Jason sat there for a moment, chest heaving, the storage room door still ajar where Ayana had slipped out. His jeans were a crumpled mess around his thighs, his shirt stained with sweat and a stray smear of cum he'd wiped off his hand. The concrete floor stared back at him, speckled with his release, and his mind churned. What the fuck just happened?
Her voice, sharp and practical, still rang in his ears: "Do it faster, man." Was she screwing with him, or had he dreamed that heat into her? He shook his head, yanking his jeans up, and grabbed a rag to mop the floor, the damp fabric cold against his shaky fingers.
Back behind the counter, the store felt different—smaller, hotter, the air thick with something he couldn't name. Ayana was restocking the cigarette display, her back to him, skirt swaying as she reached up. Those long legs flexed slightly, and he caught himself staring again.
She turned, catching his gaze, and tossed him a pack of gum to shelve. "You good now?" she asked, voice casual, like she hadn't just watched him cum five minutes ago. "Looked like you needed that."
"Uh, yeah," he mumbled, fumbling the gum, his face hot. "Thanks, I guess."
She snorted, bending to grab a carton of smokes from a low shelf. Her skirt rode up—just an inch, nothing crazy—but enough that the curve of her ass peeked out, bare under the fabric. No leggings now, no panties, just skin. His breath hitched, and she straightened, oblivious—or not—tossing her hair back. "You're hopeless today," she said, stepping closer to hand him the carton. Her fingers brushed his, a light graze, same as always, but it lit him up, his mind flashing to her in the storage room, legs spread.
"Rough week," he managed, voice tight, shelving the carton with too much focus. She leaned against the counter, tank top slipping to show the edge of her bra—black, simple, nothing fancy, but it didn't matter. His jeans tightened again, and he cursed himself.
"Rough week, huh?" she echoed, popping a piece of gum in her mouth, chewing slow. She blew a small bubble, popped it, then squatted to adjust a display by his feet—skirt hiking again, thighs parting just enough that he saw it: her pussy, bare and close, a fleeting wink before she stood. "Well, keep it together. Shift's not over." She smirked, turning away, leaving him gripping the counter, hard again, wondering if she knew—or if he was just losing it.
Jason shelved the last carton, his hands moving on autopilot, but his mind was elsewhere. Ayana wasn't usually like this. Sure, she'd poke fun at him sometimes—call him out for spacing out or intentionally press her boobs against his body—but it was always light, harmless.
He'd never seen her underwear, let alone her bare pussy, until today. That moment in the storage room, her skirt up, legs spread—it was insane, burned into his brain like a brand. Asking her about it felt impossible, though; the awkwardness would choke him before he got a word out. So he kept his mouth shut, stealing glances instead, hoping for another peek as they worked.
The shift dragged on, and he caught himself trying—too hard, maybe. When she reached for a high shelf, her skirt lifted an inch, teasing the edge of her bare skin, but nothing clear. Later, as she crouched to fix a display, he swore he saw a shadow between her thighs, but it was gone before he could blink. Nothing extreme, just fleeting taunts that kept him on edge, his jeans tight more than once. He stayed quiet, restocking, counting minutes until lunch.
Near the end, Ayana plopped onto a stool by the counter, grabbing her now-dry leggings from a hook. She stretched them over her legs, tugging them up casually, and for a split second—right before the fabric slid into place—Jason caught one last glimpse: her pussy, smooth and bare, a final flash that made his breath catch. She didn't notice, smoothing her skirt down as the bell chimed.
Just then Sydney swept in, her light floral dress swaying, the fabric skimming her shins but clinging just enough to hint at her curves. She ran a hand through her dark hair, lifting her arm, and there it was—her armpit, clean and bare, a sight Jason had fixated on for reasons he couldn't explain. He'd wanted to lick it, fuck it even, forever, and now it taunted him again, framed by that skimpy dress. He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to her face.
"Hey, Sydney," he said, voice steady despite the heat in his chest.
"Hey, kid," she replied, tossing her bag behind the counter. "You two can head out. I've got the store now."
"Sweet, I'm starving," Ayana said, hopping off the stool, leggings snug again. She glanced at Jason, smirking faintly "You coming, or you gonna stand there gawking all day?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm good," he muttered, grabbing his jacket, avoiding her eyes. "See you, Sydney."
Jason waved a half-hearted goodbye to Ayana as she headed upstairs, her leggings hugging her legs, that smirk still lingering in his memory. The sun was high now, lunchtime bustle picking up, and he started toward home, hands stuffed in his pockets. His phone buzzed, jolting him out of his daze. He fished it out—Aaron's name flashed on the screen.
"Hey, man," Aaron's voice crackled through, loud and chipper.
"What's up?" Jason said, kicking a pebble off the sidewalk.
"You forgetting already? The sorority party tonight. Told you about it on the way to class."
Jason groaned inwardly, the memory clicking back— Aaron's endless bragging about Melissa, the sorority queen's bestie. "Oh, right. That thing. Yeah, maybe."
"Maybe?" Aaron laughed. "You need to come, the sorority girls will make sure that the college life of people not attending becomes fucked up. Don't flake."
"Fine, I'll swing by," Jason said, keeping it vague. "Catch you there."
"Cool, it's at Celeste's villa." Aaron said, then hung up, leaving Jason staring at his phone.
A party. Tonight. Shit. He'd have to show his face—pop in, sip a drink, dip out before it got messy. That was the plan. But then it hit him: going alone would be brutal. Strolling into a sorority bash solo, surrounded by cliques and strangers? Insane. He wasn't tight with anyone at college, except Aaron, and his old neighborhood crew had scattered after graduation. He needed a wingman, someone to make it less awkward.
Two names popped up: Ayana and Sherry.
Ayana's face flashed first—those leggings, her squat in the storage room, the way she'd said "finish already." His dick twitched, but he shoved the thought down. No, not her. Too weird after today, too close to whatever that was.
Sherry, though might work. She wasn't social, but she would also need to attend to not get further outcasted. He pulled out his phone, scrolled to her number, and hit call, the ring cutting through the afternoon noise as he waited, hoping she'd pick up.