Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Wherehouse 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.

Friday, November 21, 2014

Wherehouse Tasha


Another Friday slinging boxes at the warehouse. We had a lot of orders to pick and get out before UPS showed up at the end of the day. Usually nothing provoked more anxiety in Ricky and I than to see one of the sales staff in the warehouse late Friday. Often that meant they had just made a sale and would demand getting a new order out quickly to impress their new sales prey. No sales person in the place struck me as more predatory than Tasha. She was a sleek five foot six, slender torsoed blond with a luscious rounded bottom. Whether in jeans or a flowing dress her bottom was tops. She had short curly blond bobbed hair that could only be described as fluffy. Often it fluttered about her face obscuring her right eye while her other eye would slyly size you up. To me she was the personification of the idiom of the times. Foxy.  

This Friday afternoon she was particularly so. She approached me slowly, almost panther like, not dressed for business success but in Friday night party attire. The slit down the front of her black dress plunged between her small well rounded breasts. Since her tits were too small for cleavage the slit revealed an astounding amount of explorable territory between her pleasure peaks.

“ I need to ask you a question about an item back here in section J, Peter.”  With a provocative crook of her finger and cock of her head she marched into the aisle. I followed behind and admired how the fabric of that black dress danced about her ass as she lead me into the labyrinth of towering warehouse shelves.

When we had travel nearly to the back of the warehouse Tasha abruptly stopped causing me to bump into her heavenly backside. That was not the first time that had happened and was certainly not the last.

A half hour after a discrete rubbing from her skirted butt pressing against my jeaned groin in the warehouse aisles we were in Annie’s office, Tasha’s skirt flipped up over her back, panties long gone and her face buried in Annie’s snatch. Annie’s eyes were glassy with lust as she intently watch my young and well muscled midsection doing marvelous maneuvers within and without Tasha’s twat.  Activities that were only obscured from her view by Tasha’s upraised tush.

When Annie and Tasha would go out on the town, Annie would let me do everything but fuck her.

“Don’t want to serve a fine gentleman another man’s leavings.” Annie would regally pronounce. “At least not the first time I am with him.”

Like I said. Annie was posh.

Sometime Tasha would join in the Friday Night Follies warm up. Today Tasha led the plunge into Friday night. Tasha would let me fuck her. Tasha said that was what douches were for. I was never sure if she was referring to me or not.

As I did my disco dance, slamming rhythmically into Tasha’s sopping hot pussy, I enjoyed the view of Annie, splayed on her desk, dress dropped half mast revealing her bountiful ski jump sloped breasts and growing nipples encouraged by Tasha’s tongue ministrations. Tasha’s mouth howled into Annie’s tunnel as her cunt clenched about my furiously spurting cock. We collapsed in a heap onto Annie’s managerial desktop.

All I know is they would be two very wound up, full tilt disco dancing babes when they went out those nights. They seemed invigorated, while I would feel spent and sleepy. Disco was never my thing, but I was always happy to explore under the flowing dancing skirts those two women.

Rene was happy those nights too. Friday date night often ended at my place. As we fell asleep in each others arms all sweaty and spent she would coo into my ear, “You lasted soooo long tonight Pooh.”