Geek Girl Cleans Up

She'd been coming into the bookstore I managed for a long time, always heading directly to the Sci-Fi/Fantasy section. She looked like a typical fantasy-freak—someone who spoke fluent Elvish and could quote chapter and verse from every Star Trek/Star Wars script and Harry Potter book ever written. She wore glasses, brown hair in braids on either side of her head; a black tank-top, baggy jeans and Doc Martens. If you looked more closely you might notice the full breasts under the tank-top and wonder if the rest of her figure was as nice beneath the jeans, but chances are you wouldn't because she always had her face buried in a book.

I wouldn't have noticed her myself except that I suspected that she often left the store with more books than she was paying for.

And today I was sure of it. She always waited until closing time to pay for her purchases. And sometimes from my raised position behind the counter, out of the corner of my eye I'd seen her duck behind one of the free-standing shelves with a stack of books while I'd been ringing up the last-minute rush of customers. It was usually just for a moment but often it seemed that when she emerged she was carrying fewer books than before. Today, without appearing to, I'd kept tabs on how many books she was carrying at any given moment, and sure enough when she did her disappearing act she reappeared without the new hard-cover William Shatner Trek adventure she'd been carrying.

She was the last one in line, as she often was. I waited until all the other customers had paid for their purchases, and when she had placed a couple of cheap paperbacks on the counter and had her purse open, I held up one finger and said, "I'll be right back."

Then I quickly stepped over to the door and locked it behind the last departing customer, and pulled down the shades for both the door and the display-window. She stared at me as I walked back towards her. Instead of stepping back up behind the register, however, I walked past and then behind her. Sure enough, outlined beneath the back of her tank-top, there was the missing book—stuck into the waistband of her jeans.

In one continuous motion I jerked up the back of her shirt and plucked the book from her waistband. And when she gasped and whirled to face me I reached into her open purse and deftly removed her wallet, which I carried back behind the counter with me.

I pushed the paperbacks to one side and slapped the purloined book down on the counter. "Well, let's see," I said, unsnapping her wallet and extracting her driver's license. "You're name is Ellen Norvald, you live at 128 South High Street and you're..."—I glanced down at her date of birth—"Oh yes, I'd say more than old enough to go to jail."

Her eyes were blank behind her glasses, and she seemed frozen in place. She said nothing...not until I actually turned and picked up the phone. Then she said, "No!" but it came out as little more than a strangled squeak.

I put the phone back on the hook, turned back and rested my hands on the counter, looking down at her. "No?" was all I said.

"I...I'll pay for it, okay?' Her voice was closer to human but still seemed to tremble.

"Hmm..." I looked idly through her purse. "No credit cards..." I remembered suddenly that she had always paid cash. "...And, let's see...five, six, seven dollars." I looked at her and raised my eyebrows questioningly.

"I'll write you a check!" Her voice had gone squeaky again.

"Oh, I don't think so, Ellen—you've proved yourself so trustworthy already."

I turned back towards the phone, provoking a gasp from her, but I had already decided what I would do. I stopped as if struck by a sudden thought and turned back to her. "I'll tell you what, though—you could work off what you owe me."

"Wh-what do you mean?" she stammered through trembling lips.

"Well, there's a lot of stuff that I usually have to do here—vacuuming, dusting off the tables, general straightening up...you could do that."

"That's...that's all I'd have to do?" She seemed to relax a fraction and I saw some hope come back into her eyes.

"Yes, I think that would about do it. I'll be watching you, of course, to make sure you do a good job..." She nodded her agreement eagerly. "And..." I pointed at her for emphasis, "...you'll be naked."

...A long silence. She stared at me, eyes wide behind her glasses. I waited for her to protest, to plead with me, but instead the expression in her eyes gradually changed to a look of consideration. She seemed to be looking at me, not as the guy behind the counter, but as a person. As a man.

The faintest hint of a smile began to play around her lips.

"Okay," she said softly, and pulled her tank-top over her head.

I was taken aback, first by the suddenness of her acquiescence and then by the loveliness of her breasts as they appeared, nestled in a black brassiere, from beneath her shirt. She tossed the shirt carelessly onto the counter in front of me. Then, after a glance at the door and window to be sure the shades were fully down, the brassiere was added to the heap.

She stopped for a moment, standing with her arms at her sides and looking up at me with that same crooked little smile, as if gauging my reaction. Then she slowly bent forward, her breasts barely changing shape as she reached down to unfasten her shoes. She pulled them off, followed by her socks, leaving them on the floor in front of the counter before straightening up again.

Somehow in the middle of this the sense of control seemed to have changed hands. I suddenly felt, not as if she were doing what I had told her to do, but as if she had arranged the whole situation for her own pleasure and was enjoying making me stand there watching.

This sensation was heightened when, holding my gaze, she unsnapped and unzipped her jeans, pushed them down over her hips and let them fall to the floor, where she stepped out of them and kicked them carelessly aside.

