Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Wherehouse Tamara

Tamara
She was barely over five feet tall. A big head of long curly shoulder length hair. She would, as we all could, wear blue jeans to work, My favorite pair had stars on each bun of her tiny behind. They wiggled and winked and twinkled at me every morning as she passed through the warehouse from parking lot to front office. That’s  where she worked.

I would make sure I was positioned where I could watch her well formed tiny tits bounce in their often braless state beneath sheer fabric in the summer. I enjoyed the round enhanced garment heftiness in her winter attire as well. But the real treat was her tiny round  be-starred behind. The way her long dark curly hair bounced in rhythm around her shoulders in her jaunty trek through the warehouse made mornings better than the somewhat nasty morning brew that came out of the coffee machine. But spending the rest of the day flinging boxes and filling out shipping forms was filled with visions of me ravishing that doll sized young woman in almost every corner and almost every office in the place.

Tiny Tami had tan lines. I knew that from a company lunch in the conference room where she leaned over to grasp a tasty fried tidbit. I could see down her blouse where the tan stopped and the perfect milky white breast began. It was like a beacon in it’s braless state. Not farmer tan lines. Full tilt nineteen seventies baked on the beach bikini tan lines. Such  fair skin revealed on top only made me want to trace where the imagined bikini bottom tan would end. The land where the bikini stopped and the bliss began. Tamara did not notice where my eyes had violated. The other women in the room did. At nineteen I blushed at being caught peeking. That would not last long. Still discovering where those lines in the tan were drawn would be my quest while working at the warehouse. I was living the American Scheme.

Some of the older, predatory, and libidinous women in the shop were making plans of their own. They saw were my eyes had gone. They knew what that look meant. They knew how to channel that youthful energy to it’s telos. By the time I got to tanned tiny Tammy my bag of tricks would be stuffed and seeping with a dripping sensual repertoire. But for starters I would work, go to school,  and on weekends my long time amour Rene would reap the energetic but inartful thrusting to the tiny Tamara  tune in my little reptile reproduction drive driven being.

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