner, stopping dead at seeing me. Beads of sweat form on my forehead, dripping heavily. Can he see me? Does he know? God, this heat is unbearable. Just say something and put me out of my misery you stupid--

"Oh, god." He murmurs.

That's it. I'm sunk. Career over. He can see. He can definitely see.

His face reddens and he backs away, looking like he's ready to bolt. "...I thought you weren't working tonight."

...or not.

Play it cool. I force a cocky smile, leaning way forward onto my elbows, resting my tits on the counter, my collar plunging to reveal what I hope is a tempting sight. No bra today. Might serve me well. If he's too busy looking at my chest, maybe he won't look lower. And hey, maybe while I'm at it, he won't notice I'm red as a fucking tomato and sweating like two rats fucking in a wool sock. Why is that turning me on.

Play it fucking cool, girl.

"Back to t-try again, lamb chop?" I manage.

"Avo, look, I-- no, I was just--"

I shoot him a smile that I realize too late, given my current situation, ends up looking more lusty than smug.

He bites his lip and, to my surprise, suddenly stamps his hoof on the floor. I sit up sharply, and my silicone friend becomes all the harder to ignore with my new upright posture. Here's hoping he'll notice my jiggle more than my whimpered squeak.

"Yes, okay?!" He demands, showing more backbone than usual. "Yes, I'm here to buy a sex toy. Ooh, big deal! That's what people come here for, right?!"

"Absolutely."

"Then wh-- wait, what?" He turns to me, cocking his head to one side. God, Q-Tip, this isn't the fucking time. I instinctively lean forward again under his gaze, shifting my hips back. I'll gladly put up with the added stimulation of moving if it means keeping out of sight a little better. In the hurried shift, I gracelessly smack my tits onto the counter again. It's audible. He definitely notices.

No reason to waste the chance. Keep it rolling, while he's distracted. Don't give his eyes time to wander. "I said you're right, that's what people come here for. Now why don't you go pick something out already, and I'll ring you up?"

The fluffy little shit just stares for a minute, like this is some kind of trick. I guess I don't blame him. God, I'm sweating like a schoolgirl in a confessional. This smile is getting harder to maintain. It's taking all my willpower not to grind against the stool right now. My tail's swishing free and I know if he gets any closer to the register he'll be able to see between the glass panels to my naked hips.

"All right," he finally mumbles.

The sheep toddles off down one of the aisles, and as soon as he turns out of sight, I'm off my seat and retrieving Mr. F in a move that nearly makes my legs give out from under me. I wrap him in a hand towel so he doesn't make too much of a mess and shove him back in my bag, zipping it up.

Unfortunately for me, I don't have enough time for anything else. Just as I'm bending down for my drawers, I hear the little fluff-head's hooves clicking and I slam back down in my seat so hard I probably left a kiss mark.

"I found what I want," he announces. What are you, twelve?!

"You might as well shop around before you make up your mind," I oh-so-subtly hint. Oh, fuck off, lamb chop. Fuck OFF. Not now.

He shakes his head firmly, despite how nervous he clearly is. I'm sure I look worse right now, though. "No, I'm sure this is the one I want. But it's out of reach."

"We have a wide selection," I start, biting my lip nervously.

He's not having it. "Avo, this is the one I want. Can you please just come grab it for me without giving me the run-around again?"

My toes are crossed and my tail is going crazy. I'm going to need to wipe this stool off or put up a slipping hazard sign. "Look, fluff, we have a step-stool around here somewhere, so just grab--"

"Look, Avo, I know you like tormenting me," ME?? Tormenting HIM??? "But either come over here or I'm telling Pandora you're giving a paying customer shit. Now are you gonna help me or what?"

He stares at me with his big eyebrows sternly set. I'm sweating like a fat bird at a disco. I swallow deeply, clutching the edge of the counter.

"Right away, sir," I hiss through my teeth.