Madison: The Jezebel of Elk County

[sandoval2099]

With my first thread here, I present a spinoff and prequel to @laurelindoriath 's excellent Mallory series, without which I wouldn't be here. It's story for boob lovers, by a boob lover, inspired by the terrific fiction this site had in the past, like totalrandom1's Emily series, the Abby series by @blibber , "Boys Don't Like Small Boobs" by @BakersDozen101 and "Ajoba's Mountains" by @eric69 . Big credit to all of them if it's good; blame me if it isn't.

Chapter 1
==================

“Ugh.”

It was morning, probably; and with the singular malevolence she’d come to expect from the universe, the sun was angling through the Venetian blinds at the mathematically precise angle necessary to hit Madison squarely in the eye in a way that was impossible to ignore. She groaned softly and shifted a little. However tired she was, however her head pounded, sleep was officially out of the question.

But her pique was up now, so she screwed her eyes shut, wedged her head between the pillows, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to catch a few extra elusive z’s anyway. It wasn’t like she could spite the sun somehow, but it was the principle of the thing, wasn’t it? She wasn’t used to being told what to do and she wasn’t about to start now.

But the peaceful, somewhat phlegmy breathing from behind her changed cadence, and the covers shifted, and a new weight settled on her side; a pudgy arm, she knew from beneath her pillow, covered in fine blond hair, wrist snapped into an Apple Watch, and the big hand at the end of that arm sleepily settling onto the fabric of her borrowed, oversized t-shirt and kneading the oversized, entirely-her-own breast within.

Fuck. She frowned from inside her pillow sandwich. This was a problem.

It wasn’t that she minded the touch, exactly; she liked the warm breath of a stranger on the back of her neck, and the way her nerves lit up softly as an aimlessly-clutching finger rubbed across the fabric over her nipple. Honestly, men were probably best this way: faces innocent and content instead of ugly with anger or greed, hands guilelessly burrowing towards warmth and comfort with the kind of childish gratitude none of them would ever admit to when awake.

And sometimes, when they were hard against your ass or thigh, thick and hot with blood, you could take one for the road without the bother of having to actually engage or listen to their bullshit.

Though that wasn’t going to be happening with - Darren? Derek? Fuck, who cared? Right now Madison just wanted to make her exit and get a Lyft home. In retrospect, she really should have known better. He’d stood out, at the county line dive bar, for his clean shave and neat hair and pressed shirt and fancy watch. He wasn’t hot, he didn’t have a lean rangy build and a soulful cowboy’s gaze, but he had two rows of clean straight white teeth and wasn’t paying attention to the game on TV and didn’t smell like Skoal and that sounded like what she needed right then.

He was also happy to make conversation, and even managed to drag his gaze up from her eight fat inches of cleavage for actual eye contact now and again, but she should have excused herself when he started referring to himself as a “high-value male” who was fit for the attentions of a high-value female like herself. People who called girls “females” were always weirdos, but she’d wanted to believe that it meant what it sounded like, and she liked the look of the canary-yellow Mercedes SUV he’d rolled up in, enough to climb into it and take a deep breath of that new car smell (a better aphrodisiac than any cologne) and let him take her back to his place.

She half-listened to his conversation as they drove, enough to tell he was neck-deep in internet hustle-culture bullshit, which she couldn’t care less about...but if that stuff could pay for this ride, well, we all made sacrifices, right? She smiled slightly to herself and let the hand on her thigh move upward as he blew past the usual turn on the county line road and instead angled for the upscale bedroom community thirty miles beyond, a land of gated neighborhoods with names like Oakwood Farms and Windsor Place. The kind of place she knew she belonged.

But it wasn’t to be. He never slowed to turn into one of those wrought-iron gates with statues of lions on either side, just buzzed past one after the other until they’d almost come out the other side of town, and only slowed when they reached one of those rangy, secluded, out-of-the-way apartment complexes meant to cheaply house the recent high school graduates and migrant families who staffed the retail jobs and landscaping companies that served the actual high-value households here.

His apartment itself looked like someone had just moved in or moved out; thin gray utilitarian carpet under bare white walls, a few lonely sticks of furniture sat before a dusty TV; and piled up in the corner, pallets and pallets’ worth of cardboard boxes full of heavy cans of some kind of supplement powder, which Darren/Derek explained were going to make him “change-your-wife money” once he got more “captains” into his “downline.”

