Jason nudged the convenience store door open, the bell chiming as he stepped into the hushed Saturday morning. Sunlight trickled through the smudged windows, painting faint lines across the floor. The cooler hummed softly, a steady drone, until Ayana popped up from behind the counter, setting a worn paperback aside.
She was a year older than him—nineteen to his eighteen—with a familiar ease that came from years of knowing each other. They'd been friends since he began working here.
She wore a short black skirt that barely hit mid-thigh, paired with tight gray leggings that hugged every curve of her legs—long, toned, and impossible to ignore. Her tank top hung loose, dipping low enough to tease the swell of her breasts when she shifted, a casual sexiness that hit Jason like a punch. She glanced up, catching him mid-stare, and flashed a lazy grin.
She looked up, offering a simple greeting, "You're early. Mom will come later. It's just us."
"Cool," he said, voice dry as he hung his jacket on the hook. His voice came out rougher than intended, and she smirked, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing under her chest, pushing her cleavage up just enough to mess with him. He turned away, busying himself with the register, but her presence lingered—sharp perfume, a mix of citrus and something darker, curling into his senses.
Ever since her breakup a month back, she had become even more zesty, at least towards Jason. She didn't mean much by teasing him, but she just liked to play with him. They had only met a couple of times in the past month, but she knew about Ariana going away, so this just made it more exciting for her to tease him. It was just her personality.
Then, they settled into the shift, a dance of restocking and small talk. Ayana moved past him to grab a box of chips from a low shelf, her hip brushing his thigh—soft, deliberate, lingering a beat too long. "Watch it," she teased, voice low, her breath warm near his ear as she squeezed by in the tight aisle.
Jason grunted, focusing on stacking cans, but the contact buzzed under his skin. She knew what she was doing—he could feel it in the way she didn't pull back, the way her eyes flicked to his when she caught him looking.
Minutes later, she bent over to rearrange a crate of sodas, skirt riding up as she stretched forward. The leggings pulled tight, outlining her ass, but then—fuck—the hem lifted higher, and for a split second, he glimpsed the outline of her pussy through the thin fabric, a faint shadow of what lay beneath. No panties, or maybe they were just that sheer. His mouth went dry, hands fumbling with a pack of gum he'd been sorting.
She straightened, tossing her hair back, and shot him a look over her shoulder. "Eyes up here, perv," she said, laughing softly, but there was a glint in her gaze—playful, daring him to keep staring.
He mumbled something incoherent, dropping the gum to the floor with a clatter.
"Jason," she quipped, stepping closer to hand him a stack of receipts, her fingers brushing his deliberately as she passed them over. Her nails grazed his knuckles, a light scrape that sent a jolt straight to his groin. "You're jumpy today," she said, tilting her head, her skirt shifting as she leaned a hip against the counter. "What's got you so wound up—girl troubles?"
"Nah," he lied, thinking of Ariana's text, Jenny's taunts, the dream that still clung to him like sweat.
Ayana arched an eyebrow, unconvinced, but let it drop, turning to grab a broom from the corner. She swept lazily, bending again—this time facing him—skirt hiking just enough that when she squatted to sweep under a shelf, he caught a flash of her inner thighs, the leggings stretched so tight he swore he saw the faint outline of her lips again. His dick twitched, half-hard already, and he shifted behind the counter, praying she didn't notice.
She did.
"You're staring," she said, standing, resting the broom against the wall. She stepped closer, too close, her chest brushing his arm as she reached past him for a pen. "What's the deal, Jason? Feeling a little extra horny today?"
"Shit," he muttered, but his voice cracked, and she smirked, pulling back to lean against the counter again.
Then it happened—she grabbed a soda from the cooler, cracked it open with a hiss, and took a sip. Mid-step, she stumbled—classic Ayana clumsiness—and the can slipped, bursting in a cold spray across her legs. "Fuck me," she laughed, shaking her dripping foot as soda soaked her leggings, turning them dark and glossy, clinging wetly to her skin like a second layer of paint.
She shook her head, then—without a pause—hooked her fingers into the waistband and rolled the drenched leggings down, peeling them off her legs. They hit the floor with a damp thud, and Jason froze. No panties. Her skirt barely covered her, and as she kicked the leggings aside, he saw it—her pussy, bare, smooth, a flash of pink glistening faintly in the store's harsh light.
She didn't notice at first, muttering about the mess, but when she caught his wide-eyed stare, she paused, then smirked—just a quirk of her lips, nothing over-the-top. "What? Never seen a girl ditch wet clothes before?" Her tone was light, Ayana-normal, but she stepped closer, voice softening. "You're a wreck today, Jason. Can't keep your eyes off me, huh?" He fumbled the receipts, scattering them, face burning. She tilted her head, skirt shifting higher as she leaned in. "You're no good like this. Go take care of it—jerk off in the back or something. I need you focused, not drooling."
He blinked, voice stuck. "You're kidding."
"Nope," she said, shrugging like it was practical advice, turning back to the counter. "Just hurry up—I'm not babysitting you all shift." She bent to grab her leggings, skirt lifting again, and he caught another glimpse—deliberate or not, it didn't matter. His dick throbbed, and he bolted to the storage room, door clicking shut behind him.
The space was tight, smelling of cardboard and stale air, but all he saw was her—those leggings sliding off, that bare flash, her voice calm but cutting. He unzipped, hand wrapping around himself, stroking fast, picturing her squatting, skirt up, thighs parted. Minutes stretched—he was lost in it, too slow—and the door creaked open.
Ayana stepped in, arms crossed, skirt still riding high from earlier. Jason jolted, panic spiking as he scrambled to cover himself, yanking his shirt down over his erection. "Shit—sorry, I—" he stammered, face burning, but she cut him off, unfazed.
"Relax, you can keep stroking," she said, voice calm but edged with impatience. "You're taking too damn long. I'll help you out—take out your dick and rub one out as fast as possible." She tilted her head, eyes glinting in the low light. "Now tell me, pussy or boobs?"
He froze, hand trembling, the question slamming into him like a freight train. "Pussy," he rasped, the word slipping out before he could think, raw and honest.
Ayana smirked, a slow, sharp curve of her lips, and stepped closer. She grabbed the hem of her skirt and yanked it up, revealing herself—bare, smooth, glistening faintly in the cramped room's glow. She held it there, standing over him, then shifted, bending her knees into a deep squat. Her thighs parted wide, pussy inches from his face, pink and open, the scent of her—musky, real—hitting him hard. "Do it faster, man," she said, voice low, insistent, her breath hitching slightly as she watched him.
That was it. Jason's hand flew, strokes desperate, her closeness—the wet sheen, the heat—pushing him over. He groaned, low and guttural, cumming hard, spurts hitting the floor in quick, messy bursts. Ayana stood, skirt dropping back, smirking faintly. "Great. Come out fast," she said, turning on her heel and slipping out, leaving the door ajar.
Jason slumped, panting, jeans still tangled, cum cooling on the concrete.
What the fuck just happened?