Seasonal Job Security

Eric was cute, see. But why wasn't he leaning against the doorway like he had been for the past two weeks? Had Jenn maybe damaged him last night? She'd planned a big date, her husband working nights at some odd job, and I think she'd ditched her kid at her mom's house.

Cait was maneuvering from the back, her face beaming in that sales-bitch way that had Sophia thinking about offering her a permanent position. She slipped among the shoppers, looking like Miss Junior Executive, nodding at everyone; she'd do another three hundred or so in sales on this shift, easy. Her numbers were almost as good as mine.

But I had bigger fish to fry today, so I worked my way past the honey-vanilla universe of the cosmetics counter. Kasey looked up at me with her basset-hound eyes, and I gave her back a sympathetic nod; cosmetics was going away in the spring, forever, the corporate offices deciding that Secret Whispers' line of premium makeup products, for which legions of test animals had probably already died, was getting shitcanned because it didn't make money.

So Kasey and her absentee-landlord boss, Leah, were probably getting shitcanned too. Small loss in Leah's case, but I felt bad for Kasey. If she was lucky, she'd be on junior bra-whisperer detail until she found some other job someplace. I paused at the water fountain outside the putrid employee bathroom, then leaned against the wall to wait.

Jenn would be on her way.

She appeared in her usual cynical, gold-nametagged glory, leaning next to me. I rolled my head toward her, my French braids crunching against the wall. "So." I still kept my voice low. There were no customers back here, but nobody needed to hear this. "I take it things didn't go well last night."

She smiled wryly. "The new security guy is not quite the hunk of man-meat Eric is," she reflected.

"No," I snorted. "He is not." I frowned. "Is Eric coming back?"

Her eyes closed, making her face truly beautiful. Jenn really did have sexy eyelashes. "I took him to dinner," she shrugged at last. "Off we went to a club. Live music. Drinks. I put my hand down his pants on the dance floor and told him I liked him." She wrinkled her brow. "He had more dick than I thought he would, so I gave him a little handie there in the club. Then? Back to my place. I'd cleaned. We fucked. He came. I didn't."

I filled the waiting silence. "Did you get a chance to tell him about the panty thing?" I said this very, very carefully. I was sure the bra whisperers had their own theft ring, and I knew for damn sure that Leah was taking armloads of lipstick, but our missing panties were what had gotten Sophia to call the cops that one time. They weren't serious about solving our underwear thefts. Sophia had called them half a dozen times, but I was just as happy when nothing happened. And I wasn't the only one: if the po-po had referred the complaints to the DA's office, my sister Eve could have caught the case and solved it in the time it took to look in the mirror. Seeing that she was one of our main fences, and all.

Jenn's smile was grim. "I was about to. But then?" She chuckled without any joy. I wondered whether she'd gotten anything at all out of sex with Eric. "He told me he'd been transferred over to some other site. Some movie set, up the Shore." She let out a long breath, upward along her face, stirring her bangs.

"Fuck." I shook my head, the hair still crunching against the wall.

"Fuck," she echoed. We had twenty pair of prerelease Whispers Premium French-Cut underwear, in the rare seasonal shade of Burnt Orchid, stashed in our lockers. I'd been planning on having Eve come in and smuggle them out tomorrow, once I got confirmation that Eric would look the other way; it couldn't possibly be good, a District Attorney getting busted shoplifting high-end frilly underthings. "Back to square one. And I'd fucking cleaned, too."

I smirked. "We could always fuck the new guy. Dave?"

She laughed. "Back to work, Chelsea. We didn't make you Assistant Lead Panty Whisperer so that you could chill back here with me." Those gorgeous lashes opened once more, and the two of us just shook our heads. Fuck. Twenty pairs. My mind reeled at the profit.

Fucking Eric.

* * *

I bit my lip a couple days later when that big sexy weatherbitch Pamela Giardina came on the Channel 13 afternoon news, talking about cold fronts and holiday forecasts and the phase of the fucking moon, but I'd just gotten off work and I was not in the mood to think. So I slumped on my couch with my mouth open and my fingers on my left nipple, teasing myself, fumbling one-handed at my zipper, and why? Because fucking Pamela was wearing That Dress again, the blue one that took those big jolly tits of hers and thrust them toward the camera in virtual 3-D, like I could unfurl my tongue and lick them through the screen.

And shit. She was wearing boots, too.