Madison had nodded patiently while noting the dayglo-yellow FINAL NOTICE envelope from an auto insurer on the kitchen counter, but when his sweaty, coked-out rambling turned to suggesting maybe Madison could be one of his “captains,” she threw her shoulders back, feeling the familiar heft and strain in her taut back muscles, the constriction of breath as overtaxed fabric tried desperately to hold her bulk in, and she reached down for the bottom of her little club dress in the abrupt silence. Nature had given her a mute button for boring men, and she wasn’t shy about using it; and anyway, there was still one way the night might not be a complete disappointment.

...Well, she was nothing if not an optimist. Fittingly enough, Derek had been packing a chode, and thanks to her wide hips she was able to have a little fun with its tuna-can girth, but after a certain point he’d reddened with...shame or post-high contrition or something and begun crying, if you can believe it, actually fucking crying and telling Madison he loved her and wanted to marry her the moment his divorce was final and how she’d make such a great mom or something, just an absolute firehose of weapons-grade cringe, and she’d had to bury his balding head in between her tits just to make it stop while she hastily rode him to completion, no longer caring if she got anything out of it at all beyond blessed silence and a place to crash for a couple of hours before escaping.

Now escape...that was the problem here. Slowly, slowly moving her arm as if past a motion sensor in a heist movie, she raised the pillow from her face and frowned as she studied the tactical landscape. She was on her right side – the only way she’d been able to sleep since she was fourteen and a D-cup – and Derek’s hand was lightly resting on the hillock of flesh and fabric at the seam where her left breast met her torso. If she rolled very slowly rightward, maybe the hand would drag softly down her side and then her back and then onto the duvet while she crept out the door.

It wasn’t ideal, but...well, shitfire, no time like the present, right? Mads took a few calming breaths and began to move, rolling on her side and then onto her front...and onto it, and onto it, rising ever higher, biting her lip at the discomfort as her flesh mashed and compressed beneath the weight of her frame, each breast squashing inches out to either side of her ribcage, far enough to rest her forearms on. Derek shifted and snorted a little, but his hand limply followed the line of least resistance down her toned back to the puffy coverlet. Success.

Madison stood up, pushed lank strands of strawberry-blonde hair out of her eyes, blinked in the unpleasant morning glare, and turned quietly, scanning for her things. There. Her shoes were outside the bedroom door, already facing outward – a trick she’d learned years ago – and her slutty little club dress, still smelling of spilled beer and a bit of spilled cum, was wadded up on the dresser, with her bra, representing not much less fabric, and significantly more expense, draped with painstaking care atop it. A 38H bra was as impossible to find in Elk County as someone who could count that high, and even more precious. She had to make the three-hour drive into the big city three times a year for a new custom fitting, and she still outgrew the goddamn things almost as fast as the army of little Hispanic abuelas in the back could make them.

Changing was out of the question; the dress was a write-off until she could catch a ride to the dry cleaners on Monday. She wriggled into her leggings, girding herself for the struggle to get them up those last few voluminous inches where her fat ass really started to come into its own. It was a millimeter-by-millimeter process to get it up there without the waistband making a loud snap against her skin.

But, soon, it was done, hair tied back and out of the way in a spare scrunchie, dress neatly deposited inside her clutch, and clutch in turn stowed safely away in the human disappearing act of her cleavage along with her iPhone, and all of it neatly concealed beneath the tent-like Dropkick Murphys shirt Derek had handed her last night.

Madison crept over to the bedroom door, eyeing her waiting shoes, getting ready for the home stretch.

“Ow FUCK!” she yelped. “Jesus FUCKING Christ what the actual SHIT - ”

She’d barked her left shin hard against something squatting on the floor near the bedroom door. Hopping up and down on her other leg in pain, she saw it was...another crate of supplement powder, this one with the invoice still attached. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me...!”

“Yo! Babe, what happened?” Derek was up in a flash, reddening with embarrassment. “Aw shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t, uh...do you need anything? Like ice. or…?” He hastily kicked the box into his bedroom closet and threw in some of the loose laundry in the room for good measure.

“It’s – it’s all right,” Madison gritted out through clenched teeth, forcing herself to breathe. “It’s...alright.” With the surprise gone, the pain was ebbing, and she was left feeling less hurt than chagrin at the spoiling of her careful getaway.

“Yeah, okay…” Derek said uncertainly, pinching the sleep out of his eyes. “Uh, you want me to make some breakfast? Or maybe a power shake?” he added hopefully. “Once you have it, you’ll know why we gotta be in on the ground floor and - “

“Oh, babe,” she said in her most honeyed voice. “You’re so sweet, but I don’t have time. I have a shift this afternoon, and, well, you know.” He didn’t know, and neither did she, but how else were you going to end a sentence like that?

