Women in Uniforms I
The polyester of the unisex cleaner's uniform chafes against my thighs, trapping the midday heat against my skin. It smells of industrial bleach and the ghost of a thousand previous wearers—sweat and cheap laundry detergent. I scrape the putty knife against the asphalt, prying up a wad of hardened, neon-pink bubble gum from the entrance plaza of the park. The sun beats down on the back of my neck, sticky and relentless.
Across the plaza, Zanye leans against the railing of the VIP viewing deck. He's a sharp contrast to the grime under my fingernails. His Italian suit is charcoal grey, tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders, the fabric shimmering in the sunlight. He holds a clipboard, but he isn't looking at the attendance records. His eyes are locked on me, dark and assessing, tracking the flex of my calves as I shift my weight. I ignore him, focusing on the stubborn gum, but I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, crawling up the loose fit of my uniform.
Hours bleed away. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues. The screams of the riders fade, the mechanical churn of the rides halting one by one until the park is a graveyard of steel and neon. The silence is heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the generators.
I'm in the Hall of Mirrors now. It's the worst job of the night. Some kid dumped a super-sized slushie near the exit, and the sticky, sugary syrup has attracted every insect within a mile. The air in here is stale, recycled, smelling of old popcorn and floor wax.
I spray the glass with cleaner, the ammonia stinging my nose, and wipe it down with a rag.
The door creaks behind me. The heavy steel latch clicks shut.
I don't turn around immediately. I keep scrubbing the pink smear, my arm moving in rhythmic circles. But I see him in the reflection of the mirror I'm cleaning—or rather, a distorted, funhouse version of him.
Zanye's reflection is stretched thin, his legs elongated like a spider's, but the smirk on his face is perfectly intact.
"You missed a spot," he says. His voice is low, smooth, like velvet.
I stop wiping. I look at his reflection, then turn to face him. He's closer now, just a few feet away. The expensive scent of his cologne—sandalwood—cuts through the ammonia smell.
"I'm not done yet," I say, my voice flat.
"I didn't say you were." He steps forward, his dress shoes clicking on the tiled floor. "I like watching you work."
He reaches out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm, soft like I expected. He traces the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip, pulling it down slightly.
"You look ridiculous in this thing," he murmurs, his fingers sliding down to the collar of my uniform.
"But I bet you look even better out of it."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His hand moves from my collar to my chest, palming my breast through the coarse fabric. I gasp, my breath hitching in my throat. He's not gentle. He squeezes, hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, moulding it to his hand.
"Fuck," I breathe, my head falling back against the slick glass of the mirror behind me.
"Yeah, that's it," he growls, stepping closer so his hips pin me against the glass. I can feel the ridge of his cock, hard and thick, pressing against my stomach through his suit trousers. "You've been walking around in this tight little number all day, bending over, showing off these tits. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
He grabs the zipper of my uniform and yanks it down. The sound tears through the quiet room. The fabric falls open, exposing the plain white cotton bra underneath. He hooks a finger in the centre cup and pulls it down, freeing my breast. The nipple peaks instantly.
"Look at that," he says, his eyes dropping to my chest. "Perfect."
He ducks his head, his hot mouth sealing over my nipple. His tongue swirls around the peak, rough and wet, before he sucks it deep into his mouth. I cry out, my hands flying to his shoulders, clutching at the expensive weave of his jacket. He bites down gently, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain straight to my girly zone.
"Zanye," I moan, my hips bucking against him involuntarily.
He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting his lip to my nipple. He looks at me, his eyes dark with lust. "Look around, Harper-Rose. Look at the mirrors."
I force my eyes open. We are surrounded by reflections.
In one mirror, I'm tall and thin, my legs stretching for miles. In another, I'm short and wide, my breasts looking massive. In the curved glass to my left, I see us from the side—Zanye's dark head bent to my chest, his hand roughly kneading my flesh, my face contorted in pleasure.
"I want to fuck you in every single one of these reflections," he says, his voice raw.
"I want to see you take my cock in a hundred different ways."
He spins me around, facing the mirror. My hands press against the glossy glass, leaving smudges from the cleaning fluid. He kicks my feet apart with his shoe. I hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper lowering.
"Brace yourself," he commands.
I feel the blunt head of his cock nudging against my entrance. I'm soaking wet, my juices dripping down my thighs, coating my skin. He doesn't prep me. He doesn't ask. He thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one glorious stroke.
"Ahhh!" I scream, the sound echoing off the glass. He fills me, stretching me wide, the heat mixing with the intense pleasure.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, gripping my hips. "Such a greedy little slit."
He starts to move, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. The slap of his hips against my ass is loud, obscene.
Smack, smack, smack.
The sound bounces off the mirrors, amplifying the filthiness of the act.
Puck! Fuck! PucK!
I see his pecker in me. My sheath of flesh encircles his pecker. My hold. My grip. My private perfect girdle of stretched girly skin.
"Oohh! Oohh!" as I fog the glass.
I look up. In the mirror directly in front of me, I see my tits bouncing with every thrust, swaying heavily. I see Zayne behind me, his face twisted in ecstasy, his teeth bared. In the wavy mirror next to it, the motion is distorted, making his thrusts look erratic, manic.
"You like that?" he grunts, reaching around to grab my breast again. He pinches the nipple, rolling it between his fingers. "You like being fucked like a dirty little cleaner in the Hall of Mirrors?"
"Yes," I gasp, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick glass. "Yes, fuck me harder."
He obliges, pistoning into me with a relentless rhythm. The friction is incredible, his cock dragging against my inner walls, hitting that spot deep inside that makes my eyes roll. I can hear the wet sounds of my pussy—squelch, slurp—every time he drives into me.
"Look at you," he pants, his breath hot against my ear. "Look at all the ways I'm ruining you."
He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and aching. Before I can protest, he flips me around again, lifting me up as if I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist, my back against the mirrors. He lines himself up and impales me again, sinking deep.
"Oh god, Zanye!"
My arse imprint smears the mirror.
He fucks me standing up, using the leverage to pound into me with bruising force. My back slides against the glass, the shiny surface shocking my heated skin. I look over his shoulder and see the reflection of his ass clenching as he thrusts, the muscles in his back rippling under his shirt.
"I'm gonna cum," I whimper, the pressure building low in my belly, coiling tight like a spring. "Don't stop, please don't stop."
"Aahh! Aahh!"
"Cum for me," he demands, his voice rough. "Soak my fucking cock, you slut."
He shifts his angle, grinding his pelvic bone against my clit. That's all it takes. The coil snaps. My orgasm rips through me, violent and total. I scream, my nails digging into his shoulders, my pussy clamping down around his meat.
"Fuck, yes, milk me," he groans.
He thrusts into me once, twice, three more times, then buries himself deep with a guttural roar. I feel him pulse inside me, hot spurts of cum painting my insides. He holds me there, pinned against the glass, both of us panting, sweat dripping down our temples.
Slowly, the ringing in my ears fades. I become aware of the cool air against my skin, the smell of sex and bleach mixing. Zanye lowers me to the ground, but he doesn't step away. He keeps his hands on my waist, his forehead resting against mine.
I look past him at the mirrors. In the distorted glass, we look like creatures of lust—twisted, elongated, infinite. The cleaner and the manager's son tangled together in the dark.
"Clean up on aisle five," he murmurs against my lips, a lazy smirk spreading across his face.
I let out a breathless laugh, smoothing down my uniform.
The mess on the floor is still there, the pink slushie stain mocking me.
But somehow, it doesn't seem so important anymore.