My thumb was already moving even as I reached for my phone, sliding through the Contacts screens, looking for my bitch. "Hey! Fathi!" I grunted once she picked up. "Get the fuck over here."

She was silent for a few seconds, probably looking at the clock. She was working tonight, but I didn't give a shit. "That weather lady again?" she asked, deep and husky, her accent stabbing straight at my pussy. I could hear the rasp in my throat as I replied.

"Come here. Now." I got my tight pants over my ass, noting with professional interest that the panties had stayed put despite the drag on the fabric. Such a joy, to sell a really good product! "I need you."

"Good." I was glad she was free. I knew Fathia was fucking some other girl behind the scenes, someone from her work, and I didn't really mind as long as she remembered who stole underwear for her. "I like it when you need me." She hung up, and by the time she'd made her way across town about twenty minutes later I was already in bed, stark naked, with my legs spread high and my cunt pointing at her like a fucking grenade launcher. "My my," she mused, smiling at me; her straight white teeth were a neon sign in the gloomy bedroom. My windowshades hadn't been opened in years. "What's this? A sexy fucking beetch?"

Goddamn, that accent. I'd dated a Mexican guy once, and it had been the same with him: an instant waterfall in my crotch the moment he opened his mouth. Fathia was the same. She spoke her English with a French accent, but just a slight one. I knew she would see the glimmer under my bald mound . "You see a hole for your tongue, slut," I spat at her, my hand flicking lightly at my clit. My other hand was twisting my nipple hard, my mind reeling at the delicious pain.

"I see more than that," she tutted, sliding out of her tracksuit bottoms. "I see my dirty little Chelsea waiting for me." No bra, I noticed vaguely, her huge tits swinging free behind a peach-colored shirt, but I knew that would be on the floor by the time she reached the bed. We always fucked naked, she and I; we liked the feel of skin on skin. "I see my sharmuta already playing with her titties. Getting them ready for my mouth." Her shirt pulled those glorious tits up her chest as she swept it off, then they were bouncing free with her big dark nipples glaring at me.

My mouth went dry; I needed all my moisture for my flowing pussy. My God, she was fine! I always had a hard time believing a woman as hot and randy as Fathi was slumming with a chick like me, but who cared? I licked my lips when she bent at the waist to drop her panties (Secret Whispers, of course, stolen for her this past summer), then slunk toward me with her thick bush already pearl-strung with her juices.

She stopped at the edge of my bed and reached boldly out to slap my hand away from my chest. "Fuck that shit," she snarled, her knee bending onto my mattress, and then the bed was sagging as she settled onto it. It came out as fuqdatcheet, a string of syllables she often used. "Those titties are mine now."

"Oh my god." She swung one dusky leg across my chest, both of us sighing when our skin touched; we lived for that shit. I felt her strong, confident fingers digging into my breast, bringing it out in front of her thigh, and then she was moving on top of me. "My god!"

"I'm working tonight." She spat in my face. "Fuck you for making me come over here to make you cum, Chelsea." I wailed as she pulled hard on my nipple, feeling like she was going to lift me off the sheets, then my eyes went blurry with the tears when she twisted it. "I'll punish you for that."

"Nghh." In the background the news droned on from the other room; no doubt Pamela was coming back on soon. I wondered whether she was in the studio bathroom getting reamed by an unshaven cameraman. She looked like the kind of kinky bitch that liked it up the ass. "Fuck you," I managed weakly. She'd made a good shot; I felt her saliva on my eyelid.

"Please do." She dragged my tit to her soaked cunt, rubbing my inflamed nipple against the hood of her clit, my body writhing with the tickly feeling of her hair on my sensitive flesh. "With your strap-on, Chelsea."

"Fuck." I tended to get monosyllabic when I was turned on, and now I certainly was: dimly I watched as she fucked my chest, masturbating herself on my fat nipple, her thickly curved hips rolling.

"Like that?" She smiled cruelly as her other arm snaked behind her, finger-walking down my body toward where my hand was still clamped firmly over my slit. "You like that, beetch?" Her pussy was smearing its slippery muck all over my boob; already, my room stank like a whorehouse. We loved this about each other, Fathi and I: no time wasted, no awkward foreplay, just straight to the main event. "I'm going to orgasm all over your little American-girl tit, Chelsea." She spat again; she liked that, and suddenly I had a handful of her fleshy ass, pushing, shoving her hard to the side of the bed. "Fuck!" she yelled hoarsely, her fingers digging at her snatch, but I was already on my knees at the bedside table.

