The young man behind the counter is cute, red-headed, slender, muscular, and flustered. He is flustered by the customer with the cell phone and the obvious nipples, with the long dark hair, strands loose across her face, who is making (accepting?) involved in somehow, an obscene phone call as she looks at paper samples and pets the copy shop dog.

It's not like he can hear every word. She's speaking softly. But phrases like "I want you too," and "make me, big boy" float to his ears from her beautiful lips as she scratches the top of the dog's head.

It is difficult to tell whether she is talking to him, to the dog, or to the person on the phone, especially since her pure gorgeousness is so damned distracting.

The dog finally wins out. "Oooooh" she coos, crouching down, the tops of her breasts visible beneath her loose cardigan as he leans over the counter for a better look. "What a good doggy! You look just like my doggy, and you like getting petted too, don't you?" she continues, looking straight up at him, deep brown eyes like the dog's eyes boring into his soul.

Who, he wonders, more confused by the second, does the "too" refer to, him? her? her dog? the unseen person on the phone? Because yes, he certainly does like petting, and he hopes she does too, and images of petting her, the woman, not the dog, fly into his mind as she confuses him even further by asking him, at least he thinks she's asking him, "Does she get enough?" and he wonders fleetingly, if she does get enough, the woman, again, not the dog, though that is perhaps a legitimate concern, and if she would just lean over an inch or two more he could almost see her breasts in their glorious entirety.

She looks up at him, and laughs, laughs wonderfully and loud. "Of course I never get enough."

For a moment he thinks she has read his mind, she looks like the kind who could do that, but he realizes, at least he's reasonably sure, that she's talking to the phone again and he blushes as red as his hair.

She winks at him. That is unambiguous. People don't wink at phones, and he's pretty sure they don't wink at dogs. He finds himself unbearably hard.

"I'm making this poor guy nervous" she says.

He looks wildly around the shop wondering, who else might have witnessed their inappropriate exchange, sees nobody, so she must be talking about him, has managed to drag him into her world, into the unseen part of of her conversation.

"I think he likes me." she says.

Uncontrollable urges begin to well up inside him, urges to grab her, urges to run.

"Yes, he's very cute" she continues, standing, looking right at him, all confusion with the dog passed. "He looks just like you... well, thinner and younger, but otherwise exactly the same."

There is a pause, and then she shudders. "How hard a spanking?" she asks the phone, winking at him again, leaning over the counter, three buttons away from exposure, three fucking buttons, her elbows resting on the glass, one hand teasing the top button of her cardigan, teasing him. as fear, lust, and severe disorientation race through his already overloaded brain.

"Your slut," she whispers, loosening the button, and he is sure that she is speaking to the phone this time, but he is far beyond caring. Two fucking buttons, two fucking buttons are his entire universe, two fucking buttons and her hand, which has slipped inside the top, tweaking the nipple violently beneath the soft fabric, her tongue darting out as if to challenge his tongue to a duel. He could kiss her if he just leaned forward, but he is frozen as her hand retracts, holds the button, and pushes it through the button hole.

"I'm a very bad girl" she says. He agrees, no matter who she's talking to, because her hand is on the last button, undoing it, pulling the cardigan back, her breasts out on the counter, on the glass, nipples impossibly long, begging to be pulled and pinched and licked and sucked, her hand beneath one breast, the left breast, lifting it to her mouth, touching her own nipple with the tip of her own tongue, taking it full into her own mouth between her own lips as the bell on the door rings.

Her back is to the door. She is unhurried. The man who has just entered steps toward her slowly as she rebuttons her cardigan, the phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder. "Excuse me" she says demurely as she turns from the counter rebuttoned and steps past the man toward the still-closing door. Grabbing and opening it with one hand, she blows the clerk a kiss with the other, then disappears back into the reality of small town life without ever placing an order.

He anxiously awaits her return.