Wardrobe Malfunction

by Samantha Towle

  He’s just wearing the pants.

  No shoes. Just bare feet.

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  Bare feet and ripped chests are my kryptonite, especially if the man has nice feet—which, of course, Vaughn does—and his chest…man alive!

  It’s the kind of chest you want to spend days licking all kinds of melted sweets off. To be honest, I’d happily lick his sweat off his chest. Run my tongue over those abs and ridges, down that happy trail—

  “Where do you want me?”

  Is that a trick question?

  I cough. “Just over here, please.”

  He walks toward me, and my vagina thuds in time with his footsteps.

  When he reaches me, I get a whiff of male. He doesn’t smell like I expected. I thought he’d be all rich cologne and expensive fabrics.

  But Vaughn smells outdoorsy. Like cinder and spice. Like he just got back from a stint in the woods, chopping trees.

  He smells good. It’s doing wonderful things to my girl parts.

  I want to take a deep breath and swallow a lungful of him.

  This is what two years of sex with only a vibrator and my imagination for company does.

  Don’t think of the imaginary sex you’ve had with him in your head.

  Don’t do it.

  Of course I think about it. My brain flashes to the scene where he has me in the shower, up against the tiled wall, fucking me like a maniac. Exactly the same as what he did in the scene with Martha Vance in Ricochet. Lucky bitch. I just replaced her face with my own. I always come hard and fast to that one. It’s my favorite.

  And, now, my whole body is on fire because I’m pretty sure it’s written all over my face that I’m having sex thoughts about him.

  Jesus Christ.

  Forcing my mind back to work, I step back and look over the pants, making sure to check the fit and not the bulge in the front.

  “How do they feel?” I ask.

  “Fine.”

  “They look a little loose around the inner thigh and crotch area,” I muse, tapping my finger to my chin.

  “Are you saying I have skinny thighs and a small package?”

  “What? God, no!” And, of course, my eyes go straight to said package. “I just meant that the pants are slightly oversized in that area, and you need them more fitted, not that you have a small cock—package! I mean, package!”

  Holy fuck, someone, please stop me.

  My face is on fire, and I’m sweating like a donkey pulling a fat man on a cart.

  “Chill.” He laughs once. It’s deep and throaty and sexy as hell. “I’m kidding with you.”

  “Oh. Oh, right. Cool.” I take a deep breath, pressing my hand to my chest.

  Needing a moment to cool my face down, I turn to the table, get my wrist pincushion, which is already loaded up with pins, and fasten it to my wrist.

  I turn back to him, feeling a little more in control, and without looking him in the face, I get down to my knees in front of him, putting me at cock-level.

  I’m on my knees in front of Vaughn West. Sure, I’m only pinning his pants, but still…it’s one for the books.

  “Okay, so if you could just spread your legs a little for me, that’d be great.”

  I hear those words back in my head and want to die. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment and just shifts his stance, parting his legs for me.

  I try to relax because I am nervous…because he’s him.

  Come on, Charly, you’ve done this a thousand times. He’s just a man.

  A hot, gorgeous, famous man. But a man all the same.

  Sucking in a silent breath, I start on the right inner thigh, hemming the material in and tacking it with pins. Vaughn tenses.

  Lots of people get uncomfortable when I’m doing this. I mean, it is weird, having a stranger this close who is sticking pins in the clothes you’re wearing.

  I shift over to his left leg, and he tenses again. Discomfort is radiating from him, which is making me feel uncomfortable.

  He clears his throat.

  I look up at him. His brows are pinched. He looks like he’s in pain.

  “Almost done,” I tell him.

  Now, for the crotch area.

  I’ve been purposely keeping my eyes away from this part of his body, but now, I have no choice but to look.

  And…oh my God.

  He’s got a boner. Well, not a boner, boner, but there’s definitely a semi going on there.

  Then, it hits me.

  Vaughn West has a semi over me.

  The things that is doing for my self-confidence right now.

