A/N: Mature content (gxg), before the page break.

When you work at a sex shop, you see some real, random, and crazy-ass shit.

And I love it.

Except for the hourly wages, I don't love those. And the horn dogs that came in, wasted my time, and asked for 'demonstrations.' Dude, it's not a demo once I've shown you four times, each of which you've rubbed over your tented pants like you think I'm blind from your waist down.

Most of the customers at Adam and Eve, the owner of which I still thought missed a golden opportunity to open a spin-off store called Adam and Steve, fell into certain social groups. A prime example was the giggling bachelorette's party group. Under false claims that they ripped the bride's vanilla blinders off, they always settled on lacy lingerie sets and penis candy necklaces and rings for one night of drunken stupidity.

Repeat customers who were genuinely, even hardcore, interested in sexual experiences and intimacy were my favorite. They knew what they wanted, came in here because our mailing list informed them of new products, and were totally down for trying out that shit. I honestly adored each couple that I'd gotten to know through their little quirks, to the point where I comfortably suggested items and fuck, they listened and gave me product feedback. It was wonderful, by far the highlight of my otherwise shitty retail job.

By a California mudslide, my least, least, absolute least, favorite customers were horny, immature guys. With three, large, LA-based colleges within close proximity, I'd experienced no shortages of college horndogs the past three years. They were the worst, strutted in with chests puffed up, testosterone amped up as they laughed, joked even, about certain products. I bit my tongue but fuck, we both knew those tools were Five-minute Freds who fucked desperate girls missionary-style and couldn't find a g-spot if we sold maps to them here.

Which we do, just have to know how to read them.

People's sexual interests and kinks weren't funny. In fact, I applauded them and believed the more specific, the better. If Mr. Jameson liked to be hogtied by Mrs. Jameson on their dining room table with a jeweled ass plug stuck into both ends as their means to a closer connection, then that was fucking awesome.

What wasn't so fucking awesome, however, was getting up early to open the store. For me, that's nine am and, after nights like the one I had last night, damn near impossible.

"Shut the fuck up," I cursed at my phone like those words turned off my alarm, then flung my arm over the side of my bed and swatted my fingers out in claw-like swipes. The short distance it fell down to my bedroom floor was enough that the shrill alarm stopped. Both the alarm and impact crash still weren't loud enough that the near dead body next to me stirred.

"Hey..." I skimmed my fingers up the silky, buttery-smooth skin that tempted me way too much yesterday and partially into last night.

Fuck, it was fun though.

Like all my mistakes, I shouldn't have indulged in a double-dip but she'd offered and I couldn't have refused if I'd even tried. Her soft, nasally snores continued as I dragged slow, teasing movements up her inner thighs, which warmed her skin the higher I traveled. When my fingers outlined the swells of her round ass, I smirked at how beautifully dotted pink the flesh was from my hands' and teeth's efforts last night.

She'll probably bruise later... and thank me for it.

A tiny twinge of guilt threaded through me because I'd spanked Tink's ass until it was marked with my handprints, sank my teeth down in several semi-circular marks, even slapped it lightly with a gentle lambskin crop. While the lambskin felt like a gentle massage, I hadn't taken any care of her afterwards. The way she'd passed out, sweaty and sated, was sufficient enough for me but her ass definitely wore some swollen, pink evidence.

Another reason why I'm not a dominant, shitty aftercare.

I sure wasn't a dominant, or a submissive. I was the textbook-primed example of a sex-driven switch. Top, bottom, fuck inside-out even worked. Ask me to mix pain and pleasure? Of course. Dress me up and tie me down? Fuck yes. And, for fuck's sake, pick any hole you'd like because they all worked and fuck, they worked well.

Too well, sometimes.

My fingers avoided the larger blotches of pink, squeezed gently, then kneaded into the muscles under that perfectly rounded ass. She released a low groan but my ass grab barely nudged her out of her coma-like sleep.

"Wake up, beautiful." I added my lips and followed the same path my fingers traced, until the legs under me stretched straight, and quivered once my lips reached the apex within those milky smooth thighs. As naked as she'd been when she fell asleep, her mound was warm, smooth, and invited me right in.

