I was on a shift at the sex shop, late evening, just me and that guy hanging around the shelf with the dildos. He had that hungry look, no small talk, just staring at me from under his hood. Me, in my black crop top and a skirt that barely covered my ass, I leaned over the counter to show him this big, black silicone monster with veiny details. “Imagine how this goes in deep, without mercy,” I whispered, and he swallowed hard.
Instead of buying anything, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the back room. The door slammed shut, and I felt his hands on my hips, yanking my skirt up. There was no time for talk—I pushed him down onto a chair, straddled him, and started grinding against him through his pants, feeling him get hard. I pulled that dildo out of my apron pocket and made him watch as I sucked it slowly, taking it inch by inch, saliva dripping down my chin.
Then I turned around, lifted my skirt, and pushed the tip into myself, moaning loudly so he could hear every centimeter. He couldn’t take it anymore—he unzipped and shoved himself into me from behind, rough, without a condom, thrusting so hard the shelves were shaking. We fucked like animals, me controlling the rhythm, him biting my neck. We finished together, sweaty and dripping, and I just laughed: “Buy this, and you’ll come back for more.”
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