Night Shift

by Joanna Angel

  I quickly swooped up the metal G-spot stimulator that wasn’t able to make Jen cum from the ground. It was really dense and heavy, and I threw it at the robber’s head, making direct contact with his skull. I froze.

  Everyone instinctively followed me. All the girls quickly removed their strap-on pink penises and threw them at him. Cherise grabbed a nine-inch pair of heels and threw it at him. And the robber went down, collapsing on the ground, his gun flying out of his hand and landing across the room. Cherise quickly picked it up.

  I could see him breathing. Thank goodness. He’s an ass, but I didn’t want to kill him. Not tonight. I planned on learning a lot of new things tonight, but murder wasn’t one of them.

  “Someone call the cops,” I yelled, “quickly, before he wakes up!”

  I ran to the door and unlocked it. Amanda stood in the doorway with her cell phone, looking pissed.

  “Amanda!” I let her in, hugged her tightly, and kissed her. “Thank god you’re safe; we’re being held up!”

  “What?!”

  She barged into the store and saw the weird scene before her: Jen, with cum all over her face looking incredibly happy, Cherise holding the gun, naked sweaty men next to naked girls with holsters on, and a mound of hot-pink dildos on the ground next to a guy who was unconscious.

  Seeing Cherise with the gun, Amanda must have assumed she was the assailant because she charged right at her, fists clenched, looking like she was going to really hurt her.

  “NO!” I shouted at her. “That’s not the robber—this guy on the floor is. I threw the metal dildo at him and it hit him in the head and he fell down. I swear! I did! This is Cherise and she’s amazing and I had sex with her and her husband!”

  They both waved and smiled and somehow went back to looking incredibly proper.

  “Really?! Are you lying?”

  “About which part?!” I said. “I mean, I’m not lying about any of it.”

  “Let’s please get this monster out of the store! Before he wakes up! Please!” Cherise said, soft tears welling in her eyes. She held onto the gun like it was some kind of tea cup. She had no idea what to do with it.

  Chuck was talking to the police, giving them all the information.

  “Wait, that was actually all real?!” Amanda stared at all of us, not quite knowing where to look. “Are you serious? That wasn’t just a good old-fashioned harpaxophelia role-playing game?”

  “What does that mean? Do you not think I’m cool enough to throw a dildo at a guy with a gun and knock him out?”

  “It’s a fetish for being burglarized,” Amanda said, “And no, I still don’t believe you at all.” Amanda couldn’t stop laughing.

  Cherise was getting really angry and she inadvertently pointed the gun directly at Amanda.

  “Please! Get him out of here. Now!”

  Amanda shook her head, but grabbed one of the robber’s hands. Big Jen stepped in and grabbed the other and the two of them dragged him across the store out of the door. Amanda locked it.

  Finally, Cherise snapped out of her trance of terror.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, did I just point a gun at your girlfriend?” she asked. “I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s ok, Cherise, she totally deserved it.” My heart was racing.

  “Let’s all just stay in this room until the cops get here. Is everyone ok?” Amanda asked.

  Everyone in the store started cheering. Half the people in the store were naked.

  “Amanda! I love you!” I yelled. I was frantic. “I’m not afraid to say that. I could have just died, and it would have sucked to die and not tell you that I love you.” I was crying. Everyone in the store hugged their significant others, then the other partners they had sex with. Relief and love spread across the room. I looked at Amanda. She looked back at me, right into my eyes.

  Amidst the hugging and cries of joy, Sandy appeared, stumbling out of the back room.

  “So, sorry honey—I passed out! How long was I asleep for?” Sandy said.

  “Sandy—we were robbed!”

  “What? Shit. Are you serious? Did you push the alarm? I have good friends at the station who know to come right away when that happens!”

  “We have an alarm?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, of course we do,” Sandy said. “It’s right here!” She pointed at a small button right next to the register.

  “You never fucking told me about the alarm!” “I could have sworn I did!”

  “No. You didn’t,” I said. I could feel a cloud of anger building inside me. I was so woefully unprepared for this situation; all this time I could have solved it with the press of a button?!

  “Oh well. I’m sorry, hon’. Now you know for next time! Is everyone ok? Did you have to give him all the money?”