I was careful not to let my men see my strap-ons; they could be sensitive about that kind of stuff, but Fathia wasn't. Not hardly. The one I selected was thick, barbaric, the kind of thing you'd find on low-end revenge porn... or dangling between the thighs of a shirtless black man on a sunny day on Shore Drive, sauntering along. Just minding his business and making me cream my panties.

When I stood over her, buckling myself in, she narrowed her dark-coffee eyes at my choice. "You're going to wreck me for my other bitches," she grated, low and fierce, but she didn't seem to mind; her legs were spread as wide as she could get them. "I'll be sore for a week."

"Yep." I cinched the straps as tight as I could get them; we both wanted it hard. The thick rubber hook on my end passed into my slit, then up along my tight lips to nestle underneath my clit; fuck. Even then, just barely in me, I was already shivering. Once I started fucking Fathia, I'd be incoherent with pleasure. Dimly I hoped the neighbors wouldn't call the manager; he already hated me. "More like two weeks though, slut. Roll the fuck over." Good lord, it had been weeks since I'd been this horny. The harness was going to leave ugly welts all over my hips and crotch, but I didn't care.

Fathia glared up at me sexily, her fingers dragging through the pool I'd caused in her slit, and waited long enough to let me know she was being insolent before, finally, she flipped over. "Ass up!" I barked, and she slithered into position, her arms spread out like a crucifix as that big luscious rump rose like the Sun. I swear I nearly came right then, the power running through me, the ludicrously long thick dildo trembling in front of my mound.

I thought about the lube in my side table, but Fathia's inner thighs were a solid glossy sheet like my left tit. So I didn't bother; this woman needed me to plug her. I hopped onto the bed, the hooked end of the strap-on keeping its constant pressure on my clit, forcing passionate waves pulsing through me in frazzled red starbursts, and I don't even remember lining up behind my waiting slut. There was nothing more to say, which was good: my throat was far too dry to produce anything but a growl as I stared down my heaving body at the rubber dick, so incongruous and yet so perfect in its brutal simplicity.

And that gorgeous pink cunt, weeping, gaping ready for my thrust. Fuck. I longed to lean in and give her a deep, tasty lick, but that wasn't what today was for, and I adjusted my hips and grinned Joker-wide as I aimed into her snatch.

She took me as though she was sucking me in, her lips parting eagerly, the hiss of breath drawing in past her gritted teeth a sharp eager music in my ears. The thick black head popped into her, her back arching deeply as I pushed, watching mesmerized as the inches disappeared into Fathia's needy hole. This dildo lacked balls, but neither of us seemed to care as our twin gasps rose in pitch until, at last, my thighs met hers. "Fuck," I marveled, barely able to express it, for this was new: I'd never seen this particular strap-on slide so easily into my woman.

She was already twisting her head around, snarling, the spit shining on her lips. "Is that it?" she trilled, her black eyes challenging me. "Is that the whole thing, Chelsea?" So I wound up, my arm far far back like a softball pitcher, and walloped her dusky ass as hard as I could, the smack resounding through the little apartment like a pistol shot, and then my clit throbbed hard as I ground my body into hers, bearing her down into the mattress before I tore my hips back and drove in again, fierce, uncaring.

I needed to thrash her inside and out, so I didn't hold back even when I heard her choke on her own shrieks. "Bitch," I grated, my hand throbbing in time with my prints on her butt cheek, my hips rocketing the full length of that savage rubber cock into her slick pussy, not even aware of Fathia's struggles as she coughed her way into a harshly ripping climax.

She slumped hard onto the mattress as her legs gave out, and I couldn't have cared less; my thighs were a steel vise alongside hers, trapping her legs under my dripping pussy, then working the thick dildo down into the space at the top of her thighs. I ground remorselessly down, one hand squeezing her ass while the other reached around her twitchy body to grasp a big warm breast, the nipple harsh in my palm. I think I was screaming as I sawed into her, Fathia lying under me as if passed out, the sound of someone pounding on my door a grim counterpoint to my body pounding hers on the mattress.

"Bitch." But it came out that last time as a gasp, exhausted, my thighs screeching, my tears falling onto her spine as I churned into my own ragged, broken-glass orgasm. One last, half-hearted grip on her tit, then another thrust, my whole body shaking, before I collapsed onto her broad back with my breath gusting and her thick hair filling my nose.

