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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Gabriel Daemon
Photo used under a Creative Commons license by Corresponding Shapes.
By the Numbers © 2008 Gabriel Daemon
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
By the Numbers
By Gabriel Daemon
Chapter One
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, I figure – most did, and there wasn't a guy who did not salivate when in her presence. Sheila loved all the attention, that much was obvious, but at twenty-four, she was 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 restaurant experience to speak of, but there was something about me that Juan, the hiring manager, liked. Next thing I knew, I was showing up for food service 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, luscious brown hair 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 adept at waiting tables. The job turned out to be more lucrative than I had expected, and I began to feel better about working less than thirty 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 single second looking into her deep brown eyes. My reactions around Sheila were, I was certain, a source of constant amusement for her.
Up until that point, I had only had two real girlfriends, 'real' being defined as girls I had had sex with. 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 and inexperienced as I, looking for relationship material. My sexual experience was pretty limited, with the majority of my fantasies unfulfilled. I just figured that was how it was always going to be; fantasies, after all, were given that name for a reason.
My libidinous imaginings became quickly focused on sexy, brazen 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, no matter how depraved.
Little did I know . . . .
Eventually, of course, I got to know Sheila a little better, through casual conversation, rumor, and observation. She was apparently 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, of course, was no
different.
* * * *
Three
months into my employment at Jersey Jack's, I was looking forward to
the winter 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 twentieth
of December, 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 worked a double shift 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 in anticipation of a hot shower and some mindless TV.
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 to reveal a tight white halter that showcased 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, as if she had not spent a minute in the restaurant at all.
"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 pulled her up. I looked down sheepishly as Sheila smoothed down her top. "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. My imagination enabled me to reconstruct the tantalizing feel of stiff nipples against my fingers.
"Um, car trouble?" I managed to ask.
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 which, at present, quivered.
"Hey, um, if you need a ride—" I began.
She snapped her head around toward me. It was obvious that something was bothering her, more than an uncooperative car ever could. Her gorgeous brown eyes were wide, round, and practically brimming with tears. "You wanna get a drink?" she asked.
I
blinked. "Uh . . . sure."
* * * *
Sheila sulked in the passenger seat of my car, arms crossed beneath her breasts as she sat low in the seat. She stared at the glove compartment of the dash like a Tantrist in meditation, eyes wide and almost glassy. The muscles at her temples worked as she ground her teeth; clearly, whatever bothered her was serious and I was too timid to broach the subject.
"We, uh, we could go to Cooty's," I suggested, mentioning the one and only bar I knew I could get into without being carded. It was the usual hangout for several of us from the restaurant. I figured Angie, Teddy, and Mark would be there, and probably a few others.
Sheila shook her head. "I don't feel like being around people," she said.
I nodded in trepidation. "Oh-kay . . . ."
She sighed again. "I'm sorry, Nate. I didn't mean it like that. I like you. You don't make me feel like you're looking at me with X-ray glasses on."
I didn't know how to respond, but it suddenly struck me that Sheila was a woman who felt somehow cursed by her own obvious sexuality, even as she reveled in it.
"Hey, look," she said, sitting up in her seat as the passing streetlights flashed over her. "I know a bootlegger, on the west side. We can get a couple pints cheap, then just, uh, hang out for a while. Sound good?"
My heart suddenly flipped over, but I tried to stay cool. "Yeah, well, uh, um, sure. Sounds cool," I stammered. "You, um, don't have to, uh, go home?"
Sheila fell silent for a few long moments, compelling me to glance over. She was staring out the window. "No. I don't."
* * * *
We
pulled up to the house, and as Sheila indicated, I flashed my lights
a couple times, revealing a dilapidated structure that was badly in
need of fresh paint. The neighborhood was one that made me nervous;
we had seen numerous 'gangstas' and strung-out prostitutes walking
the streets as Sheila directed me to her bootlegger. I wondered how
she had come to know of a place like this.
