Description
Today I catch you on day one. Closet door barely cracked. Pants around your ankles. Fist locked around that leaking stick like stroking was the only job you had left. You thought you were sneaky. I already knew. I have been watching the way you vanish between customers, the way your face goes stupid, the way you come back with your fly wrong and your eyes glazed.
You are not an employee anymore. You are my supply closet bimbo gooner. Store property. Aisle trash with a hard little problem and no permission to finish it. For two hours I keep you in that cramped dark with the door almost shut and the floor right outside. I make you edge on three fingers. Slow. Mean. Count out loud. Chant that your cock belongs to the store, that your hand works for Me, that a good bimbo does not get to come on company time.
Every time you get close I freeze you. Nail on the tip. Voice in your ear. You hold it. You drip. You thank Me. I inventory you like damaged stock. Leaking. Swollen. Useless for anything but gooning. I tap that denied toy with one nail and watch you twitch. I put you on your knees on the cold tile, hands behind your back, cock out, mouth open, while I tell you what comes next.
Break room. Loading dock. Register. Fitting rooms. Manager’s office. Every trap already written. You will edge where you can be caught. You will freeze when I say. You will walk the floor with your pants up over a throbbing, unfinished mess and smile at customers like you are not one stroke from ruin.
You do not come. Not in part one. You pull yourself together leaky and stupid and go back to work owned. Loop it. Goon. Tribute. Kneel. Part 2 is already waiting, and you are already late.