  I feel like doing an air punch. And possibly another twerk.

  But, of course, I’m a professional, so I pretend not to notice. Expression schooled—and I can’t even begin to tell you how hard that is, pun intended—I say to him, “Okay, a few more pins, and we’re done.”

  I take a pin from the cushion and turn the fabric in to pin it. As I move my hand, my knuckles accidentally—and, I swear, it’s an accident—brush against him. His hips jerk forward right as I’m pushing the pin in the material of his pants, and—

  “Jesus! Fuck!” he yells, jumping back away from me.

  I stare up at him in shock.

  Oh, shit. No…

  Please no.

  I just stabbed Vaughn West in the cock with a pin.

  I just stabbed the world’s biggest movie star. With a pin. In his cock.

  I snap into action, leaping to my feet. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I just did that! It was an accident, I swear! I can’t believe I stabbed you in your cock! I mean, penis! Oh, Jesus.” I cover my face with my hands.

  “Ball sack.” He moans a pained sound.

  I drop my hands. “What?”

  “You got me in my ball sack, not my cock. Jesus, fuck, this hurts! What did you stab me with? A knife?”

  “A pin. And it was only a small one.”

  The glare he fixes me with makes me want to piss my pants.

  “I really am sorry. So, so sorry.” I wince.

  I’m so fired.

  “Let me help you.” I move toward him, but he backs away from me.

  “Seriously, stay the fuck away. I can’t believe you just stabbed me.”

  “Pinned.”

  He glares again.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, dropping my gaze.

  “Vaughn?”

  “What?” he snaps.

  “The pin…it’s still in…there.”

  His eyes follow mine down. “Jesus Christ,” he groans.

  “Do you want me to pull it out?”

  “No, I don’t want you to fucking pull it out! I’m not letting you anywhere near me ever again. You’ve probably just killed all my best swimmers. I swear to God, if I lose a ball because of you—”

  “That’s a tad dramatic. It was just a tiny pin.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as angry as he looks right now. His face his red, bordering purple.

  “Okay, so let me stick a tiny pin in your clit and see how you get on,” he grits out.

  “Okay. Point taken.” I clamp my thighs together.

  And I watch quietly as he takes a few deep breaths before he takes ahold of the pin and yanks it out.

  “Motherfucker!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not fucking okay!” he snaps.

  He opens the button on the pants and carefully pulls the zipper down, and I realize he’s about to check his damaged goods.

  Should I look away or watch? That’s the million-dollar question.

  “Can you turn around?” he barks at me.

  “I was just about to,” I mumble, turning away.

  And I swear to God I was going to.

  I hear him groan.

  “Christ, I’m fucking bleeding. What the hell kind of pin was that? And what the hell kind of seamstress are you?”

  I have to stop myself from correcting him that I’m actually a wardrobe assistant and no
t a seamstress, but something tells me that wouldn’t go down too well. So, all I say is, “Sorry,” for the hundredth time.

  A few seconds later, I hear movement and then feet shuffling.

  I risk a glance over my shoulder.

  I see him limping toward the changing room—in only his boxer shorts.

  Holy cow! He’s naked! Well, not completely naked, but…

  He has great legs. Really long and toned.

  And I just stabbed him in his ball sack.

  That thought quickly drenches my pervy libido right back down.

  “Can I do anything?” I ask quietly.

  “No.”

  Okay then.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him get his cell from his jeans pocket, which are hanging on the peg in there.

  He dials and puts the phone to his ear, his other hand cupping his junk over his boxer shorts.

  God, I can’t believe I stabbed him with a pin. All these years I’ve been doing this job, and I’ve never stabbed anyone—oh, fuck. He’s making a call. What if he’s calling to get me fired?

  “Vaughn…Mr. West.” I turn to face him, not bothering to care that he’s practically naked, and I press my hands together in front of me in a pleading manner. “I really am sorry. It was an accident and—”

  The look he hits me with slams my lips back shut.

