School for Nurses (16 page)

‘Not yet,' he said. ‘We've got time before the exam.'

‘I want you to go!'

‘Kneel under the piano,' he commanded.

For some reason, she obeyed him without another word. Then he sat down on the bench and played the Grieg, softly and beautifully, while she followed his orders. ‘Suck me,' he said, and she knelt between his legs and reached into his underwear. She couldn't believe the size of his cock, and after seeing it she didn't need any further instructions. She licked his pulsing helmet, and a drop of pre-cum added a pleasant salty tang to the flavour of his skin on her tongue. She licked him up and down, tonguing his balls, and then sucked him hungrily, taking him deep into her mouth. The piano piece got louder and louder as she caressed his helmet with her throat, her eager and experienced tongue and lips urging him to come in her mouth as he played the final chords of the Grieg so she could swallow every last drop of his sweet come at the same time.

Afterwards, he went away for an hour to take the exam. Then he came back and got into bed with her and she opened her legs as wide as she could for him, sighing with pleasure as his erection sank into her blonde bush. He licked and bit the nipples of her sweet breasts as his strong young rod diving swiftly and energetically into her pussy made her ride wave after wave of pleasure. Then he turned her over and examined the still rosy cheeks of her bottom, making her blush all over as he slid a curious finger between them into her dimpled little hole. She came again helplessly as he finger-fucked her anus. After that, he made her sit naked at the piano and play the whole of the Grieg for him while he knelt between her legs and kissed and licked her pussy until she lost sight of the notes as she climaxed again. Nearly blind with pleasure, she kept playing the piano for as long as he skilfully kept playing her trembling, vibrating body, the notes ringing in her head and coming beautifully alive in her blood as she came again, and again.

 

 

 

I like to tease checkout clerks. I've got thirty-six DD breasts and honey-blonde hair, and I like to wear low-cut sweaters at least one size too small for me over tight skirts -
really
tight skirts. When I go to the supermarket I always reach into my trolley, deep into my trolley, so almost my whole bum is exposed when I bend over, and the male clerks all look at me helplessly from behind their tills and credit card stands. And then I like to hold an item just in front of my big breasts. More often than not, my nipples are erect. I don't like to wear a bra and it's chilly in the supermarket, and I'm also excited by what I'm doing to all these guys. I stand there holding something, a little can of peas for example, in front of my chest, which the clerk I've chosen as my target tries hard not to look at as I bend down over his little plastic stand - to give him a good eyeful - and say, very throatily, ‘These peas, are you sure they're marked the right price?'

He blushes, and very gingerly takes the can of peas from between my breasts. I always wear a short-sleeved jumper, even in winter, under an open coat. They call for the manager to come and check the price, or if the manager isn't around, they do it themselves. They get up, trying to hide the erection inside their supermarket uniform trousers, and step out from behind the till to go check the price.

It's always the same. I find cans in out-of-date displays, or a type of pizza that's just gone off sale, or a brand that's just like the brand on sale only a little different, and I usually get a refund. Only sometimes, and these are the times I like the best of all, there's no refund to give and it was my mistake all along and they apologise to me for the inconvenience. They mutter, ‘Sorry miss, I'm afraid you'll find...' Or they say, trying to sound firm, ‘No, that's the price, all right.' Or they might say, ‘We can't find any other price label, madam, I'm sorry.' The point is, they all say they're sorry, and then look down at my generous bosom and smile slightly, glad to have me standing there while they hand me back whatever it was I had them pricing. I laugh happily in their faces, and then they all stare at my bottom in my short tight skirt as I walk out of the store. They all look hungrily at my shapely buttocks as I saunter out, all of them except for Ron, the manager. I rather suspect he's got it in for me, has Ron.

 

It started the day I saw the new sign behind the head cashier's desk on the way out of my local supermarket, where Ron works. The sign said,
Price Corrections and Verifications on Request. Client Privileges Applied
. I asked a blond checkout clerk whose nametag said
Damien
, what this new sign meant.

‘No idea,' he replied, ‘manager's special.' And he went to check the price of a can of butter beans I gave him. I was wearing shorts because it was summer, and hot. My long legs were tanned the colour of gingerbread; I had been away on holiday by the sea just the week before. Maybe Ron had cooked this scheme up while I was gone. I hummed, and Damien came back a few minutes later with the butter beans. ‘No, that's the price, Miss Waterford,' he said, and smiled at my breasts.

‘How do you know my name?' I asked, the first nervous peeling of alarm bells going off in my head. I can feel when something isn't right even if I can't consciously put my finger on it.

‘My manager,' Damien smiled, still looking at my shirt stretched tight across my left breast where the strap of my handbag pulled on the cloth. Then he glanced down at my legs. ‘He said that was your special price, Miss Waterford, and he has a Client Privilege reward to give you.' He pointed at the Service Desk overlooking the store.

I made my way, nose twitching with anticipation, to the booth where Ron sat in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled-up. ‘Miss Waterford!' he exclaimed in apparent delight, smiling at me. ‘How good of you to stop by.'

‘You have something for me?' I said, tugging my handbag across my breasts. Ron was one man I didn't like teasing directly. He had a way of looking at me that didn't just undress me, it had me face down across a bed and spread-eagled with hand-cuffs at my wrists and ankles. That was the kind of look he gave me, and I didn't care for it.

‘Client Privilege,' Ron stated, and slipped a gold card across the counter towards me. I reached out for it, but he plucked it back behind the glass partition out of my reach. ‘Forms must be signed first,' he said.

‘What's to sign?' I asked impatiently. ‘Is it mine, or isn't it?'

‘It's yours if you agree to the conditions,' he replied, and smiled at me over his glasses. I noticed that he had very large, strong white teeth. ‘Would you like to agree to the store's conditions, Miss Waterford?'