Dimly, under the noise of the manager bellowing from my welcome mat, I heard the buzz of the TV. The news. "This is meteorologist Pam Giardina, reporting live with your Doppler WeatherAlert Thirteen on Thirteen forecast! Hope to see you again next hour!"

Next hour? Fat chance, I thought, drained and trembling, the rubber dong still half-buried in Fathia. After a cum like that?

I'd be lucky if I was ready to go again in a week.

* * *

We were balls-deep in the holidays at work a week later, all hands on deck; Sophia had even called in that useless twat Paula from last summer, reasoning that a warm body in Lingerie was a warm body in Lingerie, no matter how poorly she sold. Hell, even Leah was manning her little cosmetics dungeon, and the store had all the business it could handle. I was looking deadly in a satin dress, the sleek fabric clinging to my body, though the dry-cleaning receipt would be painful.

So it wasn't really very good timing for me to take my break and go sound out Dave, but those twenty stolen Premium French-Cuts had grown to twenty-five, skimmed neatly from the latest shipment, and we absolutely had to get them out; they'd sell for a wicked premium in Burnt Orchid before Christmas, but afterward we'd be taking a bath on them.

The whole world wanted our Burnt Orchid. We'd stolen an opportune package of boyshorts, too, and we badly needed to get them fenced.

So Jenn had decreed it was time for Dave to come into the picture, and it was my turn: Sophia, Stupid Abigail, and Airhead Linda had all confirmed, at one time or another, that Eric wasn't coming back, meaning Jenn's vaginal duties had gone wasted, and so had her housecleaning. She was philosophical about it, but she was in no shape to go after Dave. And our subordinate panty whisperer, Steph Stabenow, wasn't experienced enough yet to make the try with something this subtle.

That left me.

"Hi David," I called, fishing-lure buoyant, catching his eye from the side as I headed out; a week had softened him enough to give me an infinitesimal nod, at least, though no smile. "How's it hanging?" Instinct told me the best approach to Dave would be the bubbly, bouncy one: he was wearing a wedding ring, and no man like him was married to anything but a sour, dry-pussy bitch. So I went the opposite way, which suited my personality anyway.

Not that I was going to fuck him, obviously. But still.

He glanced over, then scowled. But only slightly. "Chelsea." He'd learned my name, at least, not even glancing at my nametag. I thought about winking, but no; too much.

"I'm on break, going to Ahab's." It was a local chain of coffee places, optimistically named for the guy who was Starbuck's boss. I didn't care; the coffee was damn good. "Can I treat you to a caffeinated beverage, David?" I'd decided to use his whole name, with a careful edge of mockery, just so he'd remember me. "I'd like to."

He frowned, glancing back into the store. There was not a single moment I'd seen him anything but disgusted to be guarding a womens' underwear store. Finally, his eyes listlessly watching as poor Megan T tried and failed to keep the peace among the bra drawers, he sighed and nodded.

"I'm guessing black. No cream, no sugar." I chuckled; Dave was not a guy who'd respond to a giggle. "Strong. Bitter. Like your soul, huh?"

When he looked back, for the first time, he was doing something other than scowling. It wasn't a smile, not even close. But it was a start, and it was worth it even if his plain coffee would probably cost me fifteen minutes' pay. Every retailer in The Gallery charged about forty percent more than they should. "Please."

"Great!" I flashed one of my favorite smiles, the kind that said I was in a hurry, but I was genuinely pleased to be with you. "I won't even let them give you any extra-dark roast. Just good ol' republican 1995-era coffee." I sauntered off, then got a surge of inspiration; I hated wearing my nametag outside work, so I slipped it carefully off my sleeveless silk blouse and reached inside for the magnetic back. "Hold this until I get back, David?" I did wink just a quick one. "Thanks!"

I was buying him a coffee, so there was no possible way he could say no and he resented that. So his pout started inching back as he held his hand out, the tag dropping into his big palm, but by then I was already skipping out into the mall, launching myself into the passing crowds like a bunch of Alaskans throwing their boat into the local river.

I'd baited the hook. I thought; I had no real idea what I was doing, after all. Every other year, the rent-a-cop had been a clueless young frat boy from the University, working for beer money and proximity to women and lingerie. Dave was different. He seemed perceptive enough, for example, to bust my sister with a bagful of panties she hadn't paid for, and also thorough enough to not give a shit that she was a fucking assistant district attorney.