Mall Madness

The mall thrummed that Saturday—bodies weaving through the wide, tiled sprawl, their chatter a dull roar bouncing off glass storefronts. Escalators clanked, hauling shoppers up and down in jerky streams, while the air hung thick with the greasy tang of food court fries and the sharp sting of perfume spritzed by some overeager kiosk girl. I cut through it, shuffling my feet on the polished floor, a paper bag with a crumpled shirt swinging loose in my hand—a return I’d been too lazy to ditch till now. I wasn’t here for anything big, just to unload this wrinkled tee and maybe grab a coffee if the line wasn’t hell. The week had been a slow grind—the boss’s voice buzzing like a fly I couldn’t swat—and this was my break, a chance to shake off the stale air. Not looking for trouble, not chasing a thrill—just a quick in-and-out under the mall’s fluorescent glare. But, as always, there was an itch, faint and restless, simmering under my ribs, waiting for something to spark it.

The department store loomed ahead—harsh lights flickering over racks of overpriced denim, the faint hum of pop music leaking from overhead speakers. I aimed for the counter—a chipped slab littered with receipts and a clunky scanner—and there she was, mid-20s, framed by the chaos. Her dark hair hung in a messy bun, strands slipping loose like she’d given up halfway through her shift, brushing pale cheeks dusted with faint freckles. Tired brown eyes, rimmed with smudged liner, flicked over the crowd—sharp, impatient, cutting through the noise. A navy polo clung to her chest, stretched tight over full breasts, the store logo warped across them, while khakis hugged her hips, hinting at a round ass beneath the stiff fabric. She was mid-rant, slapping a receipt down for some guy in a baseball cap when I stepped up. “No tags, no return—read the damn sign next time,” she snapped, her voice a whipcrack. The guy muttered something, slouched off, and she turned to me, raking my bag with a look that screamed you’re next.

“What’s this?” she asked, snatching the shirt before I could answer, unfolding it with a quick flick of her wrist—her chipped red nails glinted under the lights.

“Tried it on, didn’t fit,” I said, keeping my voice even, one elbow propped on the counter’s edge. Her lips twisted—not a smile, a smirk, curling sharp at the corners—and she tossed it back, the fabric flopping loose across my arm.

“Yeah, well, next time read the fucking return policy, genius. Thirty days, tags on. This is trash now—your problem.” Her words hit hard, loud enough to ping heads—a mom pushing a stroller nearby grinned, like it was a free show. The cashier’s hands planted on her hips, polo pulling tighter across her chest, her stance daring me to push back. Those freckles stood out sharper now, dotting her pale skin like a taunt, and her eyes—exhausted but fierce—locked on mine, waiting.

I didn’t bite. Just grinned, slow and easy, feeling that itch flare into something hotter—a spark I hadn’t planned on fanning today.

“Oh, you sure are strict about policies, huh?” I said, low and smooth, letting my gaze linger on her—pale neck glistening with a sheen of sweat, the way her bun bobbed as she moved. She rolled her eyes—big, dramatic, a full-body scoff that screamed fuck-you.

“Move it, I’ve got a line,” she said, turning to the next guy, brushing me off like I was lint on her sleeve. And that was it—the hook sank deep, her attitude flipping a switch I hadn’t meant to touch. Loudmouth pro, I thought, stepping back, bag crumpling in my fist. The mall pulsed around me—shoppers jostling, a kid wailing somewhere—and I let it fade, fingers flexing in my jacket pockets. Stop.

Time crashed still, a silent hammer dropping. Escalators froze mid-whine, a guy mid-step. The mom’s stroller locked in place, her kid’s mouth stretched wide in a mute scream, pacifier mid-fall. And her—mid-eye-roll, one hand on the scanner, hips cocked—stood pinned, a navy-and-khaki statue, that smirk frozen like she owned the whole damn store. I exhaled slow, the stillness settling thick around me—a heavy quiet that sharpened every sound I made: the soft scuff of my sneakers, the faint rustle of my jacket as I moved. This was my space now, a private stage carved from the chaos, and she was center spotlight.

I eased around the counter, slowly removing my jacket as I slipped into her orbit. Up close, she hit harder—sweat beading on her pale neck, catching the light, lips slick with cheap gloss that smelled faintly of cherries, her polo sketching the swell of her breasts, the bra’s outline teasing beneath. Those freckles trailed down her throat, faint constellations against her skin, and her bun sagged, dark strands brushing her shoulders.

“A professional, huh?” I muttered, voice a low rumble in the hush, circling her slow like a hunter sizing up a catch. Her khakis clung to her ass—round, firm, a promise wrapped in stiff fabric—and I paused behind her, grin twitching as I leaned in closer, catching her scent: sweat, cheap floreal shampoo, a hint of burnt coffee lingering on her breath.

But first, a detour—the mom’s stroller sat a few feet off, a diaper bag slung over the handle, unzipped and spilling its guts across the bar. I stepped over, smirking as I rummaged—pacifier, bottle, a wad of wipes—then struck gold: a half-squeezed tube of baby lotion, lilac-scented, the cap crusted with dried gunk. “Thanks, mommy,” I said, popping it open with a flick of my thumb and giving it a good sniff. The scent hit soft, floral and absurd, and I chuckled, strolling back to the counter with it tucked in my grip. I set the tube down beside her scanner—her frozen fingers still curled around it—and hooked my fingers into her khakis, easing them down slowly. The fabric resisted at first, then gave, sliding over her hips to pool at her ankles, exposing black panties—lace-edged, low-slung, a thin strip cutting across her pale skin, barely covering the goods.

