Sheila was the kind of flirtatious, outgoing girl who got attention no matter where she was, what she wore, or what she did. While some of the other girls at the restaurant didn't like her (due to jealousy), most did, and there wasn't a guy who did not salivate when she was around. Sheila loved all the attention, that much was obvious, but at twenty-four, she no giggling girl. She was well aware of her effect on men.
Waiting tables was my first real job. I was twenty years old, halfway through college, and while my parents were paying my rent and tuition, the business they ran had begun to struggle. Bottom line, if I wanted to stay in school, I needed a part-time job to cover basic expenses and my car insurance.
I was more than a little surprised to be hired at the restaurant called Jersey Jack's, especially as a server. I had no experience to speak of, but there was something about me that the hiring manager liked. Next thing I knew, I was showing up for training the following Monday.
I met Sheila that first day. I have to admit, her bold, casual sexuality was intimidating, and I didn't say more than two words to her when we were introduced. But I sure as hell looked. The restaurant was casual; our uniform consisted of blue jeans and yellow polo shirts, and Sheila filled them both out deliciously. She had smooth, dusky skin, a slender dancer's figure, and an angelic face that belied her mixed Greek and Asian heritage. Sheila had the most luxuriously long, straight brown hair that she always kept in a ponytail at work, revealing a sleek and very kissable neck.
After the first few weeks, I got over my nervousness and innate shyness and proved to be fairly good at waiting tables. The job turned out to be more lucrative than I had expected, and I began to feel better about working just twenty hours a week. I made some new friends, hung out with them now and then after work (they knew a bar where I wouldn't be carded), and generally started becoming more extroverted.
But whenever I saw Sheila . . . my mouth went dry and my palms grew damp. I couldn't say anything to her without stammering, and I was in danger of seizure if I spent more than a second looking into her deep brown eyes.
Up until that point, I had only had two 'real' girlfriends. I had neither the confidence nor the suave nature to approach girls, even though I was supposedly handsome enough. The few times I managed to get a date, it was with girls who were just as conservative as I, looking for relationship material. My sexual experience was pretty limited, with the majority of my fantasies unfulfilled.
Fantasies which, suddenly, starred sexy Sheila. I found myself masturbating practically every day to her image, imagining torrid sexual encounters in the walk-in cooler at work, or in my car or apartment. In my fantasies, Sheila was a sultry, eager, seductive playmate for whom everything was enjoyable.
Little did I know . . . .
Eventually, of course, I got to know Sheila a little better, through casual conversation, rumor, and observation. She was devoted to her boyfriend, a guy about thirty years old, I figured, who came in now and then to see her. By all accounts, he was a good guy, who did not seem to mind that his girlfriend was an outrageous flirt. But I noticed quickly, however, that despite her flirtatious nature, Sheila never let it go too far. Though she would go out with us after work, and hugged and kissed a lot, she stopped there. By all accounts, she was faithful to her attorney boyfriend.
Obviously, that just made all the guys want her more. And I was one of them.
***
Three months into my employment at Jersey Jack's, I was looking forward to the holiday break from school. While it meant that I would be working more at the restaurant, the additional money would come in handy for Christmas presents. And it did, of course. By the 20
th
, I had finished all my holiday shopping and was enjoying the excess. Although, some days, after being on my feet for twelve hours straight, I couldn't have cared less about the money. I just wanted to get home and get some sleep.
That Thursday night, I was glad to get out. I had been working all day, and had the greasy skin and restaurant smell to show for it. Sure, I also had just under two hundred bucks for my troubles, which helped to assuage the tiredness in my muscles and the tension in my neck. Having turned down an offer to hit the bar that night, I headed out to my car.
Decembers in the Southwest are typically pretty mild, and that particular season was no exception. We were getting daytime highs in the mid-seventies, with the warmth lingering long after nightfall. I was enjoying that warmth as I strolled through the darkened parking lot. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and—
"Fuck!"
I looked to my left, spying a white Toyota in the shadows of the parking lot. It took me a moment to recognize it as Sheila's car. I saw her throw open the door and step out, looking obviously perturbed. She kicked her car a few times and pulled at her hair, which, I noticed, had been released from its ponytail. It flowed down her back like a cape, hanging just below the cheeks of her tight, round little ass. She still wore her jeans, of course, but had doffed the work polo, revealing a tight white halter that revealed her narrow waist and the exquisite shape of her breasts.
"Sheila?" I called, moving toward her.
She looked in my direction, her beautiful features contorted in exasperation. "Fucking car!" she exclaimed, and kicked the front bumper again. She winced, hopping on one foot as she held the other.
I jogged over, just in time to catch her as she toppled back. Sheila fell right into my arms, her hair covering my face for a moment. Despite the fact that she had worked as long a day as I had, she smelled sweetly, almost fresh from the shower.
"You okay?" I asked her, seeing little through the veil of her long, soft strands.
"Um . . . Nate?" she asked tentatively.
"Yeah."
"You're groping my boobs."
I had not realized I was doing so, but the moment Sheila spoke the words, I could feel her firm little mounds filling my hands. Evidently, in catching her, my hands had slid up her body. "Oh," I said simply, and pushed her up. I turned away sheepishly as Sheila smoothed down her shirt. "I didn't do it on purpose."
She laughed softly. "It's okay, Nate. Thanks for catching me."
I shrugged, feeling sheepish and embarrassed. At the same time, I relished the brief memory of having actually touched . . .
held
. . . those perfectly round tits . . . .
"Um . . . car trouble?" I asked.
She sighed heavily, taking out her cell-phone. She pressed a couple of buttons, held the phone to her ear. After a few moments, however, she snapped the device closed and huffed. "Mother fucker," she seethed under her breath.
I watched her a moment, admiring her face in profile. Sheila was a tall girl, maybe just an inch shorter than I, with classic cheekbones and the oval face inherited from her Chinese mother. She had a tiny nose, slightly upturned, and full, soft lips that presently quivered.
"Hey, um, if you need a ride—" I began.
