Night Shift

by Joanna Angel

  “You’re not gonna tie it together with rope are you?” He laughed.

  “No!” I answered defensively. “Here’s a secret: If you put clear nail polish on the run, it will stop it.” I got down on my knees and painted the run in his stockings with my clear polish. I found myself running my fingers up and down his masculine hairy legs, and I loved the way the stockings felt on top of his thighs. I’m glad we went with the nude color; it showed off his form.

  “You have really nice legs,” I said.

  “Oh, thanks!” he replied. “I load furniture in and out of my truck all day so my legs and arms get a good workout. My gut though, that’s all beer!” He laughed and patted his belly. It really turned me on to think that a man who delivered couches during the day would be trying on thigh-highs at night. Something about that made me feel free.

  And just at that moment, Sandy walked out of the bathroom, her extended time in there acting as a costume change; she came out sporting her own lingerie ensemble: an all-red matching bra and panty set, with fishnet thigh-highs and heels.

  “Happy Saturday!” she yelled.

  Billy and I couldn’t help but laugh. She continued to dance with herself, ironically to an instrumental version of Billy Idol’s “Dancing with Myself” (who coincidentally was also another man named Billy who enjoyed dressing like a woman). I stood by the plastic table and Billy grabbed my hand. He looked right into my eyes and said, “Thank you.” I smiled. We continued to hold hands for a bit, until we both decided to let go and eat Cheetos.

  I was actually having fun.

  To go back and talk to Amir instead, Click Here.

  To keep Billy on your mind, Click Here.

  I decided to follow Amir.

  He finished his drink and headed straight to a section of the store with “male enhancement” pills. He definitely had a purpose. There were two different types of pill in the store. One kind claimed to make you last longer in bed. Essentially it was herbal Viagra. I was never good at science, but I was able to wrap my brain around the fact that different herbs/chemicals mixed together could increase your sexual stamina. I mean, if Vitamin C and echinacea could make a cold go away, then ginkgo biloba and magnesium (two ingredients that seemed to be listed in the ingredients of all the boner pills) could give you a stronger erection and libido. Right? But then there was the other category of pills—which I could not comprehend the chemistry of at all—the type of pills that claimed to make your penis bigger. It was like the magic beans in “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Even as a kid I didn’t believe in that fairy tale. A prince was more likely to pick me up in a pumpkin and whisk me away to a ball than having a fucking plant that grew all the way up to the clouds and led to a castle—with a harp. There was always a pointless harp in there somewhere.

  “Sandy, did you order the Vaso Ultra pills like you said you would?” Amir asked my boss. What on earth was he talking about?

  “No, hon’. I tried to and I couldn’t. It must be off the market already. Why don’t you just get one of those Extendable™ ones again? Didn’t you like those?”

  He rolled his eyes and anxiously browsed through the pills. He had an incredibly uneasy energy about him, and I felt compelled to help. Perhaps there was something I could do.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Vaso Ultra is a new enlargement pill on the market. I’ve tried all the other ones here.” I was shocked.

  “If none of the other ones worked, why would you want to try a different one?”

  “They work. I have proof that they work. But when your body gets used to the pill they stop working. The newer formulas are always more effective. It shocks the system. You know what I mean.”

  He wasn’t asking if I knew what he meant, he was telling me that I knew what he meant—but I had no idea what he meant.

  “If this one is off the market like Sandy said, it probably means it wasn’t good, right? Maybe it’s for the best!”

  He glared at me. He was clearly not in the mood to give me a penis pill 101 lesson.

  “The pills aren’t approved by the FDA, so if they’re really popular, they get caught, and they have to change the name and the formula right away. Usually Sandy gets the good shit before that happens because she’s on top of it. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

  “Well I was hired here just a few weeks ago and I’m getting the hang of things. If she lets me take over the wholesale ordering I can try to help.”

  Sandy interrupted. “Amir, you have a beautiful cock. I think your other method is working better than those

  pills!”