I peeled the lace aside with a careful tug, baring her ass—smooth, warm, a faint tan line curving like a sly wink across its fullness. “Let’s see that pro attitude now,” I said, voice low and rough, giving it a light smack—her flesh jiggled soft, a pink flush blooming where my hand landed, fading slow in the stillness. My jeans hit the floor next, the zipper’s rasp cutting the quiet as my cock sprang free—thick, hard, twitching with the pulse of my heartbeat. I squeezed a cool, slick dollop of the lotion into my palm and rubbed it all over my manhood, fingers gliding smooth, slicking it glossy with that lilac scent, and took a breath, letting the anticipation settle. I nudged her forward gently, bending her over the counter—her frozen hands still gripping the scanner, chest pressed to the chipped wood—and lined up, taking my time.

Her ass was tight, a puckered little knot, and I pressed in slow—lotion easing the way, her heat parting soft around me, snug but welcoming. I slid deeper, deliberate, feeling her wrap me tight—a warm grip that tugged a low grunt from my throat. “Fuck, that’s good,” I murmured, hips rocking steady, the faint slick of lotion and flesh whispering in the silence. My hands settled light on her hips, thumbs brushing her skin—pale, freckled, warm—and I thrust smooth, thighs brushing hers with a soft, rhythmic tap. Sweat beaded on my brow, a slow drip sliding down to splash her back—her polo rucked up now, baring a slick strip of skin just above her waistband—and I kept it easy, savoring the glide, the way her body took me in, the quiet squelch of each push.

I lingered there, unhurried—slow pumps letting me watch my cock slip in and out, glossy with lotion, her ass bouncing faint with each motion, a ripple that caught the stalled light. One hand drifted up, fisting her bun—silky strands caught in my fingers as I lightly tugged her head back, her frozen sneer tilting up as I picked up speed. I rocked deeper, feeling the heat coil low and steady in my gut, building with every smooth thrust. The stillness stretched every second—her scent mingling with the lilac, the faint creak of the counter under her weight— I let it build, then eased out, cum spilling thick and warm inside her, a soft flood I felt pulse through me, leaving a quiet ache in its wake. “There you go, ‘pro’,” I chuckled, pulling back slow—a trickle leaked down her thigh, soaking into her panties—and I eased them back up, khakis too, smoothing them neat with careful hands. No rips, no mess—just a secret she’d carry when the world blinked back.

Next stop: the racks. After quickly fixing my pants, I grabbed my bag and strolled into the store—past frozen shoppers, posed mid-stride like mannequins—and scanned the tees, the cool air brushing against my skin as I moved. I found one in my size—black, simple, the fabric soft under my fingers—ripped the tag off with a quick yank, swapped it with the ‘trash’ shirt, and tucked it inside my bag. The faint rustle of paper sounded loud in the hush—I _was _here to do a return, after all.

Back at the counter, I reset her—hands poised on the scanner, hips cocked, chin up, eye-roll locked in place—her bun still messy, strands brushing her pale neck. Not wanting to deprive a mother of her baby’s lotion, I slipped the tube back into the diaper bag slung over the stroller. Then, easing back to my spot at the counter’s edge, bag in hand, I leaned casual, like I’d never budged, and took a slow breath.

Go.

Time snapped back with a jolt—escalators groaned to life, the kid’s wail pierced the air as its pacifier clattered to the floor. The girl twitched, dropping the scanner with a clatter, a sharp “Huh?” slipping past her lips. She shifted, frowned, and quickly snatched it back up, one hand drifting to her ass—pausing as she felt the faint dampness, the odd warmth seeping through her khakis.

“What the—” she muttered, just loud enough to carry, stepping awkward—her gait hitched, a wobble she tried to play off with a quick shuffle. Her khakis clung, and she rubbed her hip, grimacing, freckles sharp against flushed cheeks. “Fuckin’ weird ache—long shift,” she said, voice edged, fumbling the next guy’s scan with shaky fingers.

The mom smirked, whispering something to her stroller buddy. The guy in line grinned, tapping his foot slow.

“You good?” he asked, half-laughing through his nose.

She shot him a look, unsteady. “Yeah, just… cramps—whatever. Next!”

Her fingers brushed her khakis, sniffing quick—nose wrinkling at the faint lilac trace. “That’s…” she griped, clearly confused. She grabbed a tissue from under the counter, wiped her hands brisk—her bun sagging further. Tugging at her polo, she muttered under her breath. She shifted again, wincing faintly, her sharp edge fraying with every move.

I watched, leaning on the counter—grinning tight, the buzz humming warm in my chest. Her pale face twisted as she tried to shake it off. She was unraveling—attitude dulled by the mess I’d left, oblivious and off-balance.

"If I can't return it, no point in sticking around. Have a good one!" I shrugged. As I turned, I caught her huff behind me, sharp and clipped.

"Damn right, have a good day—just not in my store." She muttered it, half to herself, already reaching for the next customer, convinced she'd won. I smirked, adjusting the bag under my arm, my fresh new shirt snug inside. Yeah… I’d definitely be having a great day.

The mall swallowed me as I walked, Victory crisp as the air’s chill, already scanning the crowd for the next flicker to catch my eye.