"Too... early..." her raspy voice croaked out, as Tink rolled onto her back and tossed a sleeve-inked arm over her forehead. The splash of colors, my favorite decidedly being her rainbow roses, temporarily distracted me just as they'd done the first time I traced my fingers over them.

Her name wasn't really Tink, fuck no. But I called her Tinkerbell from the moment her pink-dress wearing ass pranced into the store like a Wet Dream pinup girl. She certainly looked like she'd been sent straight out of one of my wet dreams, from the six-inch heels and seamed stockings that elongated the legs she'd wrapped around my shoulders as I feasted on her pussy until she'd screamed. Within one round, I'd turned her chestnut-brown locks from adorably dolled up to messily freshly fucked, her bold red lips were wiped down to a pale pink, and rest of her black-edged 1940s style makeup was smudged all over my pillowcase.

Best part about girls? We hadn't enjoyed only one round. Fuck no, that had been just the start, evidenced by the fact Tink's pink dress was puddled onto my living room floor near the sofa.

"Tough." I crawled down lower and nudged her thighs wider open with my shoulders. "Wake up..."

My tongue flicked out between the seam of my lips when I saw part of her was awake, the part that counted. Her sweet, natural scent hit my nose as I nuzzled it over her folds and parted them until I found her pussy, pretty, pink, and shiny with arousal. With the tip of my tongue, I teased a path up her center slit, edged around her entrance, and sucked my lips leisurely on the small, red bundle of nerves near the top.

As expected, or at least I'd hoped, two hands clamped down on the back of my head. "Fuck, Delilah," she squeaked out in a high-pitched voice. "Ahh, right there, Dee..."

Like I assumed, her fingers wound through my hair and tugged me closer as her hips squirmed over my face. The warmth of her thighs clamped down on my ears as I threaded my tongue in deeper, coupled with one index finger inserted farther. While this girl wasn't tight, she was ultra-sensitive, and within minutes she thrashed uncontrollably against my morning wakeup call.

Which, fuck, for the record was better than the one I'd gotten.

After one orgasm more than what Tink gave me in the shower in all the best wet and slippery places, we awkwardly dried off and dressed. She graciously yanked on my black corset's back strings until my slight curves molded into the perfect hourglass shape, which I appreciated with a grunt. Under my ass' favorite black leather miniskirt, I slipped on a pair of black fishnet stockings, clipped them in place, and pushed my feet into my most comfortable black combat boots.

Pale as a vampire, after an even layer of concealer, I amped up my naturally deep blue eyes with light blue shadow, black liner, and mascara. Blood-red lipstick completed the look, always, reflected by the smirk Tink gave me as she fixed her own face. My freshly dyed hair was the perfect raven-black shade I wanted. My blunt bangs shone glossy as glass when I combed them straight over my forehead then wound the shoulder-length rest into two high buns. A few flicks of my fingers dragged a few stray strands down and framed my face.

Perfect. Let's go sell some sex products.

Once we finished whatever weird domestic shit this wasn't, Tink cupped my cheeks gently. An actual look of sorrow that I wanted to believe was genuine filled her warm brown eyes. "Why can't you be a lesbian, Dee?"

My head tipped back and throat tickled as I cackled like a witch. She'd asked me that same question last time and I'd had pretty much the same reaction whenever anyone even attempted to bring up monogamy with me.

She was lucky I'd given her a second round.

Must've been desperate.

Technically, I wasn't sure if there was a label for what I was, other than closet nymphomaniac... who'd gotten locked out of the closet. I was less concerned about who I liked and more what. Sex was all I had to offer any member of the same or opposite sex and fuck, I couldn't get enough of it. Men, women, straight, gay, trans, if a person had willing body parts that coaxed an orgasm out of me, then they were my type.

Okay, technically technically I wasn't so desperately horny that I fucked just anyone. A girl had to be picky with her vagina these days, as I'd learned the hard way. My standards were minimum but I still had them.