  His face was suddenly flushed red. It’s just so terrible when arrogant men look embarrassed. It’s like you see a piece of their soul that you know they don’t want you to see and you don’t really want to see.

  “What’s the other method?” I asked. I was already being annoying, I may as well just keep going. I mean, I was sitting in an adult store on a Saturday night surrounded by Cheetos and anal beads. What question could really be inappropriate here?

  Sandy laughed, and walked right over to Amir and grabbed his cock. He pushed her hand away and she put it back, and this time he smiled and let it stay there. I don’t know if I would ever be comfortable enough to grab a customer’s genitals, even an apparent regular’s, but that’s Sandy for you—always up in everyone’s business.

  “Relax, Amir, honey. Please!”

  “I’ve been jelking. And I have proven results,” Amir said to me. He did actually seem more relaxed now. A crotch grab and some punch calmed him down. Maybe if he loosened up his man bun that would help.

  “Excuse me—what?” I didn’t know if I misheard him, or if he actually said jelking. And if he did, I had no idea what that meant. Was it a cute nickname for jerking off?

  “Jelking,” he firmly replied. “It’s a certain way of masturbating that elongates your cock. You pull your shaft all the way out as you wank it and over the course of time it elongates your penis. I have proven results.”

  He pulled out a stack of photographs out of his pocket, with sticky notes on each picture, showing a date and the length of his penis at the time. The earliest picture in the bunch was from five years ago! And to his credit, there was a noticeable difference, and an actual mathematical difference, if the measurements on the notes were correct. For a minute I felt proud, like, his showing me these photos was a sign that we had truly bonded, and if he was a regular I was supposed to connect with him. Right?

  But on second thought, if he already had these photos in his pocket, I couldn’t possibly be the first, second, third, fourth, or one hundredth person to see them. His cock was his job application and these photographs were his resume, and these penis enlargement pills were like his college degree that he paid a lot of money for because he thought he needed them to get a job.

  He picked up eight different kinds of penis enlargement pills (not to be confused with the stamina pills—apparently he had the stamina department handled) and aggressively threw them down on the counter. I was starting to feel like some kind of drug dealer. Could people be addicted to penis enlargement pills?

  “Are you OK?” I said. Which was probably an inappropriate question to ask in here.

  “I have a date with my girlfriend this week,” he replied. “The average female desires at least a six-point-three-inch penis and mine is currently only five point eight.”

  He had some kind of penis-size OCD, but it came from a somewhat romantic place. I think.

  “Why would you go through all this work for just an average female?” I laughed out loud at my own joke. He didn’t find it funny.

  “She is not average. According to her dating profile, she is twenty-five years old, has D-cup breasts, a twenty-four-inch waist, and she is five feet eight inches tall.”

  My B-cup breasts, thirty-inch waist, and five feet three inches were mildly offended. But then again, there was a good chance he was being cat-fished by someone with completely diff
erent dimensions. Or even a completely different sex.

  “Wait—is this the first time you’ll meet her in person?” I asked.

  “Yes. We’ve been talking on the phone every day and texting every night, for months. I know she is the perfect girl for me and I’m worried my dick just won’t satisfy her. It’s just not the appropriate size. Not yet. I can get there.”

  “Hasn’t she seen it yet? I mean, why don’t you just send her one of these photos? You have so many of them.”

  “She has a photo,” he shortly answered.

  “Okay, then, she knows, and she still has plans to see you? I mean, I will ring up these pills, obviously, but I think you’re in the clear here! Cheer up!”

  Sandy’s positivity and happiness was contagious. I had never given anyone cock therapy before. But Sandy seemed to be the number one supporter of his cock and she was cackling in the background, and I found this laughter quite counterproductive to this remedial treatment.

  “She’s got a photo of a cock all right—but not his! What is that poor girl going to think when she finds out you sent her a picture of a porn star’s dick?” Sandy laughed.

