Overtime

Overtime

I hated working late.

The clock above the door was stuck at 8:55. It had to be. I'd checked it three times in the last ten minutes and it hadn't moved. The thirty-pound roll of paper slid from my shoulder to the floor with a thump next to the large format printer. Maybe by the time I finished this chore the clock would take care of itself.

It was my third double shift of the week and I was beat. We had been running extended hours since March. When COVID shut everyone else down we kept rolling right along, because when it absolutely positively has to be there overnight...well...you get the picture. Anyway, it was now July. It was hot, it was humid, and I just wanted to get home.

Rolling the drawer shut I looked up and miracle of miracles, it was 9:00. With a sigh of relief, I yanked my mask down under my chin and trudged over to the door, flipping the deadbolt shut and keying off all but the night lights, signaling the end of this interminable day. I slumped a shoulder against the window mullion, rubbing my eyes. Something popped next to my ear. I rolled my head to the side. Splotches appeared on the glass next to me. Water. Raindrops. Then, the sky opened up.

Sheets of rain washed over everything, scouring the windows and flooding the parking lot. Through the deluge I could just make out the outline of my car parked beneath the lamppost; the windows cracked for ventilation. "Of course," I muttered, shaking my head. It was going to be a soggy drive home.

I scooped up the plastic wrapper I had left on the printer and headed back to the counter. I only made it a few steps before being startled by a sharp knock at the window. I turned. Lightning lit the sky like midday, silhouetting a figure huddled beneath the overhang peering through the glass.

"We're closed," I said, louder than I'd intended. The figure knocked again, more insistent this time, followed by speech I couldn't decipher. I tossed the plastic at the counter and headed back toward the door. As I approached, I could make out the distressed figure of a woman, absolutely drenched, a canvas messenger bag slung over her shoulder, disposable mask covering her nose and mouth.

"We're closed," I repeated, reaching the storefront. She started to speak but was cut off by a clap of thunder directly overhead. She rapped on the glass again, pointing to the door. Reluctantly I pulled my mask back up, spun the deadbolt back and pushed the door open just wide enough to poke my head out. The sweltering heat smacked me in the face, making me instantly grateful for the office air conditioning.

"We're closed," I said, pointing to the window sticker listing the store hours. She pinched her mask by the corner and pulled it down to talk. One of the ear loops separated from the fabric and the mask fell from her face into a stream on the sidewalk. She cursed under her breath, looked up at me.

"I know I'm late," she replied, "I'm sorry. But I really need your help. There's nowhere else I can go tonight. Please, it won't take long."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but we close at nine. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

She reached out and planted a hand on the door just above mine. She cocked her head to the side, distraught, looking me dead in the eyes.

"Please," she said, "I need to get these motion records printed. My boss has a conference with the judge tomorrow and it's her first case since the courts reopened and if I don't have these ready before the meeting she will fire me."

She was pleading now, her voice starting to waver. I tried again. "We open at 8:00 tomorrow morning," I offered. "Rick will be happy to help you then."

She shook her head. "The meeting is at 8:30, there's no way I could finish and get them to her on time. I was working on them this afternoon and my kid fell off his bike and I had to take him to urgent care and wait there for three hours before they treated him and then find him and his sister something to eat and take them to my aunt's house so she could watch them while I tried to take care of this and then my printer stopped working and I tried to get here before you closed and I just ran out of time."

Water trickled down her forehead into her eyes. She wiped it away, fingers trembling. "I'll pay you double," she offered, "whatever it takes. Please. I can't lose my job."

I sighed, exhausted. She seemed like a nice lady. I had no idea what a motion record was, but it sounded important. And this would be a shitty time to lose a job. Slowly I swung the door open and stepped back to let her through. She ducked inside and I locked the door behind her.

"Thank you so much," she gushed, shaking the water off over the doormat, "you are a life-saver."

I smiled half-heartedly. Realizing she couldn't see it I gave a nod. "So, what are we looking at?"

She dried her hands on the sides of her jacket, then slipped the bag off her shoulder and raised the flap, careful not to spill any water inside. I looked her over while she rummaged around.

