I’m nineteen years old. I slip a freshly injected plastic rear console piece and shove it in the press. Once done, I remove it, flip it, pop in six clips and then initial the bottom. Into the box it goes, tag, and send down the chute.
Yeah, I’m a factory dog. Shitty, repetitive, brainless work. Decent pay.
And there are so many hot people here. The shipping guy with the really pretty eyes scoops up the box and heaves it onto his cart. I stand there, waiting for him to send down my tags, tapping my foot and looking impatient.
He gives me the finger, smiles, and sends the tags down the chute.
I blow him a kiss and he shakes his head, laughing, before moving on to the next assembly area.
“Having fun yet, Seph?” A voice asks from behind me and I turn to see one of the Quality Control guys, Ryan, standing next to my table.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, of course.”
“You know, one of these days, I’m going to find a part of yours that’s bad.” He wags a finger in my face.
“Never going to happen.” I try to grab his finger, and miss.
He laughs at me. “Oh, it will.”
“And what are you going to do about it, spank me?” I sort my tags and prep an empty box.
“I think that would get the message across, yeah.” Ryan and I have been flirting like this back and forth for the entire two months that I’ve been working here.
I wink at him and grab a fresh part to insert it into the press. “Well then you can just stand there and wait, and I’ll make bad part right now.”
“That’s more like it.” He grins and then turns to make his way back over to the quality table.
I chuckle to myself. The little blonde shit is cute, but he’s all talk. Nothing is ever going to come out of it. He probably wouldn’t be able to handle me anyway. Harmless fun.
A shipper drives by, and my heart skips a beat. It’s my favourite. This girl, she’s definitely not harmless. She is the epitome of sexy butch dyke hotness. I practically melt every time she’s near me.
And she fucking knows it.
As she slowly drives the forklift past me, she shoots me a sly little grin and I don’t even have the mental capacity to return it.
I double check the part I just made to make sure I didn’t screw up in my girlish stupor. She’s so fucking gorgeous.
I don’t even know her name. This is the only factory I’ve ever been in that doesn’t have name tags.
It’s kind of nice, that little air of mystery everyone has.
I build about forty more parts, and glance at the clock. Everyone around me is filing out for lunch. I usually go fifteen minutes late, to avoid the rush at the coffee machine. Midnights make coffee incredibly popular.
But I like being all alone back here. It’s peaceful.
“I’d only kick you out of bed to fuck you on the floor,” a voice says hotly into my ear.
I practically jump out of my skin. I whip around, near severing my arm against the press, and stare up into the face of my amazing butch unicorn.
What a great line. Something tells me that she won’t be a unicorn for long.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Can I have you for lunch?” Her voice is husky and my cunt clenches.
Please, yes, dear god… but of course, that’s not what I say. “Well, you’re bold.”
“And you get all wet every time I look at you.” She takes a little step forward, and I look up at her helplessly. “That you’re not all wet right now.”
She reaches down and ever so lightly brushes her fingertips against the zipper of my black uniform pants.
I’m done like fucking dinner.
“Take me,” I moan and she grins wickedly.
Before I know it, she’s scooped me up, we’re sitting in the forklift, and she’s driving full speed ahead to god knows where. If there is a god, he knows I don’t really care.
And then I’m in the back warehouse somewhere, spread legged and trying not to scream with pleasure atop a mound of bubble wrap. Her face is buried between my legs, working my pussy like a pro. I gag myself on my arm, biting down. I can’t feel the pain—nothing matters except Forklift’s expert tongue.
We probably should be eating lunch, restoring our energy for the toughest four hours of the shift. Instead, we’re expending our energy on sex.
Do I care? Oh, oh, OH… no.