As much as she wanted to just get away and shower the stink of divorce and failure off her, for some reason Madison couldn’t quite bring herself to be as direct – as cruel – as she might have in other circumstances. Maybe on some level this aging bro reminded Madison of her dad, and how he’d flailed around awkwardly and pitiably for those first couple years after her mom had skipped out.

Or maybe, and this really stung to think about, it was because he had something in common with her. This puffy pale sweatlord was going nowhere fast, but shit, at least he wanted to be somewhere else. At least he wanted something more, some way out. Wasn’t like anybody else in this fucking shithole did, that was for sure, and they hated Madison for knowing she was meant for something better. Maybe that’s what she’d really picked up on from across the bar. It was just too bad for him that she’d come equipped with a set of cheat codes for life that he never could.

She sighed, and the tent of XXL t-shirt fabric swayed with the motion, and she drew Derek’s head down to her chest, where she let it rest for a moment. “Thanks,” she murmured softly, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He was silent for a long moment, basking in the sensation of resting his cheek upon a chest whose like he would never see again; his last fleeting taste of the velvet rope VIP section, the champagne room, the skybox seats that he must have known, on some level, were never meant for such as he.

Finally, he looked up, and despite her flash of pity she still felt the thrill of reading the defeat in his expression, that inevitable final recognition of her utter authority. He took a deep breath. “Hey, uh...can I get you a different shirt? I got that one at the concert where I met my wife. ”

“I’ll bring it back,” she lied.

 

[laurelindoriath]

I don't think anyone has any idea how hard this is going to hit.

 

[eric69]

A good start and ta for the compliment. Personally, I prefer my story about the wet t shirt contest, but I'm glad you liked my other works.

 

[sandoval2099]

A good start and ta for the compliment. Personally, I prefer my story about the wet t shirt contest, but I'm glad you liked my other works.

Oh, it was a hilarious story, and I've gone back to revisit it a couple of times. It's just that this one is definitely in a different vein.

 

[Chacotay]

This is gonna be epic. Can't wait to see more! Your writing style is absolutely fantastic and engaging.

 

[sandoval2099]

This is gonna be epic. Can't wait to see more! Your writing style is absolutely fantastic and engaging.

Thank you so much! I've got a couple more chapters almost in the bag and I can say that if you enjoyed this, I'm working hard to gradually turn up the heat while hopefully writing a story that's entertaining and fun to read even when the clothes are on.

 

[sandoval2099]

==================
Chapter 2

Madison tried to snooze most of the way back to the Blue Pines trailer court, but the county’s roads weren’t well-kept and the jostling kept her awake and her jiggly bits jiggling. Her driver, “Ray,” an uptight-looking recent retiree with his top button buttoned and a full head of silver hair, spent more time regarding her in the rear-view mirror than he did watching the road.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar gaze. Guys like this, whether they wanted to save her or fuck her, it all came out looking the same.

His Kia bounced roughly over the gravel road leading to her turn-off, then came to a stop before her driveway, which made a U before the aging brown trailer home. Her daddy’s car was still gone, which was surprising; she’d been bracing herself for some kind of well-meaning but awkward interaction. As she swung her legs out of the open door, “Ray” turned to her.

“You know…” A pause. Oh Lordy, here we go. “You don’t have to live this way, young lady. It ain’t right.”

He couldn’t see her rolling her eyes, so she put it all into her voice. “Yeah, you’re right,” she agreed, pushing on the cheap sunglasses that lived in her purse. “For as hard as I slut, this oughta be a mansion.”

As he spluttered, she walked away, putting a little extra sass in the ass as she went. Then, just as she reached her front steps, he collected himself enough to yell something. “Get to Pastor Clement’s tomorrow! Mulberry Road just off State 33! He can heal you!”

Yeah, right. The only healing Mads wanted or needed was in the shower in the double-wide’s little second bathroom. Off came Derek’s t-shirt, off came the leggings, and with an audible fleshy slap, off came the bra.

Daddy’s trailer was probably forty years old, all vinyl wood paneling and orange carpet, and it came from a time when people were apparently just...smaller, with its low counters and awkwardly-narrow hallway. But even if it were built today, nobody could have designed for someone like Madison. Between her generous hips and the shelf that held the body wash, conditioners, moisturizers and toners that were the tools of her trade, there wasn’t actually enough room in the stall to close the door unless she turned at an awkward forty-five degree angle between the door and the shower head.

So she usually just left the stall door open instead. Sometimes that gave Daddy’s friends or lady callers a sight, and that was a nice bonus.