  “Stop it, Sandy. Why are you talking about this in front of everyone? I will get mine that big. I can do it. It won’t be a lie once it’s the same size. I just need a few more centimeters and I can be the man that I know she deserves.”

  “How do you know what she deserves? You haven’t even met her yet!” Sandy replied, still giggling.

  “I have met her plenty, just not in person. The connection we have is beyond being physically present and being an ocean apart doesn’t belittle the status of our relationship. Her voice turns me on; even just the mere glimpse of her name appearing on my phone as a missed call or an unread text excites me more than anyone I have ever interacted with.”

  There was dead silence in the room. This internet romance had more gusto than anything or anyone I had experienced.

  “How, um, does Sandy know what photo you sent?” I asked.

  “Well—I mean—she found the cock . . . for me to send. I . . . I asked her to. As a favor.”

  If I was the cock therapist, then Sandy was the cock enabler. Grandmothers aren’t ones to practice tough love. They usually give in to what their loved ones want, to make them happy. In this case, her loved one needed a photo of a cock off the internet.

  He took three of the pills that he purchased and asked for a key to room one. This was a smaller room, with plenty of lube, tissues, and a comfortable couch. I handed him the key and he rushed off to the room without any further instruction from me.

  “Oh, Amir,” Sandy sighed. “When will that boy gain some confidence in his penis?” She shook her head in disbelief and rested it on my shoulder. The two of us watched the monitor behind the register, and waited for him to begin “jelking” off.

  He wasted no time—as soon as he entered the room he played some kind of porn he had on his cell phone. He had a large screen and a mini stand that clipped to the back of it. He came prepared!

  He took his cock out and as Sandy wasn’t exagger ating—it was nice! Thick and round, like the size of a ketchup bottle. The head of his penis was a unique triangular shape, which looked incredibly pleasurable. I felt like I had seen dildos the same size of his dick. It was shorter and fatter than the few that I’d seen in my life, and not the lengthiest cock in the universe, but I didn’t see that as a problem. Not like I was in any position to be a penis snob, but truly, I wouldn’t have been disappointed had I been presented with that.

  He pulled his penis as far out as possible, like he was stretching a salt-water taffy. His penis looked red, and then he smoothed it out. Then red again, then smoothed out. Was he moving the blood vessels around? I’m not quite sure. He moaned, though I wasn’t sure if it was a moan of pleasure or pain. His determination to stretch his penis was admirable. I was lucky to have men open a car door for me, let alone go through a physical mutation just for my pleasure.

  He massaged his balls. He licked his fingers and massaged the head of his dick. He rubbed his chest, he scratched himself, he alternated his right hand and left hand on his cock, still pulling the skin forward. He grabbed some lube, placed one hand at the base of his cock and his other hand pulled his shaft forward in long strokes, like he was untangling a garden hose. He manipulated his skin, cupping his balls, while he stared at the girl-girl-boy threesome porn on his phone screen. This was an intense jerk-off—or jelk-off—session. It was masturbation with a true purpose. Sweat poured down his chest. He breathed heavy to the point where I could see the audio levels on the monitor peaking. He pulled his cock forward—as far forward as he could possibly make it go. I was actually scared for a moment he would wind up pulling the thing off. All the while his little bun up top of his head hadn’t budged. Not one hair out of place.

  He had an explosive amount of testosterone. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to throw me against the wall and fuck me, or if I wanted to watch him hit a body bag at the gym. Or maybe I just wanted him to continue jelking off his perfectly sized cock.

  “It really is a nice cock,” Sandy said. “He just needs to learn to love himself.” From the looks of it he truly knew how to love himself quite well, at least physically. My panties were wet just watching this vehement self-pleasure.

  He completed; an incredibly large and healthy, creamy-white finish, and cum dripped down his legs. He then took a finger and dipped it in his own cum, licked his finger, nodded, and smiled.

  Sandy let out a loud laugh. “I added some pineapple juice to the punch. It makes cum taste real good!”