A middle-aged black woman came out of the house, approaching my side of the car. Sheila leaned across me, all but forcing me to inhale her sweet scent. Her lower back and the tops of her taut cheeks were revealed, with sexy dimples framing a tattoo of a golden Chinese ideograph. "Pint of SoCo, and—" she looked to me expectantly, silently asking me what I wanted. I just nodded. I didn't know what the hell 'SoCo' was.
"Make it two," Sheila said, then leaned back, digging in her pocket as the woman walked away.
"I'll get it," I offered, reaching for my money.
Sheila shook her head, shooting me a stern look. "No, it's on me," she insisted. Her tone made it clear that she was not going to be argued with.
The woman came back with two small brown paper bags. Sheila reached over me with the money, and I took the bottles. The woman returned to her house, and I backed the car out. Sheila was quick to crack the top off one of the bottles and take a drink, sinking back into the seat.
"That's better," she sighed appreciatively.
For whatever reason, I started laughing. It was simple nervous tension, mingled with relief, again mingled with the constant state of arousal I felt at being so close to a woman who personified, in my mind, the very definition of 'sexy.'
Thankfully, Sheila began laughing as well, dark eyes glittering in the dim light.
* * * *
".
. . and then, he was, like, 'I bet you got great tits, baby,'"
Sheila was saying between spurts of laughter. Her cheeks were rosy
from the alcohol she had imbibed. She shook her head. "I was a
counter girl at Burger King, for God's sake! And he was, like, forty
or something!"
I chuckled at her tale, taking another swig from my bottle. 'SoCo,' I now knew, was short for Southern Comfort, a rich, potent, caramel-flavored liquor. I was starting to like it. Of course, maybe I was only enjoying the potable due to the cool breeze washing through the open windows of my car, and the gorgeous woman sitting beside me. Sheila had directed me to a small park at the edge of a quiet residential division, and I had pulled up beneath the heavy, broad boughs of an old red oak.
"I bet you get that a lot," I commented, looking for my cigarettes.
Sheila sighed heavily, settling her bottle in her lap. She stared at the ceiling. "When I was fourteen, I was walking home from school because I had cheer practice and missed the bus and my mom wasn't . . ." She laughed darkly under her breath, lowering her head and gritting her teeth. "Middle of the day, and this guy pulls up ahead of me. Flashes me twenty bucks and the most disgusting look I've ever seen. I couldn't believe it. I mean, who offers money to a girl like that?"
I looked to her, somewhat drunkenly, hoping my sympathy was obvious. "I'm sorry."
Sheila lolled her head toward me and smiled ruefully. "Don't think I ever ran so fast in my life," she said.
I held up my bottle in a toast. "Good for you."
Sheila grinned, then clinked her bottle against mine. "Good for me," she said, then drank. Her next words came out of the blue: "How many girls have you been with?"
The question almost made me choke on my cigarette. I pulled it away from my mouth and looked to Sheila. "What?"
She curled up on her side in the seat, facing me as she took little sips now and then. Every time her mouth puckered around the ridged opening of the pint made me think of a blowjob. "Come on," she said, seductively licking the edge of the bottle's mouth. "How many?"
I blushed, feeling almost ashamed. I rolled my shoulders, smoked my cigarette, watched the grey haze as it was sucked out the window before finally answering her query. "Two."
"'Two?'" Sheila repeated, sounding incredulous.
I could feel the redness in my face deepening, and set my jaw. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a stud."
She was quiet again, shifting onto her back as she tilted the bottle to her lips. "You know, when I was twenty," she said with a nostalgic air. "I had probably four or five boyfriends. Only time I ever slept alone was when I wasn't in the mood. Trust me, that didn't happen that often."
I stared at Sheila, not sure if what she was telling me was something she was proud of or not. At the same time, I wasn't sure if I liked what I was hearing. I had always thought of Sheila as the sexy flirt, yet practically chaste. A faithful girlfriend who enjoyed the attention of other men, but never let herself be compromised. But now, here she was, essentially admitting she had once been a slut.
