SpicyBean99
Word Slut
- Joined
- Oct 14, 2024
- Posts
- 1,353
Can writing about being market work be erotic
Deleted the first part to avoid post being taken down
We go to a fashion event after our shift. There are no changing rooms just tiny curtained areas in a white room with a large shared mirror. Half naked girls wondering around in corsets and heels, feathers adorning their hair. We have to promenade in front of everyone to see how the clothes fit. Everyone is dressed nice and pretty and clean. Jesse and I stink and don’t belong still in our dirty market clothes. I have a cured ham trotter in my bag and I can’t keep it from sticking out, I feel insane.
Afterwards we go to a French bar and get small glasses of red wine and Jessie gets a single boiled egg and the girls on the next door table comment on my trotter. I want to tell them we can be both stink and sweat and dirt and womanly and elegant. They should see how we hold our small knives with light grip, only the pin of our fingertips against the cheese rind, tilting the piece towards the customer to ask their preference.
Ovulating at work crouching on the floor with my knees apart, in front of the
rich men, feeling myself becoming wet whilst refilling the receipt paper. I will hand them slivers of prosciutto from my bare fingertips, that only so recently allowed themselves to play between my thighs. Light glimmering through the paper thin slices making them pinky transparent as they trespass the space between us to be greedily shoved into their salivating mouths, ask them if they like it.
Did you like it?
Deleted the first part to avoid post being taken down
We go to a fashion event after our shift. There are no changing rooms just tiny curtained areas in a white room with a large shared mirror. Half naked girls wondering around in corsets and heels, feathers adorning their hair. We have to promenade in front of everyone to see how the clothes fit. Everyone is dressed nice and pretty and clean. Jesse and I stink and don’t belong still in our dirty market clothes. I have a cured ham trotter in my bag and I can’t keep it from sticking out, I feel insane.
Afterwards we go to a French bar and get small glasses of red wine and Jessie gets a single boiled egg and the girls on the next door table comment on my trotter. I want to tell them we can be both stink and sweat and dirt and womanly and elegant. They should see how we hold our small knives with light grip, only the pin of our fingertips against the cheese rind, tilting the piece towards the customer to ask their preference.
Ovulating at work crouching on the floor with my knees apart, in front of the
rich men, feeling myself becoming wet whilst refilling the receipt paper. I will hand them slivers of prosciutto from my bare fingertips, that only so recently allowed themselves to play between my thighs. Light glimmering through the paper thin slices making them pinky transparent as they trespass the space between us to be greedily shoved into their salivating mouths, ask them if they like it.
Did you like it?
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