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She's not a MILF, by any means. She's about his age, for one thing, and her pants and T-shirt outfits are not intended to entice. She's a little too overweight to honestly call "curvy", and the messy not-quite-a-bun on top of her head doesn't do her any favors. She sits in a corner of HomeBase in the evenings when the kids have gone home and the noise has died down, working quietly for hours, getting refills on a single vanilla Coke, and tipping 200% with a smile when he kicks her out to close up.
And Greg can't stop thinking about her.
It makes him even more disgusted with himself than usual, but he can't help it. He isn't sure he really wants to stop, actually. It keeps his mind occupied, wondering what she looks like under the baggy shirts, picturing her with her hair down and sliding over her bare skin, imagining soft curls between his fingertips and guessing what scent they might be if the smell of greasy fries and sweaty kids wasn't getting in the way. It's better than thinking about all the things he hasn't done with his life. Greg tells himself that there's a self-deprecating shabbiness in fantasizing about one of his less objectively attractive customers, and that's why it appeals to him.
He knows that's not true. The truth is he wants to touch her. It started simply. He'd brushed her arm -- lightly, accidentally -- with the fingers of his right hand as he'd pulled away from setting down her glass on the table. Her reaction had been subtle but unmistakable: her breath catching in her throat, a shiver through her skin, her eyes flashing up to meet Greg's. She hid it away, thanked him politely with a smile. He smiled back and escaped behind the bar to pretend his heart wasn't beating like a Pilgrim who'd just caught sight of a bare ankle.
He'd needed to know if it was just a one-off. He'd invented excuses to sneak contact. He made sure their fingers connected when handing her a glass. He touched her palm -- just a little -- when dropping change into it. He pressed a hand to the small of her back -- just for a second -- when holding the door open for her to leave when he locked up for the night. Each time, there was that shudder through her skin. Each time, her breath stuttered. Each time, she glanced at him, cheeks tinged and expression hovering between embarrassed and pleased. Each time, Greg would pretend he didn't notice.
So now he's hooked. Her reactions stroke his ego and fire his curiosity. He watches her. His fingers twitch. They talk lightly in the evenings when the other customers have gone home. He drops cherries in her refills to see her eyes light up when she finds them. He thinks of her eyes darkening in lust if he were to stand behind her, kiss behind her ear, pull her ass against his hips, suck gently on her pulse point as his hands wander from belly to breasts. He doesn't let his mind play it out much farther than that, but he already feels dirty. She's a nice girl and he's an objectifying asshole being led around by his dick. He frowns and scrubs at a sticker left on the bar by one of the baseball brats.
It's a Thursday night, and they're the only two left in the bar. Her T-shirt today is a little lower cut than usual, and Greg's been trying not to sneak glances at her cleavage when she leans over her notebook. She's oblivious, though, so he finally lets himself stare, admiring their full roundness resting on the table. He thinks of holding them, heavy and warm in his palms. And if a little stroke of her arm gives her such goosebumps, his tongue circling her nipple, lips latching on, mouth suckling -- he sees her in his mind, back arched to press herself against him, head thrown back, moaning his name as one of his hands sneaks down under the elastic waistband of her pants.
He shakes himself out of it in time to see her look away from him. He hates himself. He pushes himself away from where he'd been leaning on the bar in his reverie, and makes up his mind. It's twenty minutes early, but Greg locks the door and heads back to the kitchen.
Around the time he should be closing for the night, Greg sets a basket of nachos, a beer, and a margarita on the table and sits down across from the object of his obsession.
"On the house," he says with a smile. She smiles back, and he takes a moment to appreciate the openness of it before he starts in on the beer and nachos. They talk and laugh about nothing of any importance. She licks cheese off her fingers and he knows she's not trying to seduce him -- nacho cheese is no one's idea of sexy -- but he has to take a swallow of beer to give himself something to do other than watch her fingers slide in her mouth and emerge sucked clean.
He's had another beer and she's followed the margarita with a mai tai when they go into the back room to clean up the dishes and wash their hands. When she throws away the paper towel, Greg takes his chance. It's not exactly a fantasy scenario, standing by the trash can surrounded by boxes of booze and industrial-sized plastic bags of tortilla chips, but he's here and she's here and he wants to test that touching theory he's been developing.
It's simple. He stands behind her and reaches out, sliding the fingers of his right hand up her right arm, from wrist to elbow, slowly and lightly. He holds his breath and waits. He feels her lean back into him, just a little. He sees her head tilt to the left in time with his touch. He hears a quick intake of breath followed by a slow exhale.
She turns to face him, and he can't quite read her expression, but she seems nervous. She reaches up, fingers slipping under his shirt sleeves to drag over his skin from his shoulders to his elbows to his wrists. It's like electricity coursing through him, radiating from her touch. If this is what she feels like when he touches her...