I flicked my cigarette out the window. "Yeah, well . . . now you really got someone," I said awkwardly.
"Yeah," she said, her voice faint and distant. "Guess I do."
I frowned, reading something in Sheila's face that I could not quite understand, yet I knew to be painful to her. "You wanna talk about it?"
She rolled her head toward me, her features suddenly soft and sultry. "No," she said, then smiled demurely. "I wanna kiss you."
I just stared, stunned, astonished, transmogrified, however you wanted to put it. "Wh-what?"
Sheila turned toward me fully, her shoulders shifting as she breathed in. "You're a really sweet guy, Nate, you know that?"
I swallowed nervously, staring at her lips. They were so soft, glistening, and inviting. "And you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met."
Sheila kept smiling, and now she bit her lower lip, eyes flickering around my face. She leaned closer, slipping her tongue out briefly to caress lips I had been dreaming of for months to taste. "Kiss me," she whispered, just before her lips met mine . . . .
Oh, Jesus! I had never been kissed like that before. Sheila's lips barely graced mine at first, but then they pressed a little more firmly, a little more insistently. She emitted a soft whimper and brought up her hands. She touched my face, my neck, ran her fingers through my hair. I tasted her breath, felt the darting tip of her tongue. My heartbeat escalated, my skin felt electrified. Jeans which had always been comfortable suddenly felt constricting.
Something overcame me then, and I pushed myself upon her, mashing my lips against hers. She welcomed me at first, pulling on my shirt, running her hands over my shoulders, moaning into my mouth. She sucked on my lips, pulling them between her own, licked the corner of my mouth. I was insanely aroused, and started to move atop her.
She stopped me. Her hands pushed against my chest.
"Wait."
I faltered, catching my breath, and opened my eyes. Sheila stared up at me, a pleading, pained expression on her face. I wanted her, that much I knew, and if I had been a certain sort of man, I could have taken her. But I wasn't. I was the nice guy, after all. So instead, I eased back into my seat and faced the windshield over the steering wheel. Without a single word, I turned the key, then backed the car out from beneath the massive oak.
Chapter Two
The following week at Jersey Jack's was excruciating. Sheila and I had several shifts together, but we rarely spoke. Still, now and then, we exchanged a look as we passed in the server's alley or on the dining room floor, looks that reminded us both of the night we shared. I felt tortured, like a man who had tasted the finest fruit in the Garden of Eden, only to be denied the flavor forevermore.
Christmas came and went. I spent the day with my parents and kid sister. I let myself be lost in the general good will of the season, for the single day that it lasted. But, December twenty-sixth found me right back at work with Sheila. For another half-week, every minute seemed like an hour and every smile I saw among my guests made my heart twist.
On New Year's Eve, I was one of only a handful of servers scheduled. It was a pretty slow night for us, since we closed at nine and the majority of patrons would be hitting the bars downtown to ring in the New Year. I was surprised to see Sheila on the roster for the night. I had figured she would be spending the night with her beau. The fact that she was not brought me back to our conversation that previous evening. It began to dawn on me that the paradise Sheila apparently enjoyed with her boyfriend was simply an illusion.
She was pretty subdued during the shift, going about her duties almost like a robot. She seemed to go out of her way to avoid me, or maybe that was just my perception. I watched her at her tables, listened to her sweet, melodic voice. While she smiled and joked a lot with her guests, I could not help but think her mannerisms were forced. Something, I was certain, was bothering her.
She finished her duties quickly that evening, and left just after closing time. I hung around, assisting the closers as they cleaned up, and even shared a shot of tequila with them and our manager. It was still two hours before midnight when we all left, heading to our scattered cars in the parking lot. I had parked mine near a small cluster of dogwoods behind the restaurant. While thoughts of Sheila remained in my mind, I was focused on getting home to shower and change my clothes before heading to my parents for our traditional New Year's Eve celebration.