It was a beautiful piece, a pot perhaps 30 centimeters high depicting warriors in line, all armed and armored exactly alike, the red figures of the men standing starkly against the black background of the pot.
Joyce looked up and saw something even more beautiful -- the movers in their crisp brown uniforms and smartly billed caps, the matching brown shorts showing off tanned, athletic legs. Setting the pot down carefully, Joyce walked over to their foreman, a lantern-jawed ex-marine with a gray crewcut and piercing eyes of the same shade.
"I just want to thank you and your crew for doing such a wonderful job," Joyce cooed.
"You deserve an extra special tip." She slid one arm around his broad shoulders and snaked the other forward to stroke him through those wonderful enticing shorts. "And so do I." She sank gracefully to her knees and unzipped his shorts, pulled down his boxers (trying not to let the silhouettes of Mickey Mouse ruin the mood) and began fondling his toned ass while she took a package not listed on the manifest into her mouth. As she deep-throated the foreman's ten inches of manhood he grinned complacently. He could have taken a "better" job -- certainly one that paid more. But as he learned in the Marines, and it still held true now, there was nothing like a uniform to get you wall to wall action.
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