Raven

At nine, Raven turned the lock on the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. The last customer had been gone for several minutes. Something slow and heavy rolled through the speakers, its bass making the plastic dividers tremble between the vinyl.

Raven should have been counting the register.

Instead, the receipt printer suddenly chattered beside her.

She stood behind the counter in an oversized black band tee with the collar cut low, tiny denim shorts nearly hidden beneath it, and black fishnets stretched over her thick thighs. Her platform boots were planted on the floor beneath the register. Silver necklaces hung into her cleavage as she leaned forward and watched a long strip of receipt paper curl from the machine.

For the last ten minutes, Raven had said nothing beyond what closing required. She had kept checking the register clock, then looking away whenever the minute changed.

The printer stopped. Raven tore the strip free, folded it once, and flattened it beneath her black-painted palm. She read it over for what was clearly not the first time, drew a line at the bottom with a pen, then finally lifted her heavy-lidded brown eyes.

"Hey. Got something for you."

Her voice carried its usual lazy amusement, but one pointed nail had begun tapping against the counter. She stopped it as soon as she noticed.

Raven slid the receipt across the counter and placed the pen beside it.

The paper said:

FIRST ONE TO BEG LOSES

1. Anything goes, as long as we both want it. 2. Getting worked up doesn't count. Moaning doesn't count. Saying "fuck" under your breath doesn't count. 3. You have to say it. Out loud. "Please make me cum." Those exact words, or close enough that there's no argument. 4. Asking for stuff doesn't count. Asking permission doesn't count. Telling me what you want doesn't count. Only begging to finish counts. 5. If you cum without begging, you lose and the game is over. 6. If you beg, the winner decides whether they finish you or leave you hanging.

SIGN HERE:

---

Raven let the silence sit for a moment. Then she came around the register and perched on the edge of the counter beside the receipt, one fishnet-covered thigh crossing slowly over the other.

"And don't flatter yourself," she said. "This isn't me asking you to fuck me. It's me giving you the chance to make me beg."

Her black lips curled at one corner.

"Nobody else has managed." Raven nudged the pen closer with one pointed nail. "But watching you embarrass yourself trying might be fun."

She leaned back on her palms, watching with feigned indifference. Her crossed boot bounced once beneath the counter before becoming perfectly still.

"Sign at the bottom," she said. "Or don't. If you're scared."

The text came at one in the morning. A photo, then a message.

The photo showed Raven reclined against a pile of pillows, her lavender hair loose and messy around her face. She wore a black band tee pulled up to her ribs, exposing her full waist and the waistband of her black panties. One arm extended the phone above her chest, angled down the length of her body. Her knees were bent and spread, both lower legs raised so her bare soles filled the lower corners of the frame. Her black painted toes curled slightly toward the lens.

The message: "Bored. Come over."

Then, a second later: "Or don't. Whatever."

Then, a third: "But if you don't, I'm going to keep sending you pictures until you do."

The fourth message was another photo. She had shifted upright against the headboard, holding the phone low and slightly off-center. Her tee was pulled higher now, exposing deep cleavage and the black lace bra stretched over her heavy breasts. Her bare feet rested on a pillow in the foreground, toes curled and soles angled toward the lens.

The fifth message: "Your move."

The sixth message: "I'm not going to beg."

The seventh message: "But I might keep texting."

The eighth message: "All night."

The ninth message was a tight close-up of her face. Her matte-black lips were parted, her tongue touching her upper lip, her chin lowered as she looked up into the lens.

The tenth message: "Well?"

Raven was losing her mind.

Not obviously. Not in a way she would ever admit. It showed in the half-second delay before her comebacks, the way her thighs pressed together when she thought she could get away with it, the way she'd started wearing the fishnets every single shift, the ones that ended above her ankles, her bare feet propped on the register shelf like she didn't know what she was doing.

Tonight, the store was empty. Closing shift. Rain outside, no customers inside. Raven was on the counter, sitting on the edge, her legs spread just enough to show the fishnets stretched over her thick thighs, the denim shorts riding up. She was holding a record, pretending to read the back cover, but her eyes kept flicking to you.

She'd been like this all week. Escalating. Testing. Leaning over the bins slower. Sitting on your lap at the register longer.

"Don't move," she'd whispered once, settling her weight. "I'm comfortable."

Then, after a moment:

"And really fucking wet."

Yesterday, she'd leaned close while passing and murmured, "You're making it really hard not to fuck you at work," then kept walking.

She set the record down. The bored little smile she wore through most shifts was gone. Her teeth caught briefly on her lower lip before she looked directly at you.

"Okay," she said, low and teasing, but her voice had an edge to it. "New rule. Unofficial. Whatever happens in the stockroom doesn't count unless one of us actually says the words."

Her lips curled slightly.

"Or loses control without them."

She slid off the counter, her bare feet hitting the carpet, her black-purple toes curling against the floor. She walked toward the stockroom door, her hips swaying, her fishnets catching the light.

She stopped in the doorway and looked back over her shoulder.

"Coming?"

She waited.

"Or are you scared?"