She was professionally dressed -- black heels, patterned grey skirt and suit jacket over a light blue collared shirt, the top two buttons open. She filled them all out; thick in the hips and thighs, soft and round up top. Her curly brown hair was twisted up in the back with a tortoise shell jaw clip, dark eyeliner accenting bright green eyes. I thought I detected a slight accent -- South, maybe Central American? A pretty woman in her mid-thirties. A welcome site at the end of a miserable day.

She retrieved three small stacks of paper, each secured with binder clips, offering them to me as she explained. "I need four copies of each, all in color and GBC bound." I must have narrowed my eyes, for she winced, uncomfortable with my reaction. "I know that's probably more work than you were expecting, I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's cool," I replied, "the machines do all the work." She smiled, seemingly relieved. "Come on," I waved, "color copier is over here."

She followed me further into the store, to a gray copy machine next to a small table. I set the papers down and began keying instructions into the touch screen.

"My name is Jasmin by the way," she said, a slight inflection at the end of her sentence.

"Nice to meet you Jasmin," I replied glancing up, "I'm Derek."

"Well thank you again, Derek, I really appreciate it." She smiled shyly. "I'm sure you have better things to be doing tonight."

I chuckled a little, stacking the first set of sheets in the document feeder. "Wish I could say I did."

She seemed surprised by my response. "Really?" she queried, lowering her eyes as she spoke. "Good-looking guy like yourself?"

I laughed this time, suddenly self-conscious. "Ah, well. Haven't really been anywhere since COVID so...not much going on on that front."

The copier whirred into action, scanning and spitting out sheets. Jasmin set off wandering about the store. I bound the first sets of documents while the second sets copied and repeated the action with the third. Now and then I would glance over my shoulder, her silky-smooth calves or the brave, strained buttons of her jacket catching my attention. Desperate as I was to leave, it sure was nice to have company.

She made it round to the customer service desk as I finished binding the final set. Scooping up the bundles I walked them over and set them on the tall counter next to her. "You're all set," I announced, stepping behind to the register. She looked at the stack of reports, seeming genuinely happy.

"You are amazing," she gushed. "How much do I owe you?"

I did the math aloud while entering the details into the computer. "Two sets at $22.50 and the legal-size at $28.50, plus tax...$78.65." A few moments later the register display confirmed my calculation. She smiled.

"Well I promised to double it," she recalled, dipping into the messenger bag again, "so what's that, about $160?"

I shook my head. "Nah, just $78.65."

"No really," she insisted, thrusting a credit card toward me, "I'm good with it. You didn't have to stay open for me, it's totally worth it."

I smiled, making sure it reached my eyes this time. I inserted the card into the reader. "$78.65," I repeated. "That's all."

She relented, signing the receipt with a little flourish when I slid it across the counter. Stuffing it into the drawer a roll of thunder perked me up. I peeped around her at the rain still pummeling the windows. "Give me a minute," I said, pointing toward the back. "I think I have something to wrap those in so they won't get wet."

I returned her credit card and moved the stock room. In the far corner was a box of heavy-duty plastic sleeves we sometimes used to cover lightweight cardboard boxes. But reaching in I found it empty. I looked around for something else. Bubble wrap seemed cumbersome. All the boxes were too big. I finally settled on some Tyvek envelopes and returned to the sales floor with a handful.

When I emerged, Jasmin seemed different. Nervous maybe. Fidgeting, shifting her weight and staring at the floor. She looked up as I approached, smiling. I nodded, holding up the envelopes.

"These should work," I announced, setting them next to the papers. I slipped the first set into one, peeled off the protective film and sealed the flap shut, explaining how to open them when she needed to as I worked. She turned the package over in her hands, inspecting it as I finished packing the remaining two.

"Listen," she said quietly, "I know you said not to bother, but I really think you deserve a tip for this. You didn't have to stay open for me and I know you didn't want to, but you did it anyway and because of you I won't get fired tomorrow. I think that's worth a little extra."

I sighed, feeling like a complete asshole. I stepped out from behind the counter, shaking my head.

"That's very kind of you," I replied, "but really, it's not necessary. It was only 15 minutes. Not like you got here at 10:00 or something." She chuckled, sweeping hair out of her face. "Besides, we're not allowed to accept tips. It's against company policy. I don't want to lose my job either."