  “Alex, I need a doctor,” he says into his phone. “What? No, I just got stabbed in one of my balls with a pin.”

  He glares at me again, and I shrink in on myself.

  “Yes, I’m being serious. The seamstress in wardrobe. It’s not funny, you prick. Yeah, I’m still in wardrobe. Bring the doctor here. And, Alex, it goes without saying…discreet. Yeah. See you soon.” He hangs up his cell.

  He was calling for a doctor, not having me fired. Thank you, God.

  “Thank you. I thought you were calling to have me fired.”

  Another glare. This one, a narrow-eyed glare. “The day is still young.”

  Shit.

  I watch as he walks over to a chair. He lets out a pained sound as he sits down.

  My natural instinct is to help him, but I know he doesn’t want me anywhere near him, so I stay put.

  And then I’m just standing there, like a spare part.

  “Do you want me to get you an ice pack while you wait for the doctor?”

  “Why? So you can freeze my balls off, seeing as though your first attempt at maiming me didn’t work?”

  I bite my tongue.

  Asshole. I know I hurt him, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.

  “No.” My voice is tight. “To help numb the pain.”

  “Fine,” he grumbles, not looking at me.

  I head over to the small refrigerator that I spotted earlier, hoping it has a freezer compartment in it. And, thankfully, it does.

  I grab a clean dish towel, put some ice inside, and fold it up.

  I take it back to Vaughn. He’s quiet, his head tipped back, eyes closed.

  “Here,” I say softly.

  He opens his eyes, his angry stare back on me.

  Ignoring his anger, I hand the ice pack to him.

  He rests it over his injured part, a soft moan escaping his lips.

  I wonder if that’s what he sounds like when he’s—

  Jesus, Charly.

  “Better?” I ask, clearing my perverted thoughts away.

  “Better would be not being stabbed in the ball sack by some crazy twerking chick who clearly can’t do her job properly.”

  “Hey now! It wasn’t entirely my fault. You did jerk your hips forward—”

  “Because you groped my cock!”

  “I didn’t grope your cock!” I splutter indignantly. “I accidentally brushed it with my knuckles as I was taking in the fabric! And, anyway, if you hadn’t had a boner, then I probably wouldn’t have even touched it—by accident!”

  “I didn’t have a boner!” he scoffs. “You’re not my type, seamstress.”

  What. A. Dick.

  “I’m not a seamstress!” I yell. “I’m a wardrobe assistant.” Who’s currently yelling at the man who can have her fired with a snap of his fingers.

  God, this is so not how I expected my first meeting with Vaughn West to go.

  For starters, I have to stop yelling. I need to be the bigger person here. After all, I did just hurt him in the worst place possible for a man.

  “Look, Mr. West”—I take a step toward him, softening my tone—“I really am sorry. For stabbing you…there. It honestly was an accident. I would never do that intentionally. And I’m sorry for yelling just now. I was out of line.”

  “Yeah, you were,” he grunts.

  Then, nothing. He doesn’t apologize for yelling at me.

  Jerkface.

  “Are you just gonna stand there, staring at me all day?” he rasps out.

  “I’m sorry.” I step back, surprised.

  “Look, do me a favor, wardrobe assistant, and leave me in fucking peace while I wait for the doctor to arrive.”

  Wow. Okay then.

  Asshole.

  Without another word, I grab my bag and walk out of there.

  It’s not until I’m halfway across the studio lot that I realize he never said anything about not having me fired.

  Shit.

  Vaughn

  I’m resting up on the sofa in the hotel, watching sports on TV, when there’s a knock at the door.

  On a sigh, I get up, and cupping my balls with my hand, I amble over to the door.

  I’m still taking it steady. This is precious cargo we’re talking about here.

  Not long after Ball-Sack-Stabbing Chick left, Alex turned up with the doctor.

  The doctor checked me over and told me there was no serious damage, just a small puncture wound. It didn’t penetrate the sack, meaning my boys are still intact. Thank fuck. I had feared at one point that I was going to be leaking cum out of the wrong hole.