Her panties were black as well, but with some sort of pattern that I couldn't make out from where I was standing. It looked sort of like big, silver polka-dots, but there was something odd about their shape. There was some kind of lettering as well, also indecipherable to me. She saw me staring at her panties, looked down and then quickly back up and grinned sheepishly, looking embarrassed for the first time since she'd started taking her clothes off.

She stepped up behind the counter and stood in front of me with her feet apart and her hands behind her back, giving me a closer look. It took me a moment to tear my eyes away from her breasts, now so fetchingly presented to me, but when I did look down what I'd thought were polka-dots resolved into a pattern of spaceships—specifically, the Starship Enterprise. And the lettering—some sort of futuristic font, printed in what appeared to be glow-in-the-dark yellow—formed a downward-pointing triangle just over her pubic region. It read:

"TO BOLDLY GO

WHERE NO MAN

HAS GONE

BEFORE"

Distracted as I was by everything else that was happening I had to smile at this example of first-class geekdom. She smiled back, then froze my smile in place by hooking her thumbs in the elastic of her panties and dropping them to her feet, stepping out of them, picking them up and handing them to me. She was now completely naked, but I barely noticed because she immediately reached out and began unfastening my belt. My mouth dropped open...and her panties hit the floor for the second time in under a minute.

She had that same little crooked smile, and she looked into my eyes and not at what she was doing, enjoying my stunned expression as she unzipped me and pulled my pants and underwear down around my knees. Only then did she glance down to examine the erection bobbing in front of her. After a moment she nodded to herself as if satisfied and turned to reach into her purse.

She came up with a small bottle of hand lotion. She squirted some lotion into her palm, crouched down in front of me and began applying it liberally to my cock and then my balls, her expression now focussed as if on an important task. I stood completely still, gripping the counter behind me with both hands as she worked, breathing as quietly through my mouth as I could, not wanting to do anything that would distract her.

It was a very strange experience. She was very matter-of-fact about what she was doing, not at all trying to be sensual, although the sensation couldn't help but be pleasurable to me. And the moment I was lubricated to her satisfaction she took her hand away, leaving me gasping.

I had no idea what she was up to when she reached past me and grabbed my wrist—until she pulled it forward and proceeded to gently curl my fingers around my cock. She guided my hand slowly up and down the shaft a few times then let go, glancing up at me expectantly—and in her glasses I saw reflected twin images of my cock, glistening with hand lotion and with my hand wrapped around it. When, after a moment, I realized what she wanted and began to stroke myself, she smiled at me and settled on her knees to watch.

It was only then that she began to show signs of arousal; As I watched her watching me, I saw her expression become deeply focussed; her breathing sped up and her nipples became erect. Something about watching me touch myself really seemed to get to her—which in turn really got to me.

I began treating what I was doing as a performance, stroking myself slowly and sensuously, adding small variations to the rhythm and technique, from full-length, closed-fisted strokes to delicate, fingertip tracings around the head and down the shaft in tiny circles to tickle my balls.

It was kind of like snake-charming, only she was being hypnotized by the snake. She gradually leaned closer and closer. Unconsciously she reached up and steadied herself with her hands on my hips so that she could bring her face even closer. So close, in fact, that as my hand continued up and down my knuckles were almost brushing her nose.

I knew I wasn't going to be able to hold back much longer, especially since I was being gripped by a vision of my come running down her face, smearing across her glasses. She must have sensed it as well, however, because she suddenly placed a hand over mine to stop me. Still staring at my cock she whispered, "Oh God, I love that...but please don't come yet."

She gave the tip of my cock a little kiss then stood, a little unsteadily, until she could look me in the eye, her face close to mine. "I want you to watch me...like you said...." Her voice was ragged. "...And keep doing that—" She touched her fingers lightly to mine, which were still wrapped around my shaft. "Where's the vacuum cleaner?"

I pointed her to the "Employees Only" door at the back and told her where the broom closet was. Then I stood there, feeling more than a little foolish with my pants around my knees and my cock in my hand, watching her cute behind recede from me as she padded off. She was back almost immediately, dragging the vacuum behind her with one hand and carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies with the other.

She stood in front of me for a moment, looking like a maid who had forgotten to put on her uniform.

Then she went to work.

She started with the feather-duster, dusting off all the sale tables and freestanding shelves and the magazine rack, straightening the books and magazine as she went. It really shouldn't have been all that erotic, even considering that she was naked. But the way she worked, facing me whenever possible, watching me stroke myself as I watched her, was undeniably arousing for her...which was arousing for me...which made it more arousing for her...which made it—well, you get the idea. Sometimes she would fall under the snake-spell and just stand there, hypnotized, feather-duster held in her upraised hand, watching my hand traveling slowly up and down, up and down...

But she did finally finish dusting, and plugged in the vacuum.