Jocks and meatheads were at the top of my short lists of fuck-no's because an arrogant ego was my biggest turn-off. Since I wasn't up for being anyone's dirty secret, closet lesbians and bisexuals landed themselves a solid second place on my list of no's. I'd flunked out of college with that attitude and hadn't looked back since, although saying my life had taken off since then was a laughable joke with me as the punchline. Obvious categories ended my list, which included convicts - yet the ex-convicts freshly out were high on my past performance ranks - people already within relationships, minors, seniors, etc.

"You don't want to share a whore like me," I reminded her with a smirk before she killed our sexy moment when she pressed her lips against mine. Like all girls, the warmth and softness behind her sticky lips tempted me but I broke away when she lingered.

"You... should go," I mumbled and tipped my head towards my shitty apartment's front door.

"Call me?" she asked just like last time, sweet but desperate, and my head shake of an answer also stayed the same.

Doing you a favor sweetheart, trust me.

"Thank you, Delilah." A pair of kind brown eyes sparkled at me.

"Of course, thank you," I smiled at Sonya, my 'could've-been-me in-a-dream' girl. Married for six years and beautiful as fuck, she shopped every one-to-two weeks here for efforts that spiced up her marriage. I'd met her husband Jeffrey, an amazingly sexy man who looked at his wife like she'd hung stars in his eyes.

Jeffery was the quintessential 'white unicorn' of male customers. I wasn't sure if it was him or his work in the construction business, but he was masculine, rugged, and confident, but willing and open to whatever pleased his wife.

I blinked a few times and Sonya's kind, pink-glossed smile stretched across her flawless facial features and still greeted me. "Let me know how those work out for you," I teased with a wink.

"I'm sure they'll look lovely crumpled up and ripped to pieces on my floor," she replied cheekily about the new designer crotchless numbers we'd just gotten in.

"The point is they don't have to be taken off," I reminded her with a wink. "Good luck."

At the expensive hit to my measly hourly wages, I appreciated how often Adam and Eve rotated through their inventory. My greedy hands always snatched up the severely discounted, freshly moved out inventory. In a somewhat competitive market, we sure weren't the only adult store in the area but our loyal customer service base kept my ass employed until I figured out my next moves.

I've been saying that for two years now.

Under the backdrop of looped elevator music, I roamed around the store for my hourly floor sweep. My hands straightened displays as needed and I restocked the edible underwear section for expired product dates. My nose wrinkled at the color and flavor options, both of which were faker than my hair color.

These things taste worse than the cardboard boxes they're boxed in.

The front doors chimed, four large, muscular figures stepped inside, and my heart sank inversely to how my irritation rose. My right hand rubbed over my forehead at the headache I knew these four, stereotypical college-aged buffoons brought with them as they trampled through the store with loud, heavy steps.

While the traitorous southern heartbeat between my legs pulsed at their large hands, veiny arms, and muscular thighs, I type-casted each one within a first glance.

The one who led them was the tallest, with broad shoulders and dark curly hair that looked effortlessly tousled. Dark five-o'clock stubble on his uplifted chin contrasted the uncertainty that flashed through his dark brown eyes as he searched around the store with a look best described as a child at their first dental appointment.

He's here for someone.

My lips rolled inward at a giggle that wanted to escape as he picked up a Deep Throat masturbation sleeve, then knocked over a few nearby bottles of lube.

And out of his element. He's like a bull in a sex shop.

A bronze-skinned, black-haired guy with thick eyebrows headed straight for the tamest part of the store, other than the lingerie department. The way he snapped pictures of every kind of vanilla candle screamed completely pussy-whipped. He wouldn't have wanted my opinion anyways so I turned my back on him.

The third one was a harder read. A ragged mess of brown hair poked out from the edges of a gray knit beanie and his brown eyes roamed over the edible food section like it was literally candy. I supposed it was but fuck, any candy tasted better than roped underwear and chalky nipple beads.

The fourth guy, who sauntered in first and strode up to the anal plug and nipple clamp glass display case as if he owned the place, was by far the worst of them. Tall, tanned skin, and with tousled dirty blonde hair that I was sure most girls swooned over, he puffed up his broad chest like a fucking male peacock that flashed its feathers. Blue-gray eyes locked on my breasts, then shamelessly undressed me, not that my tight outfit left anything to the imagination.