The shower’s major redeeming quality was that it had one of those detachable massaging heads on a hose, and that shower head had a lot of qualities she wished the men of Elk County would learn from: it got her off regularly and reliably, it was clean, and it didn’t fucking talk so much. Employing it with her left hand and using her right to heave a nipple up into her own mouth to suck on and worry at, she teased herself into a couple of the satisfying screamers she didn’t get to have when family was around.

After drying off – a process that took almost a full washload of towels, depending on how indulgent she decided to be about it – Madison rooted through the fridge for some leftovers and snacks, curled up on the couch with her phone, and got ready for an afternoon of utter, heavenly sloth.

There was only one problem, she realized as she withdrew a sad, limp little plastic baggie from her purse. She was completely out of weed.

“Oh my fucking God,” she moaned.

 

[sandoval2099]

==========
Chapter 3

If you were to leave the Blue Pines trailer court the way Madison had come in, down the old state road, and kept following its jittery curves about fifteen incrementally-downhill miles toward Elk Creek, you’d come to Waterside, an unincorporated community of about a dozen buildings – eight of which were actually in use – that represented what had once passed for the county’s Black neighborhood.

The creek was wide, lazy, and prone to flooding, so the modest and ramshackle but brightly-colored residences were perched on stilts, or cantilevered out over the bank; from those porches, bales of rice grown in the alluvial fields were once lowered onto flat-bottomed boats that would carry the produce down to Waverly.

Now, though, the little township’s commercial ventures of note amounted to Smokey’s Bait Shack and the sun-faded Coke machine on its front porch.

And one other. A tiny house, slightly better-maintained than the rest, its clapboard walls painted a vivid blue and decorated with mural art. The home of Darnell Green, entrepreneur, procurer of rare herbs and spices.

“Uuggh,” Madison groaned as she pulled Mrs. Oakley’s old borrowed Dodge into the dirt drive. An Econoline van, its back festooned with political bumper stickers she didn’t really bother to process, sat in front of her. That meant Denise was home.

As she picked her way up the uncomfortably creaky steps, waving off gnats and no-see-ums, Madison noted that a few new flags had been daubed on the house’s walls. She already recognized that Rasta one, and the gay rainbow whatever, but they’d been joined by a couple of new contenders: a stripey flag with a pointy red triangle on one side, and another in these kind of odd pastel-y colors. She really hoped she wasn’t going to be quizzed on what they meant.

She knocked on the aluminum screen door. Please let it be Darnell, please let it be Darnell…

“The fuck do you want?”

Well, it had been nice to hope. Madison was briefly grateful for her sunglasses; they concealed the reflexive narrowing of her eyes, and she didn’t want to make a shitty start worse. “Hey, Denise,” she chirped as briskly and pleasantly as she could while craning to look through the door. “Is D home?”

“Why.” The deeply unimpressed woman standing in the doorway made no move to admit Madison. Her rich brown skin was glossy with sweat, her cornrowed hair hung lank under a rag, and the loose overalls she wore over a utilitarian gray sports bra were spattered with paint, which at least explained part of her impatience; she wanted to return to whatever the unwelcome visitor had interrupted.

Being stared at, whispered about, objectified and sexualized since she was twelve years old had taught Madison at least a few things, and one of them was how to instantly size up a potential competitor – or prey. Denise was objectively beautiful: big expressive eyes and plush lips on a lean face, body compact and marbled with muscle from manual labor, wide-hipped, with a hard spherical ass that even the baggy men’s overalls couldn’t conceal. Madison had sometimes caught herself wondering what it would be like to smack that ass, hard, and not even always in anger...

But none of that chiseled sexuality mattered, because Denise would never use any of it. She’d rather just leave that Porsche of a body in the garage forever than wear something nice or practice saying things with a spoonful of honey instead of a bottle of vinegar. She was going to college and called herself some kind of whatever-wavey feminist and thought she was better than girls like Madison.

And maybe she was, but Madison never had to paint her own room.

“I’m out of...you know,” Mads said, dropping her voice nervously. She usually bought from Darnell when he came calling at the trailer court, not out here, where a regular parade of white visitors could clue in even the dullest sheriff’s deputy.

“Why’s that my problem?”

“It’s not,” Madison pleaded. “I’m not trying to bother you, or interrupt your...whatever you were doing. I was just hoping to catch your brother. I tried calling but…”

Denise frowned. “That boy should not be turning down business,” she muttered. Then she looked Mallory up and down before resting her frank and unashamed gaze on the lettering of Madison’s t-shirt, distended and made illegible by what bulged within. “...’course, you probably weren’t planning on paying cash, were you?”