The vacuuming was noisy, of course—but again it was the way she did it: straddling the hose and pushing the head forward and backward across the floor in front of her so that the hose sometimes rubbed between her legs, her rhythm matching my own as she watched me watching her.

In point of fact, the vacuuming never did get done. She kept moving closer and closer to where I stood behind the counter—drawn by the snake-charm. The area she was attempting to clean got smaller and smaller and smaller...until she was standing directly in front of me, not moving, holding the vibrating vacuum hose firmly pressed against her as she stared and stared, her mouth hanging open, at the cock staring back at her.

Suddenly it was as if a switch had been flipped—and a moment later she did abruptly switch off the vacuum, saying, "Look at this display case,"—not really looking at the locked glass case beneath the counter, where the rare and out-of-print books were kept. "It's covered with fingerprints."

And with that she reached into the bucket at her feet and grabbed a rag and some glass cleaner. But instead of crouching down in front of the case to clean it she hurried behind the counter and, meeting my glance for only an instant, turned her back to me and proceeded to lean way over the case, breasts pressed against the counter, head and arms hanging over the edge, and began to clean the glass.

This left her standing on tip-toe, bent over with her legs apart, presenting me with what certainly appeared to be the next best thing to a written invitation. To be absolutely sure I ran my hands gently over her behind, letting them come to rest with a delicate grip on her hips. She said nothing, but her pretense of cleaning slowed and then stopped altogether.

Everything was completely still for a moment.

Slowly, slowly, I eased my hips forward until the tip of my now-aching cock touched between her legs and began to slide between the lips there.

I heard her cleaning supplies drop to the floor. Then she drew a long, shuddering breath...and as she let it out she raised her head, placed her hands on the edge of the counter and thrust her hips back into mine.

She was so wet that there was virtually no resistance as my cock slipped all the way into her (The hand-lotion might have helped a little but I doubt it was necessary.) She let out a sharp, "Oh!"—then after a moment slowly began easing her hips from side to side and making little "Mmm" noises, as if enjoying the feel of my cock inside her. I kept perfectly still—it was obviously the snake's turn to be charmed.

Gradually the side-to-side motions turned into a kind of figure-eight as she began moving her hips back and forth as well so that my cock began sliding in and out of her. I tightened my grip on her and joined in the snake-dance. But we were already both so over-heated from our respective versions of foreplay that the dance quickly degenerated into primitive, piston-like thrusting, and soon we were going so hard and fast that her feet were almost leaving the floor with each stroke.

It was only a matter of moment s before we both came—me with a long groan of relief and she with a scream she barely managed to muffle with one hand. I nearly collapsed onto her back and had to steady myself on the counter.

After a while we both straightened up, she turning to me as she did so—her glasses askew and half-way down her nose—before wrapping her arms around me and giving me a big kiss, pressing the full length of her body against mine. Then she straightened her glasses, smiled at me and bent to retrieve her panties from the floor.

She stepped out from behind the counter and quickly got dressed—but only from the waist down. When she had her jeans and shoes and socks back on she swept her shirt and brassiere off the counter and bunched them under her arm. Then she closed her purse and slipped it over her wrist before bending to lift the bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and grabbing the hose of the vacuum with the other. Thus burdened she said casually, "I'll just put these back and use the bathroom, okay?"

I nodded and said, "Sure," and she headed off, disappearing into the back.

While I waited for her to return I cleaned myself with tissues and got my pants back up. I thought about asking her to come home with me. Began thinking of all the things we could do there. Felt myself getting hard again.

Minutes went by and she still hadn't returned. I wondered what was taking her so long. My gaze fell to the counter in front of me and I thought, it must have been a little uncomfortable for her lying on top of her shirt and her bra and...the book! The paperbacks were still there, but the Shatner hardcover was missing. It had been on the counter, she'd tossed her clothes over it—and now it was gone! I suddenly remembered the way she'd swept everything off the counter and under her arm...

I immediately ran to the back of the store but I knew what I would find. And did: nothing. She'd gone out the back door.

At least she didn't steal the vacuum, I thought, seeing it beside the door along with the bucket of cleaning supplies. And, technically speaking, she had more or less paid for the book as we'd agreed. So even though I knew her name and more or less remembered her address I decided there was nothing to be done.

I locked up and went home, wondering if I'd ever see her again.

As it turned out, it was only a week later. I hadn't even seen her come into the store, but suddenly, at closing time as always, while I rang up the last few sales, there she was, standing next to one of the free-standing shelves and wearing what appeared to be the exact same clothes as before.

And when she saw she'd caught my eye she immediately turned her back to me and raised her shirt, revealing yet another hardcover book tucked into her jeans. Then she turned again, smiled, and ducked behind the shelves she was standing next to. I had to turn my attention to the last customer, but the moment he was done and headed for the door I immediately looked back at where she'd been...

...And there she was, holding the bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and the hose of the vacuum in the other.

It was definitely closing time—there was a lot of work to be done.