He takes a half-step forward and watches her eyes widen at the proximity. His left hand skims over her hip before settling there, and when his thumb sneaks under her shirt to sweep a tiny patch of skin at her waist, he can see her pupils dilate and feel her muscles jump in response to his touch. His right hand comes up to her neck, and he strokes from behind her ear down to the collarbone, teasing lower, then back up to her cheek, always with a barely-there pressure. Her eyes half close, her head rolls to the side to invite his roaming fingers back to her neck, her mouth falls open just enough to give him ideas.
Jesus, he hasn't even gotten anywhere near the good parts, yet. It's intoxicating. Then he slips his left hand the rest of the way under her shirt, slides it up her ribcage, and drags his fingers down her spine and she arches herself into his chest, warm and real and better than the fantasy. She lets out a short, surprised moan that shoots straight through Greg, and he's gone. He pulls her in, settles his right hand behind her head, and kisses her. Her mouth is slightly open, but Greg doesn't take advantage of that quite yet. She's molding herself to him, her body pressing against his, her hands under his shirt now, and tracing his spine with her nails in a way that makes his hair stand on end.
He backs her up to the table by the wall, then reaches down her pants and grabs her ass with both hands, pulling her hips in so he's finally flush with her in the one place he wants most. She moans again, louder this time. She leans back against the table to balance herself as she hooks her leg around Greg, opening herself up to him, tilting her hips up into his. His dick is rubbing against her through two layers of pants, and he thinks he could lay her down on this work table and fuck her right now, but the part of him that's still in control wants it to be better than that.
He slows himself down, focusing on how every slight touch to her skin is rewarded with a shiver, a twitch, a mewling hum. He opens their kiss so that he's exploring her mouth, swallowing each delicious sound she makes. She follows his lead, kissing him deeply and running her hands through his hair, scratching his scalp softly.
Greg realizes then that her hair is down out of its bun, and he spares a hand to test its length. It's longer than he'd ever thought, maybe even down past her ass, and he thrusts his tongue in her mouth, holds her tighter, and groans at the mental image of her naked, with only her hair hiding her breasts from his view. She's rocking into him a little, already reading a rhythm he didn't realize he was setting, but Greg has her tits on his mind now, and he has to see them.
He breaks the kiss, and almost dives right back into it when he sees her dark eyes, swollen lips, and flushed cheeks. She's fucking perfect, and Greg doesn't know why he waited so long to do this. The way she looks at him makes him feel like a sex god, and God, he's going to make this so good she'll never want anyone else. He presses his forehead to hers, kisses her softly, and circles her nipples with his thumbs. Her reaction is electrifying. She arches into his hands with a gasp, and it's so much like his daydream he gets a little dizzy.
Greg pulls her shirt over her head and lets it drop onto the table behind her. She's half on the table, and he boosts her the rest of the way so he can lean her back and mouth at a nipple through her bra. She reaches behind her back with both hands and undoes the clasp, bra sliding down enough for Greg to finally get a good, long look. He presses her back before she can get her hands out in front again, trapping her arms behind her and pushing those big beautiful breasts up, exposed and waiting for his touch.
He nuzzles the soft tits for a moment, enjoys the incoherent "aahh" that rises to a strangled "oohh" as his stubble chafes against the sensitive skin. He teases her with licks and kisses that skirt just around the edges of the areola and she wriggles under him, breath quickening. He runs his tongue around the nipples, first one, then the other, and she arches up for him again, breathing his name. When he finally pulls a nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it as he sucks, she cries out wordlessly and spreads her legs for him. He continues suckling and swirling and she keens and bucks under him.
His desire darkens and moves lower, his cock pulsing impatiently for him to have his turn. His hands work their way under her waistband and begin to pull her pants off, and he has to leave her nipple so he can get them completely off her. The pants get stuck on her shoes, and she toes them off and reaches for Greg, hands fumbling in her excitement as she pulls his shirt over his head and drops it behind her on the table.
Greg's barely keeping it together now, kissing her hard and needy as she wraps her legs around him, so wet he can feel her through his pants. Her hands at his belt are almost frantic, but when she gets it undone, his fly unzipped and waistline beginning to sag, she hesitates. Her hand dips too slowly into his boxers, and she runs her fingers down and up his cock like she's afraid he'll break.
"Oh, fuck," Greg breathes. It's not enough and too much, and if she keeps touching him, he'll never make it to the main event, and he desperately wants to see this through. He pulls her hand away and leans back to take in the sight of her, naked on the table, breathless and spread wide for him, eyes dark and hungry for him. For him. The sight and thought is almost enough to make him cum just on that.
He presses her onto the table again, following her down and giving in to the temptation to go back to her tits, lave the nipple with the flat of his tongue, and suck the flesh again, drawing cries out of her that rise up in pitch and volume. One of her hands is cradling his head to her breast, the other is scrambling along his shoulder for purchase when he raises his head and meets her eyes. Greg thinks they either both go still for a moment or time stops, and this time he has to actually reach down and give his head a squeeze so he doesn't pop off before they're ready.