  “No Sandy, I hit him with a dildo and he’s unconscious outside. All your money is here, though.” I picked up the bag and tossed it to her. She caught it, but stumbled back a bit against its weight. “Sorry, there’s a lot in there.”

  “Oh, dear,” Sandy said. She put the bag on the floor and walked over to me, embracing me in a tight hug.

  “I knew there was something very special about you when I first hired you,” Sandy said.

  Ugh. How could I stay mad at her? She’s trying her best.

  “You sure about that?” I laughed. “I think you were just happy I was available and willing to work under the table.”

  “No, Taryn. I knew. Old ladies like me have good intuition.”

  “More punch, anyone?!” she shouted to everyone in the store, and from behind the counter she lifted up a mason jar filled with her magical, clear liquid and held it in the air. She went over to the table and mixed it with fruit punch. Everyone rejoiced and drank punch. Chuck actually passed on the punch and drank the moonshine straight out of the jar.

  I picked up the heavy, metal, G-spot stimulator from the ground and saw there was blood on it.

  “Does this make you believe me?” I showed it to Amanda. I felt like a real bad-ass. Seriously.

  “No! I still don’t believe you. But I’m glad you’re alive.”

  We kissed and kissed and kissed, we couldn’t stop kissing. And this kiss was different than our previous kisses. I didn’t feel vulnerable and helpless like I usually do. I felt like an equal. I had courage, and confidence that I never had before.

  “I’m going to call you my girlfriend,” I said to her.

  “Oh really?” she replied.

  “Yes. And you’re going to call me your girlfriend.

  “OH? Am I?” she replied.

  “I know you live a very exciting life, and you probably know a lot of attractive, smart people with good jobs, but no one loves you as much as I do. And I know I make you laugh, and I know you must like me a little bit, because, you know what? I looked it up. I scoured the internet and I looked everywhere on the American Airlines website. I know that’s the only airline you fly and there were no flights that had emergency landings in Orlando the night you came to see me two weeks ago.”

  “You are so psycho. You’re perfect for me,” she said. “Why don’t you come on the road with me? You can visit some stores with me; you can come to my workshops, and I’ll teach you more about this industry. You just saved the store while your boss was passed out in the back. I think you’re entitled to a paid vacation,” Amanda said.

  “I would like that!” I said.

  We kissed and sat behind the register and watched Tampa’s horniest inhabitants get drunk. Sandy turned the music up and everyone started dancing. Amanda and I held hands, and watched the remainder of our favorite movie Make Me Creamy, as it played on the TV on the wall. My heart was full, my pussy was vibrating, and the sweet sounds of orgasms were blaring behind me. It was the classic American love story, at least, it was for me.

  The End

  Go back and discover a different fantasy, Click Here.

  Everything looked different to me the next time I came ‘ into work. The florescent lighting didn’t
seem so dim, and the dust on the floor didn’t seem dirty; it was just part of the store’s charm. I was alone in the store, with several hours to go on my shift, and I wasn’t playing Solitaire on my phone to pass the time. I couldn’t stop smiling, which is quite unlike me.

  My brief encounter with Billy was on my mind. I actually had a dream about him the night before. We were both dancing in a birch forest wearing flannel shirts, sheer tights, and panties. He chopped down a tree with his big, manly axe, and built a cozy cabin out of the wood. We started kissing and then . . . my roommate woke me up to ask me to move my car because it was blocking him in the driveway.

  I wanted to know more about Billy. I was intrigued by his duality, and I wanted to know so much more about him. He left fairly early on Saturday (early in this store meant about 1:00 A.M.) because he actually worked a night shift as well, driving throughout the night to make produce deliveries to supermarkets throughout the county. I knew he would be back at some point—who else would help him pick out perfect panties?—but that didn’t make it any easier to say goodbye. Before he left, he asked me if he could keep his lingerie here in the store, saying he wasn’t sure where else he could comfortably wear it. Oh yeah, he’d be back. I put it in a paper bag with his name on it and kept it on a shelf, much like the way they keep your clothing stored away if you were checked into a prison. He pecked my cheek and thanked me for a wonderful time as he headed out the door. I watched from the door as he clambered into his truck and sped away into the night.

