Shift At The Snowcone Stand

"Great work, Emily!" Alan kept up his charm offensive. "I don't remember those mirrors ever looking so effulgent."

"Is that good, Mr. Jackson?" Concern flickered across Emily's face. Alan, who had planned to flatter her, noticed her expression and suddenly decided to change course. Maybe a little negative reinforcement was in order.

"No," he said, severely. "It means... it means dirty and grubby, is what it means. But you can make it up to me, Emily."

"Oh, no! I'm ever so sorry, Mr. Jackson! Whatever can I do to make it better?"

"You can let me give you a snow job."

"Pardon?"

"We need somebody to help Tara out at the snowcone stand," snapped Mr. Johnson, enjoying Emily's look of dismay. She was so eager to please him! He could think of one or two ways she could please him, but that would come later, after he'd strung her along some more. After all, no woman could resist his patent combination of stern authority, chiselled good looks and positively effulgent wit. "Hop to it! And remember, she's the snowcone expert!"

"Right away, Mr. Jackson! I'm on it!"

All Emily had to do was look for the huge, friendly plastic snowman, standing outside the wooden stand decorated with snowflakes, next to the huge queue of bored, rowdy teenagers. There was a single woman standing behind the counter, a bored-looking brunette whose dark eyeshadow clashed with her perky outfit. "Hi!" she said, ducking inside the stall and offering up her friendliest smile. "I'm Emily!"

"Uh-huh."

"I'm here to help out!"

"Huh-uh," said Tara, very slowly pouring a chemical pink syrup from a hose into a cone of frozen ice. The teenager at the front of the queue, a spotty nerd in an anime T-shirt, looked like he was about to bite his lips off in frustration, but she didn't seem to care. "Okay."

"What can I do? Can I help you serve snowcones?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Can I fetch more ice?"

"Uh-uh."

"Can I make up some more syrup?"

Tara turned to face Emily for the first time, still holding the syrup hose in her hand, with the result that a jet of pink sticky syrup squirted Emily directly between the eyes. Emily blinked, taken aback, as it trickled down her face into her mouth. It tasted like a cheap imitation of bubblegum.

"Uh," she said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Emily! I'm here to help out!"

"I guess..." said Tara, looking at the long line of frustrated young men and women gathered in front of the stand. "I guess..."

"I'll do anything!"

"I guess you could fix up the ice crusher?"

"Gladly!" said Emily, bending down to have a look at the ice crusher that sat on the counter next to Tara. She'd never fixed up an ice crusher before, or any other type of machine, ever, but it seemed simple enough. There was a hatch at the top where you put in ice cubes, a thing inside that crushed the ice, and a metal tube the crushed ice came out of. She leaned over, frowning, to get a better look at the hatch. "What's wrong with it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Tara? Something's wrong with it, right?"

"Huh..."

Emily tried to stand up, and found that she couldn't. The metal tube that the crushed ice came out of had, somehow, become hooked into the neck of her too-tight T-shirt. She tried to unhook it, but she was stuck in such a way that she couldn't reach the place where it was caught.

"Um, Tara? Can you give me a hand here?"

"Uh..."

"What's wrong with this thing, anyway?" said Emily, accidentally bumping the side of the machine. She heard a dull thunk from inside, and the whir of machinery coming to life. "Like, what's its problem?"

"Oh," said Tara, sleepily. "Sometimes, it turns on by itself."

"Eek!"

About five minutes later, Emily was finally able to dislodge her shirt from the machine. She turned to face the queue, looking sheepish. The ice was already beginning to melt, soaking through her shirt and revealing very clearly the size of her breasts and colour and shape of her red bra. It had been sprayed into her cleavage with such **** that even her bra-cups were now filled with tiny, freezing crystals, slowly liquefying into ice-cold water that made the fabric cling to her like a second skin.

She stood before the teenagers with a wet, transparent T-shirt, a bra full of crushed ice and nipples so hard they were just about visible through both layers of fabric, still shell-shocked from her arctic experience, twin roses beginning to bloom in her cheeks as she began to realise how she must look.

She was just about to cover her breasts with her hands when Tara handed her an ice scoop and a syrup hose.

"Okay," she said. "I'm going to take a break."

"But..."

"Need you to take over here. Be back in half an hour. Maybe."

The nerd in the anime T-shirt was smirking at her. Emily looked away, not wanting to meet his gaze, although he wasn't looking at her face. She gave the syrup hose a squirt. Unfortunately, she was holding the spigot the wrong way, and managed to spray herself in the face with a sweet, sticky jet of chemical blue.

She looked out at the queue, and down at her tits, which were barely concealed by her soaking red bra, and very cold. She looked down at the implements in her hand, and gulped. "W-what do I do with these, exactly?"

"Use them to serve with, of course," Tara said. "And don't let them go under any circumstances, no matter what happens. Understand?"

"Yes," said Emily, doing her best to adopt a positive attitude. Accidents were bound to happen, after all. And at least things couldn't get any worse! "I won't leave this spot until you're back, and I won't let go of these, no matter what happens. I won't stop or do anything else until every last customer is served."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Pinky promise?"

"Extra, extra, extra special pinky promise with a cherry on top."

"Good," said Tara, and pulled her shorts down around her ankles. "Enjoy your shift!"