They're still looking at each other, her breast still in his mouth, when he lets go of his cock to caress his palm up her inner thigh instead. She breaks their gaze, her eyes closing and her head lolling back with a guttural groan he's never gotten out of a woman before. His lips part reluctantly with her nipple and he rubs his cheek on her tits one last time as he draws one hand up her soft, smooth thighs, brushing past the coarse hairs to dip two fingers into her and press in and in while she rocks onto him slowly and half murmurs, half moans, "Greg… Greg… please… Greg… please… please…."
The hand that Greg doesn't have buried in her cunt is bracing him on the table, and if he weren't so into this, he might be ashamed that he's rubbing his dick against her leg in time to her breathy chant. She's tight around his fingers, and Greg's cock aches to sink itself into her, but there's something else he badly wants that has to come first. He crooks his fingers inside of her, feeling slowly until he finds it. She almost jumps when he makes the first contact, and when he presses again, she squirms. He massages as she writhes on him, her motions becoming more desperate.
"Greg?" she asks, voice thin and needy. The realization hits him that he must be the first guy to do this for her and he feels a little burst of anger because, fuck, what kind of greedy assholes has she had before now? He shuffles awkwardly onto the table without losing his place with his hand. Her expression is serious and confused, even if her hips are moving in time with his fingers, and he kisses up her neck, whispering, "Just go with it. Trust me." She nods. "Just…." He swallows, the feeling of her body under him, skin to skin, driving him to the brink again. "Just go with it. Let it happen. Okay?" He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, needing this to happen because he needs to be inside her, moving inside her, and he isn't doing that until he makes her cum. "G spot," he pants into her ear. "That's -- oh, fuck."
He's buried his nose in her hair, so the back room smells of cardboard and stale chips and diluted industrial cleaners are suddenly drowned out by citrus and spice and vanilla and sex. He loves it. He's sure he'll remember this scent forever if he survives this.
They kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy and half-delirious. Greg curls his fingers in her once more and his thumb finds her clit, and she practically screams into his mouth, grabbing his ass to pull him closer, and riding his hand with abandon. Warm wetness gushes from her, slicking his hand where she pulses around him. He coaxes her down from the orgasm until he can't restrain himself anymore, and he pulls his fingers out, reaching down to coat his cock in her juices and hold himself steady at her entrance and gather his senses. It takes everything he has to press himself into her slowly, but he knows it's the right move. She's so tight around him that every centimeter is ecstasy and agony rolled into one, and he groans out, "Oh, God" as he pushes further in, lost in the sensation.
Eyes closed, mouth open, Greg takes a moment to revel in the heat and pressure enveloping him. It occurs to him that he must look like a gawping idiot, and he has the flash of an image of himself, bare ass in the air, gasping like a fish, humping some poor woman in the back room at his dead-end job. The disappointment in himself is deep and bitter and cuts straight through his heart.
Then he opens his eyes and sees her, open to him and wanting him, flushed and breathless for him. She opens her eyes and looks up at him, and there's no disappointment or disgust, only desire and pleasure and something softer that he can't place but that soothes him. She brings her hand up to brush his cheek and Greg kisses her slowly and tenderly as he begins to rock out and in.
He takes his time at first, shallow and easy rolls of his hips building into longer, more forceful thrusts as his mind finally, finally falls away and his body takes over. His urgency builds again, sweet and insistent, as he buries himself in her over and over, savoring the tight drag of her around his cock, the soft warmth of her body wrapping around him, the strong grip of her hands on his back and shoulder.
Her legs are tangled around him, urging him closer every time he drives into her. He feels himself hurtling towards the edge, but he wants her to cum first again. He wants to feel her tighten and ripple around him. He wants his seed inside her, hot and thick and filling her until she's dripping with him. He wants this to fucking mean something.
Greg pulls her leg up and adjusts his angle, aiming for that sweet spot again. He can hear it in her voice when he finds it, and he focuses all his intensity on hitting that hidden gem with each stroke. He pumps hard and fast, vaguely aware of his own grunts and panted moans, her high-pitched cries, and the wet slap of flesh on flesh. She comes screaming his name, and it's perfect. She clenches around him, pulling him in after her and he cums hard, jerking mindlessly through his last few pumps as he releases himself into her, spilling everything into her soft, tight heat.
When Greg comes to his senses, she's wrapped around him like an octopus and staring into space with a dazed and dreamy expression. They're sweating and breathing hard, and the air conditioning is starting to make itself known to their naked skin. He kisses behind her ear and nuzzles her neck.
"Are you all right?" Greg asks.
She grins, dopey and relaxed, and kisses him slow and wet.
"Fantastic," she says. He grins back.
They untangle and wipe themselves off with paper towels. They redress themselves and clean the work table, exchanging amused smiles but few words. He knows he'll berate himself for this later. It's gross and stupid and shallow and so, SO cliched. But right now, he's giving in to the temptation to feel good, to pretend he can have something good and not screw it up. So he takes her hand and pulls her close and holds her. He kisses her like this is the last thing he's ever going to do. He walks her to her car and watches her drive away. He goes home alone, and wakes up alone, and remembers that he's just Greg. He's just Greg Serrano, still living in West Covina.