Johnbarby
Male
Overtime
I hated working late.
The clock above the door was stuck at 8:55. It had to be. I’d checked it three times in the last ten minutes and it hadn’t moved. The thirty-pound roll of paper slid from my shoulder to the floor with a thump next to the large format printer. Maybe by the time I finished this chore the clock would take care of itself.
It was my third double shift of the week and I was beat. We had been running extended hours since March. When COVID shut everyone else down we kept rolling right along, because when it absolutely positively has to be there overnight…well…you get the picture. Anyway, it was now July. It was hot, it was humid, and I just wanted to get home.
Rolling the drawer shut I looked up and miracle of miracles, it was 9:00. With a sigh of relief, I yanked my mask down under my chin and trudged over to the door, flipping the deadbolt shut and keying off all but the night lights, signaling the end of this interminable day. I slumped a shoulder against the window mullion, rubbing my eyes. Something popped next to my ear. I rolled my head to the side. Splotches appeared on the glass next to me. Water. Raindrops. Then, the sky opened up.
Sheets of rain washed over everything, scouring the windows and flooding the parking lot. Through the deluge I could just make out the outline of my car parked beneath the lamppost; the windows cracked for ventilation. “Of course,” I muttered, shaking my head. It was going to be a soggy drive home.
I scooped up the plastic wrapper I had left on the printer and headed back to the counter. I only made it a few steps before being startled by a sharp knock at the window. I turned. Lightning lit the sky like midday, silhouetting a figure huddled beneath the overhang peering through the glass.
“We’re closed,” I said, louder than I’d intended. The figure knocked again, more insistent this time, followed by speech I couldn’t decipher. I tossed the plastic at the counter and headed back toward the door. As I approached, I could make out the distressed figure of a woman, absolutely drenched, a canvas messenger bag slung over her shoulder, disposable mask covering her nose and mouth.
“We’re closed,” I repeated, reaching the storefront. She started to speak but was cut off by a clap of thunder directly overhead. She rapped on the glass again, pointing to the door. Reluctantly I pulled my mask back up, spun the deadbolt back and pushed the door open just wide enough to poke my head out. The sweltering heat smacked me in the face, making me instantly grateful for the office air conditioning.
“We’re closed,” I said, pointing to the window sticker listing the store hours. She pinched her mask by the corner and pulled it down to talk. One of the ear loops separated from the fabric and the mask fell from her face into a stream on the sidewalk. She cursed under her breath, looked up at me.
“I know I’m late,” she replied, “I’m sorry. But I really need your help. There’s nowhere else I can go tonight. Please, it won’t take long.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but we close at nine. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
She reached out and planted a hand on the door just above mine. She cocked her head to the side, distraught, looking me dead in the eyes.
“Please,” she said, “I need to get these motion records printed. My boss has a conference with the judge tomorrow and it’s her first case since the courts reopened and if I don’t have these ready before the meeting she will fire me.”
She was pleading now, her voice starting to waver. I tried again. “We open at 8:00 tomorrow morning,” I offered. “Rick will be happy to help you then.”
She shook her head. “The meeting is at 8:30, there’s no way I could finish and get them to her on time. I was working on them this afternoon and my kid fell off his bike and I had to take him to urgent care and wait there for three hours before they treated him and then find him and his sister something to eat and take them to my aunt’s house so she could watch them while I tried to take care of this and then my printer stopped working and I tried to get here before you closed and I just ran out of time.”
Water trickled down her forehead into her eyes. She wiped it away, fingers trembling. “I’ll pay you double,” she offered, “whatever it takes. Please. I can’t lose my job.”
I sighed, exhausted. She seemed like a nice lady. I had no idea what a motion record was, but it sounded important. And this would be a shitty time to lose a job. Slowly I swung the door open and stepped back to let her through. She ducked inside and I locked the door behind her.
“Thank you so much,” she gushed, shaking the water off over the doormat, “you are a life-saver.”
I smiled half-heartedly. Realizing she couldn’t see it I gave a nod. “So, what are we looking at?”
She dried her hands on the sides of her jacket, then slipped the bag off her shoulder and raised the flap, careful not to spill any water inside. I looked her over while she rummaged around.
She was professionally dressed — black heels, patterned grey skirt and suit jacket over a light blue collared shirt, the top two buttons open. She filled them all out; thick in the hips and thighs, soft and round up top. Her curly brown hair was twisted up in the back with a tortoise shell jaw clip, dark eyeliner accenting bright green eyes. I thought I detected a slight accent — South, maybe Central American? A pretty woman in her mid-thirties. A welcome site at the end of a miserable day.
