Smut Marathon Challenge 5

I’m still in, running along with the other contestants of Alison Tyler’s Smut Marathon. The last few challenges didn’t really feel like complete little shorts to me and so I didn’t post them here, but this one — it made second place — fits just fine.

Mia is sitting on the bench outside again. That’s not her real name, I don’t think, but she has been occupying such a large part of my day, of my thoughts for so long, it stopped feeling appropriate to call her the girl, the girl who sits on a bench outside my shop. Sometimes she reads, sometimes it looks like she might be revising notes she took in class. A lot of the time, she just sits there, breathing. I image that she’s a lit major, one of those people who believes that you have to engulf yourself in the throngs of people to let inspiration come, and sometimes she does scribble things in a little black note book. At other times she just watches people, or lies back on the bench, her skinny knees at a steep angle and lets the world pass her by.
 
She doesn’t know I’m watching her. I run a small, tasteful adult store in a pretty part of town. We get angry letters from time to time, but we hold book signings and classes, and the window display is tame as it could get and so nobody managed to shut us down. Still, it means that the glass is covered in a protective film. From the outside, all you see is a gently lit display of some books and two suggestive plants in front of a pastel tinted background, but from the inside, the pastel film is transparent.
 
I watch her, and she has no idea.
 
It felt creepy once, but like with most things, repetition erodes inhibitions. She watches the shop, too. Sometimes, I’m even convinced that this is what she’s really after – a look at my customers, the way a person feels when they enter and exit an adult store. And like any fine researcher, she watches, rather than to venture into dangerous territory herself.
 
It’s an unseasonably hot day in June. She’s wearing a skirt that keeps riding up her naked legs, still creamy white at the very start of the summer. She stretches and leans back, and I watch her with my hand between my legs. The shop is open, but empty. I am surrounded by beautiful, sleek top-of the line vibrators, but I don’t reach for the merchandise; the door could open any moment, and the pressure of my fingers is enough to enhance the moment anyway.
 
I slip them into my shorts, exhale a breath of pure joy when I find the slippery heat, inviting my hand, engulfing it. There’s a room in the back where I should be doing this, but I can’t take my eyes off her. I imagine she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, that she sits there at least once or twice every week just for me.  It makes sense when I have three fingers deep inside myself.
 
Her name is Mia because that’s what I want to moan when I come, looking out the window at her face.

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