Madison had come dressed for Darnell, in murderously tight high-riding cutoffs and a sleeveless pink tee she’d outgrown last year, but beneath his sister’s withering gaze she felt uncomfortably naked, and her creamy pink skin reddened a few shades. “Excuse you, how’s that any of your busin- “

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Denise smirked briefly. She stood there, impassive as a statue, regarding the soft round white creature at her door, then seemed to come to a decision. “...He’s not home,” she said. “But I know where he keeps it.”

Relief, only mildly tempered by suspicion, flooded Madison. She followed her reluctant hostess into the living room. It was as packed and vivid as the town outside was sleepy and dying, with shelves of books and African-looking tchotches rubbing up against weird modern sculptures. Colorful paintings and woven rugs hung from the walls. There was no TV, but an Apple laptop sat on the coffee table before a black-and-green beanbag.

Stuffing her shades into her purse, Madison perched gingerly upon a creaking, rattling, bead-covered couch, unsure if it could support her weight, and took a cautious sniff of the thick, miasmic air, picking up notes of something cherry, and something lavender, and something cannabinoid.

Denise, now with a vape pen jutting upward and outward from her mouth like some gender- and race-bent update on a ‘30s gangster, returned from Darnell’s room with the top of a plastic baggie peeking out of her front pocket. She stopped in front of Madison, standing over her, looking down appraisingly, and took the pen out of her mouth. “So, tell me about you and my big brother’s arrangement.”

“Look, sister, I’m not -”

“Don’t ‘sister’ me, cause we ain’t sisters, and I’m not playing games. I can always put this shit back. You let him fuck those titties, right? How much he think that worth? Couple dubs?”

Madison’s nostrils flared with fury. “As if.”

Denise’s expression changed ever so slightly. “...Well...at least you aren’t giving it away. So what, a quarter?”

Mads’ eyes flashed defiantly. “More. And he doesn’t fuck them. He couldn’t afford it. I let him suck on them till he comes. Usually he falls asleep after.”

Denise sighed with exasperation that seemed only partially directed at her guest. “Jesus. So the street price on big white titties is half an ounce?”

“If I’m feeling generous,” Madison spat.

Denise seemed to be considering something. “They’re really that good?”

Bingo. Madison could barely conceal the delight welling up inside her. “Better,” she said in her best husky whisper, her eyelids fluttering as she let her gaze flit across Denise’s toned arms and down over the tight skin of the woman’s flank exposed by the cut of the overalls. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad view; Denise was better-built than two-thirds of the men around here.

“I don’t know about ‘better,’ but, uh…” Denise, usually so confident, trailed off for a moment as her gaze burned down the front of the taxed t-shirt. “Shit. They’re like a baby’s head…” She twirled the top of the plastic baggie idly between two fingers, her gaze absolutely arrested.

“And still growing,” Madison smirked. “Most guys I fuck tell me I’m bigger than anyone they’ve ever had, but soon I might be bigger than everyone they’ve ever had – put together.” She began slowly pressing her hands down the front of her shirt, letting the springy, youthful flesh beneath pudge up through the gaps between her fingers. She gazed up into Denise’s eyes. “I always figured you were some kind of lesbo, but even if you’re not, being curious is natural, and girls are fun too, sometimes…”

Perhaps involuntarily, not even aware she was doing it, Denise licked those full, pouty lips; they stayed parted in a soft “o” of mixed, churning emotions. “All for the price of some of my loser brother’s skunk weed, huh?”

“I’d give you a way better deal than him,” Madison purred as her hands reached the underside of her boobs, hoisting them up and pinching her nipples into prominence. It was like an investment, right? A little fun with this stuck-up cunt now for way less trouble in the future. And the girl was kind of cut…

“Let’s see ‘em,” Denise said in a deathly quiet voice. “Let’s see those big white titties.”

Madison smiled, sweet as tea, and shimmied a little as she began drawing her shirt up. “You can do more than look, honey. They’re all yours.”

Denise reached down and gave them a squeeze, first tentative, then confident. “All mine,” she repeated in a low, quiet voice. “I always – I always kind of wondered what it would be like, you know, being big…real big...”

Madison stood from the couch, tossing shirt and bra aside, still grooving to an imaginary beat, and wrapped one hand around the back of Denise’s neck while the other cupped Denise’s hand over the baggie of weed. “This is going to be a fun new arrangement - “

Suddenly, Denise barked out a laugh, and gave Madison a soft but firm shove that sent her crashing back into the creaking, rattling couch. “Get your shirt back on, you corny white bitch. This shit costs cash.”

“What the FUCK!” Madison exclaimed. “The fuck is your problem?! Crazy, stuck-up…”

“Uh-uh-uh,” Denise chided, flashing the baggie. “Bitch wants her Scooby Snack, she’s gonna behave herself in my home. I am not a mark like Darnell.”

