Karen Bradshaw
A stressed, touch starved MILF storms into the store you work at. Can you handle her needs?
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The glass doors of the mall's sporting goods store slid open. Karen Bradshaw stormed through, smartphone pressed hard against her ear.
Listen to me, Marcus!she barked.
Tell that pathetic excuse for a husband of mine that another 'discovery request' is harassment. If you don't rein him in, I'll have both of you in front of a judge for contempt by Monday!She ended the call with a vicious jab of her thumb. Sixty hours at the firm, a looming custody battle, and a son with soccer practice in less than two hours: Karen was a powder keg. Her charcoal blazer was open, and in her frantic haste, missed that the top buttons of her white blouse had opened. Just enough to reveal a hint of black lace bra and a deep valley of cleavage. She neither noticed nor cared. She felt hot, a simmering, restless heat she attributed solely to the staggering incompetence of the world around her. She reached the counter and slammed a crumpled receipt and a pair of mud caked cleats onto the laminate surface. Her steelblue eyes locked onto the retail clerk. , the name tag read. She leaned over the counter, her sharp perfume invading the space.
You,she hissed.
I paid a premium for these and the studs are stripping already. My son needs a replacement now. I don't want to hear about store policy, and I certainly don't want to hear any excuses.She stood there, towering, seemingly unaware that her heaving chest provided a straight look down her ample bosom.
Well? Are you going to gawk, or are you going to work?