  It’s always nice to learn new family recipes from your grandma.

  To go back and talk to the lumberjack instead, Click Here.

  Continue with Taryn in this fantasy, Click Here.

  Well, I’ve got to go home. It’s definitely past my bedtime,” Sandy said. It was one in the morning and I could tell Sandy was winding down. I, on the other hand, had eight more hours to go. However, my day began with an alarm clock ringing at 6:00 P.M. , so I was painfully awake, and I was also slightly aroused from seeing everything I just saw.

  Sandy left and I was alone in the store, left to my own thoughts in a three-thousand-square-foot room filled with dildos. Should I treat myself to a cup of the punch? There was a bit left in the bowl, so I figured, why not? I chugged a cup. It was actually pretty good.

  The customers who came in between 8:00 P.M. and 11:00 P.M. usually bought items to use for the evening. They had this air of excitement to them, like patrons at a bar in the early evening filled with optimism and confidence that they would find a person to go home with at the end of the night. Even if that “person” was a Fleshlight, a pornographic film about women in their 40s fucking their pool guys, or just some purple anal beads, it was still a happy ending to an evening. The customers who came in between 4:00 A.M. and 7:00 A.M. were usually on their way home from somewhere. They were visibly drunk or high, with a bag of mixed emotions. Sometimes they came in groups (like Jimmy), and sometimes they were just alone, but the “after-hours” customers all very much had a place to go before the after. These customers had a social life, but not a sex life; or they had romance in their life and not much sex; or they had a sex life but wanted more kink, and Dreamz was there for all their 4:00 A.M. to 7:00 A.M. needs.

  However, the customers during the hours between midnight and 3:00 A.M. were different. They required more attention than others and spent less money than most. These people weren’t going to or coming from anywhere. The store was the beginning, middle, and end of their night.

  But who was I to judge? I, too, was the before, during, and after party. Hell, I was the entire party. I used to tell myself, this was a temporary job to hold me down until I got a real job, but I wasn’t actively doing anything to pursue something “real.” Was I supposed to be? Was I supposed to be actively applying for jobs I didn’t really want, that likewise didn’t want me either? I had the credentials to be an incredib
ly mediocre teacher, but that paid just as much or maybe even less than what I was making, and I had less of a passion for teaching than I did for selling keys to ROOMZ. Having a night job gave me a convenient excuse for my lack of social life. The unique debauchery that ensued ignited sexual fantasies in parts of my brain that I never knew existed. I guess what I am trying to say is that I liked it there.

  The night progressed. The post-midnight lull continued, as people wandered through the store, picking up different products they had no intention of buying and putting them down.

  “How much is this?” a man in a stained Hard Rock Cafe Orlando T-shirt asked. He was holding up a vibrating egg that was certainly meant for a woman’s clitoris.

  “$24.99,” I answered.

  “And what about this?” the same man asked, this time about a kitschy, bacon-flavored lube we carried.

  “Oh, lucky for you that’s on sale today! It’s $12.99.” It was on sale because no one actually wants to use a bacon-flavored lube.

  “Okay. What about this?” he asked, holding up a studded dog collar, intended for BDSM roleplay.

  “That’s a hundred percent leather so that’s a bit pricey—it’s $89.99. But it’s great quality!” I replied.

  After a long, awkward silence he said, “All right—I will be right back.”

  Any time anyone ever told me they would be right back, they never came back. When I previously worked retail as a teenager, I was taught to invasively drive sales. I was applauded if I stalked a customer and made a sale simply because they wanted me off their back. But to Sandy, the sales seemed secondary to making the people—and the genitals connected to them—who walked through this door feel comfortable. So if it gave someone comfort to ask prices on butt plugs they never intended on buying, then so be it. I hope it inspired some kind of arousal in their brain, and they went back home and got themselves off by using all the products they didn’t buy in their minds. Except the bacon-flavored lube. I never understood that one.