She retrieved three small stacks of paper, each secured with binder clips, offering them to me as she explained. “I need four copies of each, all in color and GBC bound.” I must have narrowed my eyes, for she winced, uncomfortable with my reaction. “I know that’s probably more work than you were expecting, I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s cool,” I replied, “the machines do all the work.” She smiled, seemingly relieved. “Come on,” I waved, “color copier is over here.”
She followed me further into the store, to a gray copy machine next to a small table. I set the papers down and began keying instructions into the touch screen.
“My name is Jasmin by the way,” she said, a slight inflection at the end of her sentence.
“Nice to meet you Jasmin,” I replied glancing up, “I’m Derek.”
“Well thank you again, Derek, I really appreciate it.” She smiled shyly. “I’m sure you have better things to be doing tonight.”
I chuckled a little, stacking the first set of sheets in the document feeder. “Wish I could say I did.”
She seemed surprised by my response. “Really?” she queried, lowering her eyes as she spoke. “Good-looking guy like yourself?”
I laughed this time, suddenly self-conscious. “Ah, well. Haven’t really been anywhere since COVID so…not much going on on that front.”
The copier whirred into action, scanning and spitting out sheets. Jasmin set off wandering about the store. I bound the first sets of documents while the second sets copied and repeated the action with the third. Now and then I would glance over my shoulder, her silky-smooth calves or the brave, strained buttons of her jacket catching my attention. Desperate as I was to leave, it sure was nice to have company.
She made it round to the customer service desk as I finished binding the final set. Scooping up the bundles I walked them over and set them on the tall counter next to her. “You’re all set,” I announced, stepping behind to the register. She looked at the stack of reports, seeming genuinely happy.
“You are amazing,” she gushed. “How much do I owe you?”
I did the math aloud while entering the details into the computer. “Two sets at $22.50 and the legal-size at $28.50, plus tax…$78.65.” A few moments later the register display confirmed my calculation. She smiled.
“Well I promised to double it,” she recalled, dipping into the messenger bag again, “so what’s that, about $160?”
I shook my head. “Nah, just $78.65.”
“No really,” she insisted, thrusting a credit card toward me, “I’m good with it. You didn’t have to stay open for me, it’s totally worth it.”
I smiled, making sure it reached my eyes this time. I inserted the card into the reader. “$78.65,” I repeated. “That’s all.”
She relented, signing the receipt with a little flourish when I slid it across the counter. Stuffing it into the drawer a roll of thunder perked me up. I peeped around her at the rain still pummeling the windows. “Give me a minute,” I said, pointing toward the back. “I think I have something to wrap those in so they won’t get wet.”
I returned her credit card and moved the stock room. In the far corner was a box of heavy-duty plastic sleeves we sometimes used to cover lightweight cardboard boxes. But reaching in I found it empty. I looked around for something else. Bubble wrap seemed cumbersome. All the boxes were too big. I finally settled on some Tyvek envelopes and returned to the sales floor with a handful.
When I emerged, Jasmin seemed different. Nervous maybe. Fidgeting, shifting her weight and staring at the floor. She looked up as I approached, smiling. I nodded, holding up the envelopes.
“These should work,” I announced, setting them next to the papers. I slipped the first set into one, peeled off the protective film and sealed the flap shut, explaining how to open them when she needed to as I worked. She turned the package over in her hands, inspecting it as I finished packing the remaining two.
“Listen,” she said quietly, “I know you said not to bother, but I really think you deserve a tip for this. You didn’t have to stay open for me and I know you didn’t want to, but you did it anyway and because of you I won’t get fired tomorrow. I think that’s worth a little extra.”
I sighed, feeling like a complete asshole. I stepped out from behind the counter, shaking my head.
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, “but really, it’s not necessary. It was only 15 minutes. Not like you got here at 10:00 or something.” She chuckled, sweeping hair out of her face. “Besides, we’re not allowed to accept tips. It’s against company policy. I don’t want to lose my job either.”
She nodded. Then hesitated. Then stepped in front of me, her body mere inches from mine. “What if,” she said softly, “we weren’t talking about money?”
My eyes narrowed, not understanding the question. A hand pressed against my crotch, palm curving around the outline of my penis, fingers curling beneath my balls. Her meaning was suddenly clear.
“Umm…” I stammered, tensing up but not pulling away. “I’m not sure if the policy is that specific.” She bumped her breasts against me, pushing me back against the counter. I gripped the edge to steady myself.
“Derek,” she whispered, pulling the clip from her hair, the damp curls falling over her shoulders leaving splotches on her jacket. Her hand returned to my crotch, the fingers of the other plucking playfully at her buttons. She gave my cock a gentle squeeze, a sigh escaping her chest. “It’s been six months since I’ve held one in my hand. How long since you’ve had this between someone’s lips?”
I tried to respond. But the five months of virtual lockdown hardened my dick in her grip before the words could travel from my brain to my mouth.
