By Lisabet Sarai
“Can
I help you?”
My
cheeks burn. He’s caught me, transfixed by the rope coils and shiny
turnbuckles, hungry as a kid at a candy display.
“Um—no,
thanks. I was just thinking...”
“About
possible applications for our products?” He grins, eyes alight with
mischief as he unfurls a thrilling length of scarlet cord. “Want a
demo?”
He’s
working-class burly, his rolled denim sleeves baring tanned, hairy
forearms, Home Plus apron inappropriately domestic. Booted feet,
big hands.
“I’m
an expert,” he continues. “With our products.”
“I
don’t doubt it.” Rising to his challenge, I straighten my spine
and elevate my bra-less tits. His gaze flicks down. He licks his
lips. My nipples ache.
“Maybe
you need some clamps, too? For your project?”
“I
might.”
“We
also have a wide selection of dowels—in many sizes.” His massive
fists clench and his nostrils flare.
I’m
smoldering now. I love this game. It’s my move.
“Sarah!”
Master rounds the corner, juggling electrical supplies. He grasps the
situation in a single glance. “Teasing again? You know that’s
twenty strokes with the cane.”
There’s
a bulge under that apron. “Can I help you?”
Master
smirks. “Sure. Why not?”
