This story developed out of a girl friend’s fantasy. It’s an attempt to write it the way she felt it. It’s also a first attempt -- feedback welcome!

Some mornings, the daily round just isn’t enough, especially in summer. The heat makes you restless, more conscious of your body. You sense possibilities. Something should be happening. You dress carefully, looking at yourself from time to time, posing, allowing your mind, and your fingers, to wander just a bit. You feel the silk of your inside thighs, squeeze the aureolae till they pucker and stand out. Lovely flesh, waiting, waiting... As you walk to work, you can feel the fabric of your dress sliding over your skin. You’re full of life. You want a little more—but life seldom obliges.

One warm morning when you were alone in your shop, looking your best but feeling unappreciated, vaguely warm and … restless, a man walked in. Tall, lean, older, nothing special, except that his eyes met yours. His gaze was clear, cool, direct. You felt that he wasn’t looking at you, at your work face, your professional outfit, your practical hairdo. He seemed to be able to see into you, right to your unsatisfied core. The thought came into your mind that somehow he knew, not just what you were wearing next to your skin, but how they would feel under his hands. How you would feel, how you would respond.

Losing your cool, but trying your best not to let it show, you said the obvious thing.

“Can I help you?”

“That depends.” No joking, no flirting, not even a hint of a smile. Still looking right into you.

“Are you…are you…looking for…something special?” Knowing as you said it that it was an invitation. You blushed, dropped your eyes. Then, feeling thoroughly slutty and not caring who knew it, you raised your eyes again to his steady blue gaze.

“Can you show me something over here?” There wasn’t anything “over there” to show him, but you stepped out from behind the counter anyway. Trying to pretend this was normal, knowing it wasn’t. Standing slightly too close to him as he looked into a display case, letting him feel your presence, your scent. “The scent of a woman…in heat.” The thought flashed through your mind.

“Nice scent.” Thoroughly flustered, you almost blurted it out. You managed to mutter a name… “Thanks.”

“And what’s your name?” You told him. It was as if you were already stripping for him. He repeated it, turning towards you.

Your breasts were almost touching his chest. You would have had to step back to look into his eyes, but you kept your head down, seeing a white shirt, a blur. Sensing a hand on your hair, gentle, stroking … kissing him seemed the most natural thing in the world. So why were your legs shaking, why was your heart pounding, why were you melting inside?

He didn’t grab you as he kissed you, just let it get deeper and deeper, till you moved into him, wanting him, not caring. Then he pulled you close. You felt his hard cock…

“Oh, god, no, no…” you wanted to fall on the floor – but the window – the door. You ran, locked the door, pulled the shade, ran away.

Ran into the back room, where he followed, suddenly urgent. Grabbed you, turned you round to face him, kissed you again, hard and passionate. His hand on your ass, pulling your skirt. You helped him, tugging your skirt up so you could spread your legs and grind into him. His hand on your back pushing top and bra up, tight, uncomfortable, but your breasts were bare against his shirt. You tore it away, rubbed your hardened nipples on his bare chest, reached down for his cock, wanting it inside you somewhere, anywhere.

You wanted to collapse on the floor, take his cock in your mouth, get back some control, but he lifted you by the ass and laid you on the table, his cock battering against you. You pulled your panties aside, found the thing and fed its head into your aching, soaking cunt.

Maybe you passed out for a moment, for when you came round your legs were locked round his back and someone was screaming, high and desperate. You.

He was deep inside, fucking you without mercy or thought for your clothes or the rough table, or anything but filling you as full as you could take, and then some more. It hurt, but you were a total slut, you wanted it to hurt, you wanted this fucking stranger to fuck you as no-one ever had. Your head went back on the table, you pushed your ass up higher with your hands under your hips, you spread your legs as wide as they would go. Fuck this slut, fuck, fuck, fuck…

When he came you weren’t aware of your own orgasm. It was as if you were one huge orgasm, screaming, shaking clutching his cock into you, hanging on as if it would never end. You passed out again…

And when you came to he was gone, and you were a torn, slutty mess spread all over the backroom table.

“Oh god…anyone could come in now and just fuck me.” And then: “Anyone just did!”

The thought made you warm all over again. It still does.