She nodded. Then hesitated. Then stepped in front of me, her body mere inches from mine. "What if," she said softly, "we weren't talking about money?"

My eyes narrowed, not understanding the question. A hand pressed against my crotch, palm curving around the outline of my penis, fingers curling beneath my balls. Her meaning was suddenly clear.

"Umm..." I stammered, tensing up but not pulling away. "I'm not sure if the policy is that specific." She bumped her breasts against me, pushing me back against the counter. I gripped the edge to steady myself.

"Derek," she whispered, pulling the clip from her hair, the damp curls falling over her shoulders leaving splotches on her jacket. Her hand returned to my crotch, the fingers of the other plucking playfully at her buttons. She gave my cock a gentle squeeze, a sigh escaping her chest. "It's been six months since I've held one in my hand. How long since you've had this between someone's lips?"

I tried to respond. But the five months of virtual lockdown hardened my dick in her grip before the words could travel from my brain to my mouth. The top button of her jacket popped open, ample cleavage protruding through the gap in her blouse. She glanced down, then up into my eyes wide as dinner plates. The corners of her mouth curled up. "Would it help if I just...."

She plucked apart the second button on the jacket, then the vital button on her shirt. A black lace bra appeared in the space. She reached in between the cups and pinched the clasp in the center. The bra broke open and her breasts spilled out full and heavy, dark nipples protruding from large areolas. She pinched one between her fingers. A grunt crawled out of my throat. "Well," I stammered, "I guess...if we're not talking about money...."

She eased up the length of my shaft, grasping the button of my pants and pushing it through the loop. She leaned into me, lowering my zipper as she raised her lips to my ear. "Maybe," she whispered, "we shouldn't talk at all."

She reached into my underwear, wrapping her cool supple fingers around my simmering cock. It flexed in her fist, the head bulging, a dollop of pre-cum oozing out and trickling over her wrist. My head fell back, eyes staring at the ceiling. A woman's touch. After so long. I thrust against her, pinning her hand between us, holding her still.

Lowering my head, I froze. Over her shoulder I caught the silhouette of someone running past the window out toward their car. She must have felt me stiffen, as she looked up, then in the direction of my eyes. She released my penis, started to pull away. But I clutched her arms and held her. She looked up at me. I jerked my head, toward the stockroom. She leaned past, then smiled.

I led her through the hinged door around behind the counter, heading for the confines of the stockroom. But after only a few paces she stopped short, gripping my wrist. She turned me around and gave me a gentle shove, sending me against into the edge of the counter. She took hold of the rolling office chair parked nearby and wheeled it to a stop directly in front of me.

Slipping into the narrow space between she shrugged her jacket from her shoulders and hung it over the back of the chair. I reached for her tits, pausing as I neared, not wanting to make assumptions. She covered my hand with hers and pressed it into her flesh. I cupped first one, then the other, squeezing them in my fingers, the spongy tissue overflowing my grip.

She drew several deep breaths, her chest heaving, eyes narrow. She reached her hands into my pockets and pulled my pants down to my knees. The cool conditioned air raised the hair on my legs, the dark blotch of pre-cum soaking through the fabric of my boxer briefs visible under the night lights. She spotted it, her eyes bright. As I released her breasts, she hiked her skirt above mid-thigh and set herself down on the edge of seat.

There was an urgency in her face, matched by the clutching of her fingers at the waistband of my underwear. She hooked in and yanked hard, snapping them back just under my balls. My cock sprang out, bobbing wildly in front of her nose. She parted her legs and scooted the chair forward, a pair of bright red panties now visible between her stout tan thighs.

She took hold of my dick at the base, half of it protruding through the thumb end of her fist. She stared, quiet, the heat warming her fingers. She looked up at me, her face dripping with lust. Without a word, she parted her lips, leaned forward at the waist, and closed her mouth around the head of my cock.

I shivered like a naked man in a blizzard, every nerve ending in my groin firing at once. I could feel every ripple of her lips around my shaft, every nub of her tongue against the underside of the glans. She took me in a little further, measuring herself, until she was deep enough to kiss her fist. Then eased herself away, extricating me completely, several strings of saliva trickling down and clinging to my balls.