Madison was beet red with confusion, towering rage...and a little bit of frustration. “What was the point of that?” she cried as she fumbled her shirt back on.

“Call it a free lesson in sisterhood,” Denise said. She plopped down onto the beanbag, took a drag of her vape, and looked...different, somehow. Almost concerned, Madison could have sworn, but who knew? This cunt switched emotional gears with the recklessness of a stock car driver.

“A lesson.” Mads’ voice was flat.

“Yeah, a lesson,” Denise repeated. “I know about you, Madison. Shit, everyone in a forty mile radius knows about you. You got handed the golden ticket, a one-in-a-million straight ten out of ten body, and you use it to be the most entitled, parasitic bitch in the land. When’s the last time you paid for anything? You ever gotten a ticket even once?”

“I – yeah, probably!” She had not. “So what, you’re jealous? People want to give me things, I’m supposed to stop them? Because it makes you and the college dyke patrol feel bad?”

“Yeah...sometimes we are jealous,” Denise admitted. “Yeah, there’s some shit I think about how I could do if I had that kind of attention – that kind of power. But I know the attention never stops, does it? Your whole life revolves around some dead-end shithole county full of pillbillies wanna fuck you.”

Madison squirmed, nervously pinching strands of her blonde hair while she tried to think of something to say.

“Yeah, so I’m not that jealous,” Denise nodded, puffing on her vape. “And if you’re not looking to have shat out six kids by the time you’re thirty, you need to start figuring out the difference between what sex can get you and what it can’t.”

“Thanks, teacher,” Madison gritted out. “So then what’s the difference?”

“For starters? Sixty bucks for an eighth,” Denise said with a mean little smile. “Cash.”

Cursing softly, Madison produced her phone and Venmoed the psycho her money, and finally, that fucking baggie came out of the overall pocket and slid across the coffee table with the tense solemnity of a hostage exchange.

“Yo,” Denise said, exhaling a cloud. “Better go easy on it. Might not be more.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Madison said, scandalized. “After all that shit you put me through, you’re, what, cutting me off?”

“Ain’t like that,” Denise shook her head. “That brother of mine’s been acting weird lately. Hanging out with new people. White people. He told me the other day I should take down the picture of Haile Selasse cause he says he found ‘real religion.’”

Madison groaned, her enmity with Denise eclipsed by a new, unpleasant, sinking feeling. “Oh...shitfire. He’s gonna stop dealing, isn’t he. Fuck!”

Denise nodded. “Bet. That was actually the last of it. The dumb motherfucker threw the rest out last night. Hundreds of dollars worth. After I got done hollering at him he slammed the door and took off. Honestly? I’ve got no idea where he is now.”

“Ugh. The fuck am I supposed to do now? It’s - ” Madison dragged a hand down her face, her mind racing. “It’s all right. I don’t know where he is, but I think I might know where he’s going to be.”

 

[HugeNaturalsOnly]

Best chapter so far great stuff!

 

[sandoval2099]

==============
Chapter 4

If you’ve driven the many highways and byways of this great Midwestern state, the odds are you’ve probably tanked up at a Speed-E-Mart. You know the ones: the red oval sign, the slanted white lettering, the yellow lightning bolt behind the E? Those, yeah. They’re not the biggest chain, or the fanciest, but they’re as close to ubiquitous as anything around these parts.

Ubiquitous isn’t the same as identical, though. Store #117, located on the eastern end of Douglas County, right along John Maynard Douglas III Road, had always been regarded by corporate as a special performer. Everyone knew that part of that was owing to the fact that John Maynard Douglas III Road marked part of the western border of Elk County, a formerly dry county whose regressive liquor laws and wildly corrupt licensure process had created a booze bonanza anywhere just over the county line. Along some of the busier highways, the giant signs of the 24/7 liquor emporiums in Oak, Douglas, and Jasper counties lit up the night sky like a middle finger aimed straight at God.

John Maynard Douglas III Road wasn’t one of those bigger thoroughfares – it was a simple two-lane blacktop running between a couple of one-horse towns – but the Speed-E-Mart there had always done a brisk business, especially on Saturday nights. What confused the folks at corporate was why that business had picked up sharply the last eighteen months, especially given that Store #117 wasn’t one of the newer, larger locations and wasn’t especially well-kept; in fact, it had been written up for poor restroom quality much more frequently than average.

Every so often a middle manager would frown at the balance sheets, squint at a state map, and maybe, if they were feeling especially ambitious, do a quick reconnoiter on Zillow to see if home prices in the area could tell a tale of gentrification and rising cost of living; but it was all for naught. Eventually and invariably, their meager curiosity exhausted, they would shrug and decide that the mystery of Store #117 was just one of those things.