  I was already daydreaming about his return, to both me and his bag-o’-delicates. Perhaps I could find some kind of locker I could leave behind the register that he could have access to at any time. Would that be more beneficial to him as he explored this new part of himself? Actually, I liked the fact that I had to be here for him to access the clothing. We were in this together.

  The thought of his next visit also inspired me to organize the lingerie. It certainly needed to be done; it was a mess! There were literally ripped cardboard boxes with things like SIZE XS - THONG scribbled in magic marker on them. I had seen more glamor in the displays at the Salvation Army.

  So Sunday night found me dumping out hundreds of skimpy pieces of negligée onto the floor in front of me, waiting to be organized in some fashion. It was fine work for a weekend shift. Plus, the night had turned cold and rainy, as Florida nights randomly do sometimes. I wasn’t anticipating too many customers, so I decided to make my time alone useful.

  There was a good selection here. Bras, panties, garters, G-strings, corsets, thigh-highs, full, high-waist stockings, and even some bikinis. There were “roleplaying” costumes like French maid, cop, schoolgirl, and the generic brightly colored spandex thing with a cape—a mashup of all the comic book characters that ever existed—that was simply called “superhero.” Some of it looked like it belonged on your bedroom floor at the end of the night on Valentine’s Day, some looked like it belonged on a go-go dancer, and some looked like it was taken from a Party City store.

  I separated everything into different piles: all the lacey stuff went into a pile together, along with anything that seemed frilly enough to be lace (I couldn’t always tell). The items with shiny patterns and the ones with fur, whether fake or real, went into distinct piles of their own. It seemed like it made sense. From the little amount of time I’d spent here, to realize that there was a very different demographic for each of these genres of skimpy clothing, so they shouldn’t be mixed together. I found empty display cases and plastic drawers in the back room, along with a few mannequins. I pulled everything out and blocked the aisles with a giant mess of shelving and headless bodies.

  There was something very exciting about the neon spandex panties with extra-long ties on the end. I actually think they were way too bright for me to wear per se (my complexion didn’t really support clothes that make one look like a highlighter), but I found them to be sexually thrilling, like they weren’t underwear, and I couldn’t see them worn underneath anything, so these were for people who wore underwear as a substitute for pants. Jimmy’s friends would definitely wear these, and they would certainly accentuate any small butt. This style of “panty,” if they could even be called that, only came in one size, a mysterious and generic size on the tag that was just O/S— whatever that meant—and they only came in neon colors so I assumed they were only meant for people of a certain generic small size who spent lots of time in dark rooms with black lights. I slipped a pair of pink ones onto the mannequin bottom that I had found. I thought a pop of color in the store would make things more exciting in here. I had some more digging to do before I found a matching top, so for the time being, this pair would remain on a topless torso, molded into a sexy “come hither” pose on a folding chair.

  I put all the neon stuff on hangers—it stuck out easily, and drew the eye to that section. If Jimmy’s entourage ever came in here for a unicorn-fairy-orgy at the crack of dawn again, they would now have a much easier time finding what they wanted. If only we had a mailing list, I would let them know, but we didn’t, so we would just have to hope that if I built it, they would come.

  The lacey pile was next. All of the items there felt a lot more intimate. I loved the way it was kind of see through, but not really; they were truly panties of mystery. The patterns were soft and textured at the same time, and the garters were such a timeless accessory that so many generations identified as something sexy. I could see some grand duchess eagerly awaiting her lover in the soft red stockings I held in my hand, held up by black, scandalous garters. I couldn’t understand the logic behind why I found something so sexy about something whose sole purpose in life was to hold up a long sock, but what I was starting to learn from my experiences here was that my life needed a lot less logic in it and I should get more in tune with my own instincts. Getting rid of all logic was actually the most logical thing to do, at least when you spend your life interacting with more dildos than you do people.

  The lacey lingerie thankfully actually had sizes, though the garments were too dainty to be hung up on hangers. I folded and separated all the panties and garters, and began placing them in the plastic storage drawers. In my mind this was a giant step up from the cardboard boxes; the drawers themselves elicited a kind of sexy vibe: come, open these drawers and see what’s inside. I found a somewhat isolated corner in the store for the drawer to go, so people could look through the selection feeling like they are in their own private boudoir, only . . . made of plastic.