My eyebrows lifted when he picked up a purple cock ring, the newest Triple Ball model that had vibrating extensions for dual partner stimulation. Once I found the right dick, it was on my list of future toy considerations for sure. But, as far as initial impressions went, this knuckle-dragging meathead's only redeeming quality was the way he picked it up with no hesitation.

Sadly, this guy couldn't be further from the right dick if I picked him out of a naked lineup of the world's eight-inchers.

Since I expected that he twirled it around his fingers like car keys, I walked up as the scaredy cat guy approached his arrogant friend and asked, "The hell is that?"

"It's the Triple Ball," I cut in before their giant ass arms knocked over my carefully stacked display pyramid of them. With a pointed red coffin nail, I offered a most likely useless explanation, "Cock ring with a tight shaft grip, vibrations from the bullet, and swinging steel balls you'll both feel... Sorry, but I'm not sure you boys could handle it."

Scaredy Cat's face paled the more I spoke, so he was an obvious no. None of me trusted the glint that flashed in Arrogant Ass's eyes.

He's already mentally stripped me down to nothing.

I shivered slightly at the thought, and hated myself for having any reaction. Technically, I hated that almost as much as I hated his ridiculously handsome features, from the sun-kissed skin stretched tightly over his ripped biceps that looked bigger than my thighs, the faded gray T-shirt snuggly fit over the pillowy planes of his chest muscles, nicely tapered waist, and loose, dark-gray sweatpants that hung off his hips.

Why do guys look hot in sweatpants, when I just look homeless? Comfortably homeless, at least.

Guess I shouldn't complain too much, we do have yoga pants.

"Oh, I can handle," he boasted arrogantly and dragged his eyes over me again. My skin warmed under the attention, which oozed masculine, single brain-celled organism. By the time his full, pink lips parted, my head shook back and forth because I'd already anticipated his predictable, "Can you?"

"Better question is what can't I handle," I deadpanned and set the cock ring back in place because Scaredy Cat looked at it like it was a torture device. It kind of was, in a deliciously torturous, edged orgasm kind of way. "Can I help you guys find something? Because if you're just here bored as shit -"

Arrogant ass flashed me a grin that I was positive dropped panties for him and slapped a hand on Scaredy Cat's meaty shoulder. "This guy needs some serious help."

Jokes on you, asshole. I'm not wearing any - wait, they're here for help?

Understandably, the dark-haired guy, who was built like a linebacker, cursed and redirected his friend anywhere that wasn't within a ten-foot radius. Fuck, all four guys were as muscular as fitness models, the meatiest one the blonde who still eyed me like a fucking prime rib steak. But Scaredy Cat's cheeks flooded an adorable shade of pink the longer he stood completely still. My stone-cold heart softened when he threw me a look like he apologized for the existence of his idiotic friends.

Arrogant ass demonstrated either his hearing was bad or listening skills were absolutely shit. He only grinned wider at me. "I'm good."

He might think those lines work, but they really don't. Not on this vagina... stop pulsing, bitch.

His deep voice edged with a husk that I was sure he intentionally added and I hated my ears for how pleasant it sounded in them. Inwardly, I groaned every string of curse words I knew of and squeezed my eyes shut, like his unfairly handsome features disappeared along with that cocky ass smirk by the time I opened them. They hadn't, so I decided ignoring his existence was my best option and focused on Scaredy Cat.

As I suspected, he was here because of a girl. But I couldn't have guessed why even if I'd tried and nearly shit myself when he told me.

"I..." One of his large hands raked through those dark brown locks then rubbed the back of his thick, corded neck. "Accidentally threw out three-quarters of her dildo stash."

Talk about a dead man walking. I love some of my toys more than real people.

They're certainly a lot more loyal.

"Woah, and you're still standing? Dude." My mouth dropped open at his audacity or ball size, both of which would've been sushi-sliced if it'd been any of my toy stash thrown out. "You're lucky she didn't grab a strap on and peg your ass to a wall."

He was adorably apologetic and, surprisingly, open to my replacement suggestions. Any girl who owned twenty-eight dildos had impressively particular tastes, so I gave him three hopeful upgraded options while he turned redder the more fake dicks he clutched in his hands.