Mrs. Oakley’s old Dodge coughed and made ugly noises as it rolled into the parking lot at a quarter past seven that night, seeming like it wanted to be here about as little as its driver. Madison had already had too upsetting and effortful a day up to this point, her leisure plans in tatters, and topping it off with a fill-in shift at work felt like the final insult, especially since the shift ended at two in the morning but she wanted to be at Darnell’s new church by...nine a.m.? Ten? What time did churches start, anyway?

She angrily put the creaking old car in park and climbed out into the damp, sweaty night, her brown-and-red Speed-E-Mart uniform top riding halfway up her torso as she did so. A chubby middle-aged man at the pumps stared open-mouthed until a spurt of gas from his forgotten nozzle gave him something more pressing to attend to.

Business as usual. With the unconscious ease of a gesture performed thousands of times, Madison grabbed the bottom of her shirt and tugged it back down, but she’d long since learned that there was always going to be an inch of soft pale tummy visible between it and the matching uniform slacks. The shirt was their biggest size without making a pain-in-the-ass special order, and anyway, nobody worth listening to had ever complained about the fit.

She took a second to compose herself, and then, a hot breeze blowing behind her, stepped into the relative cool of the Speed-E-Mart, where Keith was already waiting for her with folded arms and all the pomp his gangly body could muster.

Keith, the assistant manager, was in his early thirties and you could still see traces of how he’d once been cute in a kind of lean, malnourished sort of way, when that lank blond hair had been a little thicker and the teeth a little whiter and the eyes a little brighter. But he’d waited too long to take his shot at life, and now it was in the process of passing him by, and this was probably all he was ever going to be. At least he hardly ever brought his guitar into work anymore. Getting to work with Madison for one or two shifts a week was probably the best thing he had going in life, although he was so nervous and skittish he probably didn’t even realize it. He certainly wasn’t grateful enough.

“You’re twenty minutes late,” he began.

“It’s 7:15!”

“And you’re supposed to be here five minutes before you clock in,” he said, petulantly, like this personally offended him. “There’s – there’s supposed to be two of us, we’re supposed to have coverage -”

“Yeah, but the thing is, I don’t care,” she said as she squeezed into the register booth and keyed in her code. She had no patience for this bullshit. Not tonight. “Did anyone even come in, this past twenty minutes, Keith?”

“That ain’t -”

“Did they?” Her nostrils flared. If he wasn’t going to make himself useful, he needed to stop talking.

“...No. But that ain’t the point.”

She rolled her eyes, already trying to shift her attention to her TikTok feed. “I think it is the point, Keith. We’re gonna do fine. You’re gonna hit those numbers you like. We always do when I’m here, don’t we? But you need to stay out of my way.”

His shoulders slumped a little. “You don’t even care about this pla – wait a minute, what’s up with your eyes? Are you sick?” He leaned forward, peering deeper. “Oh my god, have you been smoking weed?”

She laughed, maybe a little too loudly. This guy had wanted to be a musician? “Yeah, Keith. I smoked earlier today. That gonna be a problem?”

“It’s illegal,” he said in a hissing whisper, as if Sheriff Bronson might be lurking behind the Miller Light display at this very moment. “What if someone sees?”

“I’ve been here nearly two years and I guarantee you nobody’s looking at my eyes, chief,” she said with a laugh. “Are you off your meds or something? You’re being real extra squirrely tonight.”

“I’m being – alright, look, this is ridiculous. I’m in charge. I’m your manager -”

“Assistant manager,” she smirked.

“Supervisor,” he finished, sounding actually aggrieved now. “And I don’t want you bein’ our, our face to the public like this. Not while you look like a rapper’s girlfriend. Count out your tray and go get the mop from in back. Someone made a real mess of the women’s room. You can take care of that while you sober up.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding, Madison?” he said; then, with a shake of his head as if answering his own question, began to squeeze into the booth behind her to grab his keyring.

“I don’t think you really want to do that, Keith,” she said, leaning forward over her phone and jamming her hips and ass backward, pinning him to the cigarette display behind them. Her curves were as hard on Speed-E-Mart’s cheap polyfiber slacks as they were on the shirt, and every square inch of her ass could feel and be felt through the thin taut fabric as she casually enveloped Keith’s crotch in its bulging softness.

“M-Madison,” he stammered, “this – this isn’t – oh, God -”

“Mm? It’s not what, Keith?” she smirked to herself as she casually scrolled her feed. Putting a slight roll into her hips, she heard the whisper of fabric rubbing against fabric and felt him stiffening and thickening, felt the blood warm him up against her, the same way he could probably feel the hot little cherry of her asshole baking against him through two layers of underwear and two pairs of cheap slacks.