  As I rifled through everything, I kept an eye out for pairs of XXXL lacey panties, stockings, and garters. Anytime I found one, I put it in the bottom drawer with Billy in mind. I smiled and folded everything carefully, I even found myself giggling a tiny bit which was usually something I scorned. I was certainly never a fucking giggler. That was an act reserved for an entirely different breed of female than me—or, it was. Turns out helping Billy get in touch with his feminine side was also helping me get in touch with mine.

  This tiny revelation of femininity got me thinking: the closest I ever got to wearing lingerie in my life was occasionally wearing a matching bra and underwear. I had always been so self-conscious about putting anything dainty on my body. Dainty wasn’t for feminists with an education degree. But Billy wore them with such ease, and you could see the heightened confidence surrounding him. Maybe I should also give them a try.

  I pulled out a pair of purple lace panties. The small size looked right for me. They were shaped like a V in the back, they were a little bit stretchy, and there was a little bow in the front. It was still pouring rain outside, and there were various flood warnings throughout the area so naturally the store was completely dead. I had never put a garter on myself before, and since it didn’t come with any instruction manual, there was a chance it could take a while.

  I got creative, and mixed and matched. I pulled out the purple lace panties, a black lace bra that was not part of the same set as the purple lace panties, and a black garter. I contemplated betwe
en the nude stockings and the black stockings: what would look better? Which were more fashionably appropriate to wear to walk around an empty store and possibly take a few photos on my phone that I don’t think I will ever post anywhere? It was an important decision to make.

  I grabbed my mix-matched set and went into the bathroom. I slipped off my Converse sneakers and dark denim jeggings. One of my legs was smooth and one was covered in dark, prickly black hairs. I have this terrible habit of stepping into the shower, only shaving one leg, and then stepping out. I don’t even realize that I forgot the other leg until much later. I need to hang up some kind of waterproof checklist to remind myself what to do. Fortunately, the stockings could cover up my mishap. My hairy solo leg wouldn’t get in the way of this victorious moment I was trying to have with myself.

  I slipped the lace panties on; this was the easy part. I turned my head as far back as it could go and looked in the mirror. I loved the way that V shape back made my butt look. It gave it this apple shape that I never quite saw it have. I shook my butt back and forth. I felt ridiculous. I attempted to do that twerk thing everyone seems to love doing: my ass went up and down, I bent my knees. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do. Okay, if I’m doing this I’m gonna go all out and do this. I got my phone and put on a hip hop station on Pandora, and I twerked my tiny Jewish, white ass around the bathroom. I smiled, I shook my ass to the music, I leaned against the sink and used it to push my ass out more as I attempted to go a bit faster. I felt kind of sexy. I mean, I wasn’t going to audition to be in a Lil Wayne music video anytime soon, but maybe next time I actually go to a party I might get up and dance instead of silently judge all the people having fun from the corner of the room.

  Next, it was time to put on the bra. All the bras I owned were sports bras or these wireless things you slip on that I believe were called “bralettes.” Both these things came in sizes XS to XL; they didn’t have the typical letters and numbers bra sizes were supposed to have. Several years ago, my mother took me to Victoria’s Secret to get my bra size measured, and they told me I was a 34 B. That was quite some time ago; when my freshman 15 turned into a sophomore 20, and later a senior 30, that added some diameter to my breasts. The size 34 C looked more appropriate to me, one size bigger. And I was right: I fastened it on and it fit perfectly. My breasts were cupped into a perfect shape, and looked incredibly grabbable in the mirror; I wanted nothing more than to hold them in my hands, massage them. I was used to my boobs being smooshed together into one tube-like formation with my unflattering bras. The bra cups were made of a translucent black material, and embroidered with tiny flowers. The lace overlapped on top of the cup of the bra and went onto my skin, like a gate guarding forbidden treasure. The smooth, shiny straps on the side highlighted my shoulders. I never thought of my shoulders as anything sexy, but something about the cleavage and the lace and the way my breasts fell into the cups and looked like two perfect buoyant circles also gave my shoulders some new kind of sex appeal I had never seen before.