Pawn Shop by Lily Harlem
I glanced up from my crossword puzzle as the bell above the shop door tinkled. A man, broad shoulders, bright white smile and wearing black wraparound shades, strode into the warren of dusty shelves and cabinets. He moved with purpose, the material of his jeans hugging the tops of his long thighs and his paces eating the ground.
I’d bet my last ten quid he wasn’t from around here. Fenchurch Brokers had been my home from home since I was a young girl and I’d taken it over when Pops had died ten years ago. I knew everyone’s face, the way they knew mine.
‘So what have you got for me?’ I asked, then realised a few moments too late that I’d fluffed my brunette locks over my shoulders and licked my lips.
His broadening grin told me he was used to the effect he had on women, of any age.
Inwardly I berated myself. I was the local bank-of-crisis, get-money-quick supplier. I bought crap, or treasure, for pennies, and sold it on for a few quid whenever red letters landed on doormats or kitchen cupboards were bare. I didn’t do the whole simpering female thing. That just wasn’t me.
‘DVDs,’ he said and dumped a dark-green carrier bag on the counter.
‘Not much call for them, I’m afraid.’ I sighed, trying to feign nonchalance. ‘What kind of films are they?’ I put down the pen I was holding, to keep me from tapping it on the counter.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. ‘This is a pawnshop, right?’
‘Yes.’ His cologne was wafting towards me – tropical breeze and fresh open water. It seeped up my nostrils, sped up my pulse and created a tickle of sensation around my temples.
‘So I can sell you these, for cash,’ he went on, ‘and if I decide I want them back, and they’re still in the shop, I can repurchase them?’
‘That’s generally how it works.’ I noticed that his bottom lip was fuller than the top and had the tiniest indentation in the centre. To my annoyance I found myself utterly mesmerised by it and unable to tear my attention away from his mouth.
‘Great.’ He pushed the bag nearer to me. ‘Because I don’t need these anymore, I’ve watched them all. But I’d like the chance of getting them back if I can at some stage.’
Standing, I smoothed my skirt and glanced at my displayed cleavage. Today I wore a low-buttoned, silky-black blouse and a string of pearls. ‘Are they recent movies?’
I sat with a bump and fanned my face with my puzzle book. Phew, he was a hottie. If I was ten years younger, he’d have been just my cup of tea for getting naked, sweaty and down and dirty with.
After nipping into the backroom for a glass of water, I set about sorting the DVDs. They were all pornographic with a variety of either lewd or suggestive covers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d watched something explicit, and as I set them out on a high shelf behind the till I wondered if I might borrow one, take it home and remind myself of what a good fuck looked like.
Full of Tristan didn’t appeal, though The Gardener’s Best Tool was a possibility. I sifted through the other titles, Spanked, The Blushing Bride’s Darkest Desire, His Best Performance. Which one to choose?
The male on the cover of His Best Performance caught my eye. Tall, dark hair, sensual mouth with an indentation in his bottom lip.
Bloody hell, was it him? My hot customer!
It couldn’t be.
I studied the cover more closely. It absolutely, definitely was him. Those eyes, high cheekbones, broad shoulders. OK, I’d seen him fully clothed and on the cover of His Best Performance he wore only a pair of swimming trunks – tiny, tight, yellow – but I recognised him beyond doubt. I swallowed a lump in my throat. What was beneath his clothes was nothing short of beautiful. Golden chest, defined abs and a tantalising trail of hair from his naval to the waistband of those itsy-bitsy trunks.
Behind him a woman reclined on a sun-lounger, her arms tossed above her head and a towel carefully placed on her naked body to cover the juncture of her thighs, though her full breasts jutted towards the sun. She was the picture of bliss with her eyes shut, back arched and parted mouth upturned in a smile. He’d obviously used the cock I could just decipher the outline of, to give her exactly what she wanted and then some.
My heart thudded. I could hear my pulse whooshing through my ears. I glanced at the door half expecting to see him watching me through the glass.
Without another moment’s hesitation, I slipped the DVD into my handbag between my purse and a paperback. There was no competition as to which porn film I would be taking home tonight. It could only be His Best Performance. I just hoped it lived up to my expectations.
I glanced at a grandfather clock I’d been trying to sell for three years. Good, it was nearly time to shut up. A heat was flooding my pelvis and my nipples were tingling. For once I was looking forward to something other than East Enders on the TV tonight.
* * *
I re-checked there wasn’t a crack in my curtains and hit play on the remote. My darkened living room flooded with light. The movie prelude was a bright sun rising from a black horizon. I skipped forward a few frames. The movie began and I was deafened by a piano tune that accompanied crashing waves.
After turning down the volume, I took a sip of my drink. The gin was sharp on my tongue, a delicious bitter assault on my taste buds. I was all about my senses tonight. I was hoping Jared – I knew his name now, it was written in bold letters across the top of the box: ‘starring Jared Letterman’– would give me a little bit of the experience that naked pool lady had enjoyed.
The movie started, a set-up about a rich but bored woman with a movie-executive husband. Jared – in the movie he’s known as Dirk – turned up for an audition at her lavish Hollywood home only to find the husband out at work.
Within minutes the action was getting steamy. I gulped at my drink and shrugged out of my cardigan as Jared stepped out of his jeans. Seeing his naked body did funny things to my insides; they were tumbling and heating, swelling with a hunger for something I’d lived without for too many years.
Before long, the glamorous wife and Jared were shagging. At first in the pool, then the hot tub, and finally they performed oral sex on each other on the lounger which led to her riding him like a world rodeo champion.
I stared at his face, his cock, the rippling muscles on his back and buttocks as he threw himself into his tasks. He was perfection, every single inch of him exactly how a man should be. As the film came to an end – Jared being offered the starring role in the next big blockbuster by her unwitting husband – I found I’d slipped my fingers beneath the waistband of my skirt.
A need had grown, a desire for pressure and stimulation. My breaths were coming quick and as I pressed on my clit my knees flopped open and my butt-cheeks tensed. Quickly I rewound to the sun-lounger scene, Jared licking the woman’s pussy, making her squirm and squeal and clutch at his hair. Staring, unblinking, I imagined it was me that he was fucking with his tongue, just like that.
Rotating my fingers, I canted my hips upwards. I wasn’t gentle; this was about satisfaction and letting my imagination fly me away on a wonderful fantasy. To have a man as insanely beautiful and talented as Jared sucking on my clit, thrusting his fingers into my pussy, was an image that had given me wings.
Soon I was coming, just as the woman on TV shouted that she was in her loud American voice. I upped the speed and gripped my left breast with my free hand, the way Jared was doing to her.
I spiralled into bliss, my clit throbbing and pulsing. I wanted to shut my eyes, close in on myself, but I didn’t. Instead, I kept them wide open, staring straight at Jared as he slowed his ministrations and wiped his forearm over his shiny mouth.
‘Oh, oh,’ I panted, slipping down the armchair a little. My spine like dust, my thighs trembling.
But only one thing was going through my mind.
Had he meant to leave that DVD in my shop?