Part 2 of this story continues soonest....
I hated working late.
The clock above the door was stuck at 8:55. It had to be. I’d checked it three times in the last ten minutes and it hadn’t moved. The thirty-pound roll of paper slid from my shoulder to the floor with a thump next to the large format printer. Maybe by the time I finished this chore the clock would take care of itself.
It was my third double shift of the week and I was beat. We had been running extended hours since March. When COVID shut everyone else down we kept rolling right along, because when it absolutely positively has to be there overnight…well…you get the picture. Anyway, it was now July. It was hot, it was humid, and I just wanted to get home.
Rolling the drawer shut I looked up and miracle of miracles, it was 9:00. With a sigh of relief, I yanked my mask down under my chin and trudged over to the door, flipping the deadbolt shut and keying off all but the night lights, signaling the end of this interminable day. I slumped a shoulder against the window mullion, rubbing my eyes. Something popped next to my ear. I rolled my head to the side. Splotches appeared on the glass next to me. Water. Raindrops. Then, the sky opened up.
Sheets of rain washed over everything, scouring the windows and flooding the parking lot. Through the deluge I could just make out the outline of my car parked beneath the lamppost; the windows cracked for ventilation. “Of course,” I muttered, shaking my head. It was going to be a soggy drive home.
I scooped up the plastic wrapper I had left on the printer and headed back to the counter. I only made it a few steps before being startled by a sharp knock at the window. I turned. Lightning lit the sky like midday, silhouetting a figure huddled beneath the overhang peering through the glass.
“We’re closed,” I said, louder than I’d intended. The figure knocked again, more insistent this time, followed by speech I couldn’t decipher. I tossed the plastic at the counter and headed back toward the door. As I approached, I could make out the distressed figure of a woman, absolutely drenched, a canvas messenger bag slung over her shoulder, disposable mask covering her nose and mouth.
“We’re closed,” I repeated, reaching the storefront. She started to speak but was cut off by a clap of thunder directly overhead. She rapped on the glass again, pointing to the door. Reluctantly I pulled my mask back up, spun the deadbolt back and pushed the door open just wide enough to poke my head out. The sweltering heat smacked me in the face, making me instantly grateful for the office air conditioning.
“We’re closed,” I said, pointing to the window sticker listing the store hours. She pinched her mask by the corner and pulled it down to talk. One of the ear loops separated from the fabric and the mask fell from her face into a stream on the sidewalk. She cursed under her breath, looked up at me.
“I know I’m late,” she replied, “I’m sorry. But I really need your help. There’s nowhere else I can go tonight. Please, it won’t take long.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but we close at nine. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
She reached out and planted a hand on the door just above mine. She cocked her head to the side, distraught, looking me dead in the eyes.
“Please,” she said, “I need to get these motion records printed. My boss has a conference with the judge tomorrow and it’s her first case since the courts reopened and if I don’t have these ready before the meeting she will fire me.”
She was pleading now, her voice starting to waver. I tried again. “We open at 8:00 tomorrow morning,” I offered. “Rick will be happy to help you then.”
She shook her head. “The meeting is at 8:30, there’s no way I could finish and get them to her on time. I was working on them this afternoon and my kid fell off his bike and I had to take him to urgent care and wait there for three hours before they treated him and then find him and his sister something to eat and take them to my aunt’s house so she could watch them while I tried to take care of this and then my printer stopped working and I tried to get here before you closed and I just ran out of time.”
Water trickled down her forehead into her eyes. She wiped it away, fingers trembling. “I’ll pay you double,” she offered, “whatever it takes. Please. I can’t lose my job.”
I sighed, exhausted. She seemed like a nice lady. I had no idea what a motion record was, but it sounded important. And this would be a shitty time to lose a job. Slowly I swung the door open and stepped back to let her through. She ducked inside and I locked the door behind her.
“Thank you so much,” she gushed, shaking the water off over the doormat, “you are a life-saver.”
I smiled half-heartedly. Realizing she couldn’t see it I gave a nod. “So, what are we looking at?”
She dried her hands on the sides of her jacket, then slipped the bag off her shoulder and raised the flap, careful not to spill any water inside. I looked her over while she rummaged around.
She was professionally dressed — black heels, patterned grey skirt and suit jacket over a light blue collared shirt, the top two buttons open. She filled them all out; thick in the hips and thighs, soft and round up top. Her curly brown hair was twisted up in the back with a tortoise shell jaw clip, dark eyeliner accenting bright green eyes. I thought I detected a slight accent — South, maybe Central American? A pretty woman in her mid-thirties. A welcome site at the end of a miserable day.