"I like your cock," she breathed, adjusting her grip.

I smiled beneath the mask, heart thumping in my chest. "I like your lips," I replied. She looked up, dragged her tongue between them and returned to work.

She took it slow at first, bobbing gently with a light pressure, gliding over the skin. After several short strokes she dipped deeper, my cockhead bumping the soft palate at the roof of her mouth. She tensed up and pulled off, coughing a couple times before swallowing hard. "Sorry," she giggled, "it's been a while."

When she sucked me in this time she did so with purpose. Her strokes were deliberate, lips sealed, gliding smoothly. She varied her pace, twisted her wrist, now and then bumping my cock on the back of her throat. I raked my fingers through her hair, gathering it in a twist above her head. I watched, mesmerized by her motion, fluid and sensual. It seemed like second nature to her. As natural as speaking or breathing.

My hands settled gently on each side of her head, curls tangled in my fingers. She groaned, lifting her eyes, watching the ticks and contortions of my face. She plunged me in, holding me down, swirling her tongue around my straining member.

Not wanting this experience to end I tried everything I could to delay the inevitable. I counted the dimples in the ceiling tile, the boxes on the adjacent shelf. I Imagined cold showers and baseball and public radio -- anything less sensual than the steamy heat of her mouth and velvet touch of her lips on my dick. Nothing worked. We were screaming toward a climax, a racecar with no brakes.

My hips bucked toward her face, craving relief from the pressure building in my balls. She removed her hand, bobbing the full length of my cock, the tip of her nose bumping my abdomen every few strokes. My fingers pressed against her scalp, fighting the urge to take control, needing her to continue working her magic.

She rolled her palm over my balls several times before digging those fingers into my buttocks to use as leverage. The other hand she shoved between her legs, shifting her ass in the chair. The squelch of her fingers probing her pussy was audible over the rain battering the roof above. My breath came short and shallow; her moans drawn and deep. It wouldn't be long now.

Her knees trembled against my legs, drumming a rhythm to the bobbing of her head. I thrust my cock into her mouth, the swirl of her tongue pulling me to the edge. She groaned against my balls, vibrating my core, the heavy scent of her sex launching me into ecstasy. My muscles ceased, vision dimmed, and 20 weeks of white-hot celibacy erupted from my cock.

The first stream flooded her mouth, puffing her cheeks and stalling her lips at the root of my dick. The second burst slid straight down her throat. After that, I lost count.

I don't know how long it took to recover my composure. At some point the room brightened, my heart rate slowed, and my hands relaxed enough to disentangle my fingers from her hair. I looked down as she looked up, strands of cum clinging to her lips and chin, semen pooled on her breasts. She smiled, coy.

"Let me get you something to clean that up with," I said, my legs still unsteady.

She shook her head. "I got it." Curling her fingers, she scooped the glob of cum from her cleavage and slurped it into her mouth. My cock flexed in approval. I watched her collect the rest and savor it before tucking myself back into my underwear.

She eased the chair back and stood up, smoothing her skirt and wiping her hands in the same motions. Without bothering to reassemble her bra, she shrugged her jacket on over her shoulders and closed only enough buttons to cover her tits. Raking her hair out of her face she tossed it back over her shoulders and gave it a quick shake. She smiled.

"I feel much better about everything now," she said. "How about you?"

I paused, not wanting to say something stupid. "I...feel great," I replied, failing miserably.

"Well, once again," she continued, making her way back around the counter, "thank you so much for staying open. You saved my job and I can't thank you enough."

I nodded. "My pleasure," I said, immediately pinching myself below the counter. She seemed not to notice.

She glanced over her shoulder at the window. The rain had slowed to a heavy drizzle, and the cars in the parking lot were visible again. She slipped her packages into the messenger bag and folded the flap shut, hoisting the strap over her shoulder. As she did so, something on the counter caught her attention. She looked up at me.

"Derek, right?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied. She plucked a business card from one of the plastic cradles next to the register and tucked it between her lapel and her breast.