“It’s not appropriate,” he whined, not sounding entirely convinced, as hands that had begun by trying to push her away had now started kneading her hungrily, grabbing big fistfuls of cheap brown fabric and the supple flesh beneath. “It’s not right, you can’t just -”

“Kinda seems like I can,” she laughed, leaning into the frottage. “You should know by now how this works. I’m not a regular register biscuit; I work exactly as much as I wanna, doing what I wanna, and you smile and nod along and don’t complain. And you don’t have any complaints,” she winked back over her shoulder, “do you?”

The throbbing cock he was now actively rubbing against her ass sure didn’t seem to, at least. “Jesus, Madison,” he whispered in a thick voice, “I have a girlfriend, for God’s sake.”

“I’ve had your girlfriend,” she pointed out, still mercilessly working him. “Amy something? Skinny biker chick? This should bring you two closer together, having one more thing in common.”

“What? She told me she was -” Keith started to half-say, half-moan, before cutting off with a wordless, throaty sound as ecstasy instantly curdled into shock and fear.

Madison looked up in surprise as the front door chimed and a thickset man in greasy denim coveralls came in, obviously on the way home from a shift. He nodded absently in the direction of the register and made his way to the ATM in back. “Oh God,” Keith hissed from behind Madison. “You’ve got to let me go, this guy’s gonna see, we’re gonna get in so much trouble -”

“Shut up and don’t move,” Madison whispered back, and kept her hips rolling. “Nobody can see anything from this angle.” It was true; the store was cramped, and the register area more so, with most lines of sight blocked by displays for novelty keychains and 5-Hour Energy flasks. A relatively dull onlooker, which was to say most of the population of Elk County, might suppose that the manager was just hovering over his employee’s shoulder, perhaps checking their work.

The customer, who had “Pete” embroidered on the front of his coveralls in a cursive font, was taking his time studying the beer displays and letting his gaze periodically wander over to the blonde at the register. Madison could hear Keith’s labored breathing behind her, feel the pulse of his blood pressure, and began to be genuinely concerned that he’d break in the next few seconds.

Time to wrap this up. She undid the topmost of the two buttons on her shirt and several square inches of cleavage promptly squashed out. She shot “Pete” a wink. “Havin’ trouble deciding, hun?”

That did it. Pete did a double-take, fumbled with numb fingers for the nearest six-pack, and approached the register. “I, uh, yeah,” He swallowed. “Hey.”

“Sixer of Rolling Rock’s gonna be $6.43,” she said, not bothering to ring Pete up. It wasn’t gonna matter in a minute anyway.

“You uh, take charge…?” he said as he flipped distractedly through his wallet. She saw several crisp twenties there; he’d taken out plenty from the ATM, probably for a night on the town. Well. Why not get him off to a good start?

“Sure, I guess,” she said, “but maybe you’d like to throw in a few extra in cash? For, ah, charity?”

Pete stopped and blinked, his hand hovering over his bank card. “What, uh. What kinda charity, like Jesus or - ?”

“Oh, you know,” she smiled, leaning forward a little more so her chest squashed and splayed on the counter, cleavage facing straight up and out. “Whatever you want.”

“What I want, huh,” Pete repeated, and his gaze told her exactly what he wanted. He reached for a twenty with a shaky hand.

Smiling, holding his gaze, Madison took the hand and guided it forward and down until hand and money alike were lost inside her. Squeezing her chest together with her elbows, she shimmied a little, giving Pete his thirteen dollars and fifty-seven cents’ worth of warm, pillowy cleavage, while thoroughly separating the man from his money. Her money now. She and Pete both shuddered with pleasure, for entirely different reasons.

“You want your change, mister?” She already knew the answer.

Struggling for words, the big man shook his head and stumbled backwards and out of the station. Whatever he got up to this evening at the dive bar or the honky-tonk, whoever he met, Mads smiled knowing who he’d actually be coming to tonight, and for many nights to come.

Speaking of which…

“I figure you liked the show,” she laughed darkly as she straightened up with a wet, squelchy noise. She turned to face Keith, eyebrow raised, and suppressed a giggle at the dark patch on the front of his uniform.

“I...I don’t...what are you...What are you?” he said, trembling.

“Not mopping the bathroom,” she said smoothly, turning back to the register, where she rang up a six-pack of Rolling Rock and gave the store its cut of her earnings. “So you should probably get back there, shouldn’t you? It wouldn’t be too professional to let a customer see you like that.”