She retrieved three small stacks of paper, each secured with binder clips, offering them to me as she explained. “I need four copies of each, all in color and GBC bound.” I must have narrowed my eyes, for she winced, uncomfortable with my reaction. “I know that’s probably more work than you were expecting, I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s cool,” I replied, “the machines do all the work.” She smiled, seemingly relieved. “Come on,” I waved, “color copier is over here.”
She followed me further into the store, to a gray copy machine next to a small table. I set the papers down and began keying instructions into the touch screen.
“My name is Jasmin by the way,” she said, a slight inflection at the end of her sentence.
“Nice to meet you Jasmin,” I replied glancing up, “I’m Derek.”
“Well thank you again, Derek, I really appreciate it.” She smiled shyly. “I’m sure you have better things to be doing tonight.”
I chuckled a little, stacking the first set of sheets in the document feeder. “Wish I could say I did.”
She seemed surprised by my response. “Really?” she queried, lowering her eyes as she spoke. “Good-looking guy like yourself?”
I laughed this time, suddenly self-conscious. “Ah, well. Haven’t really been anywhere since COVID so…not much going on on that front.”
The copier whirred into action, scanning and spitting out sheets. Jasmin set off wandering about the store. I bound the first sets of documents while the second sets copied and repeated the action with the third. Now and then I would glance over my shoulder, her silky-smooth calves or the brave, strained buttons of her jacket catching my attention. Desperate as I was to leave, it sure was nice to have company.
She made it round to the customer service desk as I finished binding the final set. Scooping up the bundles I walked them over and set them on the tall counter next to her. “You’re all set,” I announced, stepping behind to the register. She looked at the stack of reports, seeming genuinely happy.
“You are amazing,” she gushed. “How much do I owe you?”
I did the math aloud while entering the details into the computer. “Two sets at $22.50 and the legal-size at $28.50, plus tax…$78.65.” A few moments later the register display confirmed my calculation. She smiled.
“Well I promised to double it,” she recalled, dipping into the messenger bag again, “so what’s that, about $160?”
I shook my head. “Nah, just $78.65.”
“No really,” she insisted, thrusting a credit card toward me, “I’m good with it. You didn’t have to stay open for me, it’s totally worth it.”
I smiled, making sure it reached my eyes this time. I inserted the card into the reader. “$78.65,” I repeated. “That’s all.”
She relented, signing the receipt with a little flourish when I slid it across the counter. Stuffing it into the drawer a roll of thunder perked me up. I peeped around her at the rain still pummeling the windows. “Give me a minute,” I said, pointing toward the back. “I think I have something to wrap those in so they won’t get wet.”
I returned her credit card and moved the stock room. In the far corner was a box of heavy-duty plastic sleeves we sometimes used to cover lightweight cardboard boxes. But reaching in I found it empty. I looked around for something else. Bubble wrap seemed cumbersome. All the boxes were too big. I finally settled on some Tyvek envelopes and returned to the sales floor with a handful.
When I emerged, Jasmin seemed different. Nervous maybe. Fidgeting, shifting her weight and staring at the floor. She looked up as I approached, smiling. I nodded, holding up the envelopes.
“These should work,” I announced, setting them next to the papers. I slipped the first set into one, peeled off the protective film and sealed the flap shut, explaining how to open them when she needed to as I worked. She turned the package over in her hands, inspecting it as I finished packing the remaining two.
“Listen,” she said quietly, “I know you said not to bother, but I really think you deserve a tip for this. You didn’t have to stay open for me and I know you didn’t want to, but you did it anyway and because of you I won’t get fired tomorrow. I think that’s worth a little extra.”
I sighed, feeling like a complete asshole. I stepped out from behind the counter, shaking my head.
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, “but really, it’s not necessary. It was only 15 minutes. Not like you got here at 10:00 or something.” She chuckled, sweeping hair out of her face. “Besides, we’re not allowed to accept tips. It’s against company policy. I don’t want to lose my job either.”
She nodded. Then hesitated. Then stepped in front of me, her body mere inches from mine. “What if,” she said softly, “we weren’t talking about money?”
My eyes narrowed, not understanding the question. A hand pressed against my crotch, palm curving around the outline of my penis, fingers curling beneath my balls. Her meaning was suddenly clear.
“Umm…” I stammered, tensing up but not pulling away. “I’m not sure if the policy is that specific.” She bumped her breasts against me, pushing me back against the counter. I gripped the edge to steady myself.
“Derek,” she whispered, pulling the clip from her hair, the damp curls falling over her shoulders leaving splotches on her jacket. Her hand returned to my crotch, the fingers of the other plucking playfully at her buttons. She gave my cock a gentle squeeze, a sigh escaping her chest. “It’s been six months since I’ve held one in my hand. How long since you’ve had this between someone’s lips?”
I tried to respond. But the five months of virtual lockdown hardened my dick in her grip before the words could travel from my brain to my mouth.
Part 2 of this story continues soonest....
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