‘Yes,' I said, and promptly signed the form he gave me, because that's the kind of girl I am. I shop there every day. What could they do to me, bar me from the store? Not likely, not when they all live to see my tits. He handed me the gold card, and it was a store credit for a hundred pounds. I took the piece of plastic from him, and got all hot at the thought of what I could buy myself with it. I love chocolate, so I tottered off in my high-heels. I felt his eyes on the cheeks of my bottom, peeking out of my short-shorts, all the way across the concourse, until I walked past the tills and out of his line of sight.

I found out about the small print in the agreement I had signed the next day when I bought a giant panda full of chocolate. It was marked down, made of milk-chocolate and full of cream. I wanted it, so I took it to the checkout counter and paid with my gold voucher. Then I asked the clerk, it was Damien again, about the price. At that moment Ron appeared as if by magic from behind the adjoining till. He had a form in his hand. ‘Miss Waterford,' he said.

‘Ron,' I said.

‘It pains me,' he began, shaking his head.

‘Not half as much as it pains me,' I said. ‘The bear's priced wrong.'

He put his hand under my arm - my bare, slender arm with its fine dusting of blonde hairs that all the checkout clerks had been drooling over for years. He not only touched my arm, he grabbed a hold of it and hustled me off into the cosmetics aisle, which was empty at the moment. Damien followed us.

‘It pains me to remind you, Miss Waterford,' Ron began again, only I could tell it didn't pain him at all, really, ‘about the agreement you signed...'

‘Amanda, if you must,' I snapped, ‘and don't touch my arm.'

‘I am within my rights, Miss Waterford,' Ron assured me soberly. ‘I can touch your arm, indeed, I can touch your head, your elbow, your knee, any part of your body I please. The agreement you signed, Miss Waterford, has been breached.' And he held up the form with my name on it so I could read the paragraph now circled in red:
Clients abusing the privileges of the supermarket-client relationship agree to compensate the supermarket with supermarket-client privileges at the management's discretion. Failure to cater to the supermarket privilege provision will result in prosecution. The client will compensate the supermarket for any costs incurred in levying privileges from the client
.

‘What does it mean?' I asked, feeling a little sick and dizzy suddenly. Those small alarm bells were not just ringing in my head now, they were tolling ominously.

‘You owe us privileges, my dear,' Ron replied smugly. ‘You owe me, the management, Damien here, and a host of other checkout tellers up and down the aisles, as well as the shelf stackers and meat handlers and dairy inspectors. In short, you owe everyone. You've wasted the firm's time. That bear costs exactly what it says on the label, doesn't it?'

‘Um, maybe...' I stammered.

‘You knew that when you asked for the price check, didn't you?'

‘I... you can't prove that!' I blurted.

Ron pulled small scraps of paper from his pocket, and I saw they were receipts, dozens of them. ‘Thirtieth of June, thirty-first of June, the first of July, the second, the third, the fifth and the seventh of July, a break of two weeks - oh blessed peace - and then yesterday, and seven days before that... you have a record, Miss Waterford. You love to cost us time and money.'

‘What can I do?' I whispered, my head spinning. I had signed the agreement, there was no doubt about that; my signature was swimming before my eyes. I don't like papers with my name on them, except checks made out to me, of course, and now I knew why.

He took me into the back room through wide plastic doors made of clear sheeting where the trolleys always come from, and Damien followed us in. We were facing a wall of sugar bags stacked on steel trays, hundreds of them. ‘Count them,' Ron said.

‘But there's so many,' I protested. ‘I don't know where to start.'

‘All right.' He smiled triumphantly. ‘You want to know what you can do instead?'

I nodded.

‘Make him happy.' He pointed at Damien.

I looked at the checkout clerk, and he looked at me... well, at my breasts. ‘What am I going to do for him?' I asked quietly.

‘Well, for starters, you could take your top off,' Damien replied, ‘and climb on those sugar bags.'

‘In your dreams!' I was in charge of myself enough not to let the tears burning behind my eyes make my voice quaver.

‘Exactly, Amanda, exactly, in his dreams. Dreams are what we make come true here at the supermarket, in our small way. A chocolate bear. You were happy for us to give you that, weren't you, Miss Waterford? You were perfectly happy to let us
give
it to you for
free
. Having wasted all of our time as selfishly as you have for years, don't you think you should make at least one of Damien's dreams come true today? What will it cost you, a little pride?'

‘I don't strip like a common tart,' I retorted, my face burning with an indignant blush. ‘And I certainly have no intention of stripping in a supermarket warehouse. What do you think I am, anyway?'

‘Is there anything wrong with supermarket warehouses, Amanda?' Ron glared at me over his glasses.

‘Yeah,' Damien piped in, ‘what's wrong with us?'

Ron then appraised me of the considerable cost of bringing a case to court. I don't earn that much, certainly not enough to even think of engaging a solicitor to defend me in court. He assured me that the corporate office would back him in his case against me. It hated all the man hours lost to sensation seekers like me. That's what he called me, a sensation seeker. Then he told me again to take my top off and climb onto the sugar bags. I blushed even more deeply, but I put my handbag down. Damien was standing right beside me. I protested again weakly, but Ron just looked up at the ceiling and sucked air through his teeth impatiently. I took a step back away from them both, and found myself touching the sugar bags with my bottom. I blinked tears out of my eyes as I gripped the hem of my top, pulled it slowly up over my head, and then quickly covered my naked breasts with it.

‘I can't see her,' Damien said.

‘Never mind,' Ron told him. ‘Up on the bags, my dear girl.'

‘How can I...? I mean, can I have a ladder, please? If not, I'll have to take my hands...'