Felix M., 32, sanitation engineer, heard the ladies room door handle rattled and hinges burst inward. He checked his watch. Punctuality was a beautiful thing.
The dying fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. High heels clicked as she crossed the polished linoleum. Her purse swinging, a frantic, desperate heat in every action. She tried each stall, ignoring the urgent 'Out of Order' signs. Felix flinched as the silhouette passed his hiding place.
Who was it? The unsuspecting dame who had stumbled into his trap. 'The Royal Arms' was a dive, but DJ Turo was performing and that attracted a certain clientele. The bass thumped through the soles of his Bertulli lifts all night. The music had hit a lull now. He suspected the crowd had all escaped to their after's. Maybe a bottle girl, or a desperate sloppy-drunk straggler, or a lost coed out on a girl's night?
The beauty in the black dress was fighting the inevitable. No amount of glamour, or shots of liquid courage could hide what was inside. She'd made it this far. She'd almost won. But then, a terrible, stupid catastrophe occurred. The handle of the last stall-- his stall --rattled but held.
"Fuck!"
She pounded the door with desperate fists, raged against it like a bull trapped in a pen. The lock didn't budge. The only thing not worthless in the entire dumpy B- establishment was the thin metal latch standing between her and salvation.
The curses, the frustrated growls, the pants and sighs. The man with the key heard it all, every frantic step making his arousal spike. His legs cramped from hovering above the liner-covered seat for so long. He drummed his heels, trying to keep as little contact with the used space as possible.
A sharp grunt cut through the bathroom's hum. Felix leaned closer, his anticipation tightening. She'd come back to his stall. Her steps slowing as a fart fired out of her.
Felix fumbled for the gloves in his pocket. He stood to slide the latch to open - thump! - the door resisted.
Through the narrow gap he locked gaze with a smoky cat eye. What was she doing? He tried again but a firm push denied him. Her arms were braced against the stall. Felix could only imagine what was happening on the other side:
Her resistance faltered, collapsed under the pressure, and ended in a futile pouty stomp.
"Ungh..." Her husky groan. The sound of her relief nearly drove him to the edge. Loud, sloppy, and undeniably messy.
The air was thick with alcohol and the sharp tang of the restroom, but when a fetid stench surfaced above it all, he knew she'd finished up.
She came down hard, taking heavy, dragging breaths as she stumbled away.
He froze, caught in the pulsing silence, until her voice cut through: "Having fun in there?"
When Felix exited the stall, Genevieve L., 27, fashion designer, had dragged herself over to the sink and watched herself bend over the countertop. Her purse had slipped off her shoulder and dangled in the ditch of her elbow. She leaned close to the grimy wall-to-wall mirror, tongue swirling over her plump lips, gazing deep into her dark reflection.
He whistled at the view.
Her curves spilled out of her strapless handmade dress. Every step was a fascinating juggling act to stay modest. The absurd neckline sat at the tops of her hardened nipples. She adjusted. The movement lifted the hem in the back where it crept up over the misshapen bulge in her ruined black lace panties. The bikini-style bottoms provided full coverage but some of the mess had leaked around the cuff of her right buttock and left evidence on the floor. It would be helluva clean up.
"Mm. Felix, mon amour, look at the mess you made of me." That accent. Felix had seen a lot of imports in New York yet Genevieve still managed to stand out.
That was where they differed the most. Felix was a private man. Genevieve loved to be seen. At least tonight, at least for now, they were safe to enjoy each other in private. He took his time exploring her. It was his attention to detail which drew them together from across an ocean, that and they shared an appetite as dirty as the Seine.
Felix scrambled to get his sweaty fingers into his gloves. There were a few steps between them, they stretched to miles. He always got like this in the moments that mattered.
At the sound of the latex snap, Genevieve sucked her teeth. "Non," she said, eying him in the mirror. "You want to touch me, you touch me."
He hesitated. Her look sharpened to contempt. Only after he stripped the gloves off did she offer herself again.
He was breathless by the time he reached her. Leaning over the counter, legs parting in deliberate invitation. She performed a slow, hypnotic sway of her hips. He spanked her just to see it again. "Better?" The trembling had stopped.
He pinched her panties at the waistband where it dug into her side. Felix's hand lingered there, teasing the fabric higher. Be a waste to just dump it.
Genevieve's whip-thin eyebrow raised. "Oh!"
In one decisive move, Felix jerked the waistband up over her tailbone. The contents squished against her ample cheeks, spreading through the thin material.
No one thought of large, rough hands like his when they used the phrase 'gentle caresses'. But if she objected, she did so in soft moans, rolling her hips, grinding against the counter's edge.
Felix's hand slid upward. Her breasts were bare again, soft and full. He was always amazed by her creations. The dress practically removed itself.
"Amour," She suddenly twisted in his arms. Her gaze caught his, heavy-lidded and intrigued.
Her dark hair fell over him as she bent her neck, drew him into a kiss, biting at his lip as she pulled away. She equaled him in flats. Standing tall in six-inch heels, Genevieve lay her hands over his shoulders and pressed him down. She drove him lower, lower, and lower until he was kneeling on the freshly mopped tile floor.
She threaded a hand through his hair, rocking him closer to her dirty, dripping sex. "Time to work."
