Unknown - Office porn Queen

"I seem to recall something about that."

"Well, now, hey this is great. This. Is. Guhreat."

"Tell me, tell me!"

"You show your tits. The audience cheers. Well then we guys, we see you've got us licked. I mean, see what I mean, we got pricks to match your cunt but when it comes to tits, what have we got?" He motioned into his jacket, made a throwing-away gesture. "We got nothing but pillows inside our bodices."

"For goodness sake! You mean it?"

"Sure I mean it. What'd you think, men got?"

"So what we do is, we throw away those little pillows because we can't compete with you, see? And you think the audience won't howl? They'll roar. They'll piss in their pants."

"They'll be awfully wet by then."

"Hey!" Another glow of inspiration touched the transvestite's face. "Listen to this. You ain't heard nothing like this. Listen. You listening? Because what we do is, we put a star on one of those pillows that the guys throw. They throw the pillows into the audience, and don't worry the doorman collects them before they get out of there. But meanwhile one guy in the audience, he's got the pillow with the star. So we give him a pass to the Girl Scouts Convention."

"Nah. A free drink! Or if it's a couple, two free drinks!"

"Really, sir, I need your credit card on this girdle. Or do you have an account here? Or will it be cash?"

"Ah, look, what you're afraid of is being typed as a stripper. But you ain't stripping. Don't you see? Between the cunt and the tits," – he outlined the area on himself – "you stay all dressed."

"My mother wouldn't like it."

"Listen, I'll get you even more money. Hey, boss says, five bucks for the cunt, five bucks for the tits, I'll tell him, hell no, not this gal, you pay her five bucks per tit."

"My grandfather would turn in his grave."

"Hey, maybe one of the other girls here?"

"Sir, I think you should go now. I have wrapped your girdle. Cash, credit card or charge, please?"

"Fuck your girdle if you're too good for the Mister Madam," the transvestite said, disgusted. "Who the hell are you, a leftover from the Ziegfeld Follies or something?" He walked away, waggling his hips.

When Helen turned from putting the girdle back on display, she found herself facing the buyer.

He wanted to know: And just what is going on around here, my dear Miss Troy.

He told her that the store catered to certain types of people who would be much put off if they encountered other sorts of types.

He said that he understood that a disproportionate number of men had been coming to her counter, which obviously indicated some, all, attraction she was offering them. Some, ah, service?

He said that if she wished to use her counter as a dating center for her, ah, assignations, she might well find a more suitable atmosphere at some other store.

She said, "I sold two dozen bras the other night, on my own time, after work."

"Admittedly so, but when I think of what dreadful transvestite orgy you must have indulged in, I shudder."

He didn't fire her, but he left her feeling insecure.

She wondered again about getting a hostess job.

A hostess job. Hmmm. At least, one traveled.

She felt her right buttock reminiscently. Not a single sore spot, any more.

But she stopped feeling herself in public when she saw the buyer watching her, aghast.

She supposed that her good sales record would keep her from being fired. Still, the scene had made for a rough day.

At five o'clock she walked home toward the two-bedroom apartment she shared with Tina McGill, whom she had met in the store's lunchroom one day. Tina worked downstairs in Office Supplies.

Generally the girls kept to their own rooms.

It was understood that one's visitors were none of the other girl's business, in a friendly way.

They shared the bathroom, but it was little trouble to pick up razor blades or cufflinks that men left behind and simply leave them on the table at the front door. Same with lipsticks.

Helen knew that Tina slept-around a good deal with men, but she did not think that any women had entered the picture, or had entered Tina's cunt, as the case might be. She herself had had very few overnight guests.

They had all been women. In fact, when Tina found a lipsticked cup in the kitchen, which they also shared, she pointedly left it for Helen to wash.

But Helen had been remembering Hank Hastings a lot, lately.

Back then, oh so long ago, when she had been a high-school junior and had had two ice-cream sodas with him, and had impulsively told him of how her Uncle Hiram had raped her, and how this had affected her attitude toward men, she had later berated herself for telling too much.

But gosh, a high-school kid sipping sodas in an ice-cream parlor with Captain Henry Hastings of Wanderlust Airlines! In his uniform! Craggyfaced! Big-jawed! Straight-backed! Broad-shouldered! Flat-bellied! Twice as old as she!

She could be excused for letting the occasion go to her head.

With her grades and her build and her breathtaking walk, Helen had had no trouble in entering Wanderlust's hostess training school. She didn't need to call upon Captain Hastings for aid. She wondered if he even remembered her, three days after their meeting.

Well, Captain Hastings had been using his time, while waiting for the first 797-X to be ready, in recruiting hostesses, as she knew. But also he had become interested in hostess training.

The girls at the school whispered that sure, he was taking down names and bust, waist and hip measurements which he would feed to a company computer to form a composite pattern of the perfect hostess to spear onto his captain-sized prick.

Helen wondered if a computer could do that, but at eighteen she was too shy to ask.

She did think, however, with a blush, that Hank Hastings probably did have a captain-sized prick. Sometimes she dreamed about it. She dreamed herself away from women and back to men, or rather one man, Captain Henry Hastings.

She dreamed him into her bed. But each girl in the hostess school, had, in her little sleeping cubicle, only a narrow scanted-single bed.

She dreamed of how they would make do in her narrow bed. Easy. He would lie on top of her. She would have his strong-muscled form cradled into her pelvis, which nature had fashioned for the comfort of a lover.

He might even lie there a little while, and how blissfully her warm breasts would absorb the feeling of his chest hair. She thought she would even rub up against his chest hair and let her nipples take in as much thrill as they could absorb. Which was plenty. (And in the abandon of a dream, double-plenty.) He would understand her youth, and the shock she had had from Uncle Hiram.

She would understand his maturity and authority and, to be frank about it, his experience with women, even Oriental women who had horizontal cunt slots, if the story was true.

But see, he had come to her! The glamorous captain had remembered her! He had wondered at the Registrar if some girl named Troy had checked in, as she had said she would, and when told, yes, Helen Troy had entered upon hostess training, he would, next thing you know, let his wonderful naked body down upon her yearning, soft and heated body in her scanted-single bed.

In dreams, you don't have to fill-in all the details.

She did not think he would penetrate her immediately. Instead he would lie upon her and kiss her lips with manly tenderness. And kiss her cheeks. And her closed eyes. And her yearning lips again.

When he kissed her breasts, he would make a delightful little game of it.

Whispering: "See, my sweet Helen love, here is our 797-X at the head of the runway." He rested his lips at the top of a breast.

"And here our 797-X begins its takeoff run." Drawing his well-formed lips slowly downward along the breast, yet at the same time raising his head because the breast's marvelous firm outward curve made him do that.