  The doctor just said to take it easy for the rest of the day, so Alex drove me back to the hotel. Then, he left to run some errands.

  God, that seamstress—wardrobe assistant, whatever the hell she is, I can’t believe she stabbed me in the balls.

  When I first walked in on her twerking her ass off, I thought she was funny. Cute.

  Okay, she’s hot.

  And, when she was on her knees at my feet…yeah, there was a lot going through my mind at that moment—right before she stabbed me in the balls, that is.

  She might be hot, but she’s a danger to cocks everywhere.

  Reaching the door, I check the peephole. Never can be too careful. I might go under a pseudo name in hotels, but the fans always seem to have a way of finding me.

  Nope, not a stalker fan. Her. Ball-Sack-Stabbing Chick.

  I swing the door open. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “Oh. Hi. I spoke to your PA, Alex. He told me where to find you.”

  Alex is so fired.

  “What do you want?” I frown.

  “To…um…” She shifts nervously, biting her lip. Her lips are glossy and painted red. She’s dressed in a different outfit from earlier as well.

  It’s surprising that I remember what she was wearing earlier. But I do. I remember because I liked the way her tits looked in the top she was wearing.

  Now, she’s got on one of those jumpsuits that women seem to like wearing nowadays. It’s short, showing off a gorgeous pair of long legs. She has heeled sandals on her feet. I notice her toenails are painted red, like her lips. Lifting my eyes, I see the necklace she’s wearing has fallen into her cleavage.

  I instantly have dirty thoughts about putting something else between her cleavage.

  My dick pokes his head up.

  Whoa. Down, boy. Crazy lady who tried to take one of your boys out, remember?

  “Well? I haven’t got all day.” I’m being an ass, which isn’t like me. But then again, I’ve never been stabbed in the junk by a chick before.

/>   Anger flashes in her eyes, but it’s quickly gone, and I’m oddly disappointed.

  I kind of liked arguing with her earlier even if I was in pain. Arguing with her felt like foreplay.

  “Can I come in?” she asks, her voice a little more pronounced than before.

  I sigh and then stand aside, letting her in.

  As she passes me, I get a whiff of raspberries and vanilla. It makes my head spin.

  I shut the door and follow her into the living area.

  “Nice place,” she says, her eyes taking in the space.

  “It’s okay, I guess. So, what can I do for you?” I ask, folding my arms, leaning my ass against the back of the sofa.

  She presses her hands together in front of her. “I came to apologize again, Mr. West. And, also, to thank you for not having me fired. I want you to know I appreciate it. Really, I do. And I shouldn’t have yelled at you; I was totally out of line. And what happened earlier”—she nods south, at my junk—“has never happened before. I swear, I’m a total professional, and I really am good at my job.”

  “Opinions vary.”

  She sucks in a breath, anger flashing through her eyes. Then, she blows out a calming breath.

  A sick part of me is enjoying this. Watching her squirm.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like someone stabbed me in one of my balls with a pin.”

  She grimaces. “I honestly don’t know what happened.”

  “I do. You weren’t paying attention to what you were doing.”

  Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Very slowly, she closes her mouth.

  “I brought you something.” She reaches into her oversized bag and pulls out a parcel wrapped in brown paper along with an envelope.

  She hands the envelope over.

  I open it and pull out what appears to be a homemade card.

  It is a homemade card. A little old-style film camera, a clapper board, and the Hollywood sign—all made out of different fabrics—are glued to the front, and written in glittery gold pen at the top…

  “Get West Soon.” I lift my eyes and brows at her.

  “It was a play on well and your name, West. I thought it sounded cute at the time, but…yeah, it’s pretty lame…” She trails off, looking at her feet.

  It’s not lame. It is actually kind of cute.

  I’m being a dick.

  “You made this?” I ask.

  Her cheeks turn pink, and she smiles. She has a great smile. It lights up her whole face.