The entire time I walked Scaredy Cat through various options and he demonstrated his Mr. Jeffery-like, white-unicorn potential, I felt Arrogant Ass's eyes on me. When I wasn't behind a shelf or merchandise rack, they were on my ass. If my ass wasn't in view, then his eyes gazed at my line of cleavage like he wanted in with any part of him that I allowed.

My lady bits pulsed from the masculine attention but the rest of me couldn't have been less interested. I needed more than a pretty face and ridiculously cut body before my above-shoulder interest was stirred. Even though he stood silent from a respectable distance, the more he gazed, the more repulsive he became in my mind.

I knew this game, fuck I'd played and beaten this game. It was an old, and frankly tired, game. He was hot, he thought I was hot, and he wanted me. No soulmate heart-eyes were shared in our silent stare-off, just his desire that he wanted to fuck me in whatever way possible. Yet, the longer he kept up his greedy, heated gaze, the less I remembered last night's satisfactions.

By the time his friends collected their purchases, wherever his gaze landed, my skin heated. It tingled and rose with goosebumps, like those large hands roamed over it instead of his stormy blue eyes. They shifted in color and darkened the more he eye-fucked me like a predator.

A shiver ran down my spine because I hadn't felt like prey in a long time and fuck, it felt kind of nice... flattering.

No, it doesn't. He's a tool, probably playing me so he can brag to his friends...

My eyes drifted across the store, where I found the edible food rack completely cleaned out with an apologetic smile from Beanie Boy, every vanilla candle displaced and two tucked under Whipped Vanilla's elbows, and a polite but 'get me out of here' grimace from Scaredy Cat.

Well, maybe not these particular friends.

I thought I was in the clear when the three surprisingly normal, vanilla guys bought their purchases, but Arrogant Ass had other ideas.

My nose wrinkled as he browsed through the small men's clothing section and picked up a G-string leather speedo-style number. With a swing of the hanger's hook on his long index finger, his eyes flashed and his lips curled upward into a smirk. I was sure some girls found his forward intentions attractive but again, he just screamed 'arrogant asshole who needs to be pegged down at least ten notches' to me.

Positive this guy hadn't ever been told no enough in his life, I rolled back the sarcastic insults that played on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I coughed and dropped my eyes to his potential purchase. "Buying that for yourself or...?"

"What if I said I'm buying it for you?" he teased in a low, gravelly voice. In a moment of absolute mental insanity, I wondered how it felt when vibrating up my thighs, all the way up -

Lock it down, Delilah.

He's attractive but that cocky attitude, so gross. I bet he's contracted every STD listed in a medical book.

"I'd say it looks at least one size too big," I threw back at him. While every painful minute of my sales training urged me to complete the transaction, my worn-out patience had other ideas. So I dropped my eyes down between his legs, then flipped them back up to his. "Or two."

The smirk that curled up the corners of his mouth faltered slightly, only to be replaced with a hardened resolve. Mentally, my ego flipped a few cartwheels at the idea I'd slammed into his since I was tired of his ridiculous testosterone levels that practically clouded up the store's interior with hot, stale air.

"Where's the dressing rooms," he clipped out quickly, in a glorious tone of voice best described as bruised ego.

That's right. Turn, tuck your dick, and crawl back into whatever hole you belong in.

"Right there." I pointed to the signs near the back corner of the ground floor but mentally groaned at what I hoped -

"Let's go." He tipped his head in the direction and handed me the leather number. Before I answered, he challenged me over his shoulder, "Delilah."

The husk and cockiness he wrapped around my name shouldn't have affected me but it sure did. My feet still worked, so I glued them to the floor and lifted my eyebrows. "Why?"

"So I can prove you wrong."

I shouldn't have taken the bait, I shouldn't have bitten on the hook that rounded ass dangled ahead of me, one jiggled step at a time. But the arrogance he soaked my name in, the cocky assurance that he thought he had me wrapped around his finger for whatever the fuck he wanted, and assuredly tossed me aside once he was satisfied flared a spark of anger inside me.

He was a fuckboy, no doubt. And I knew only one way that unraveled a fuckboy.

Hopefully I don't get fired for it.