She used them to wipe up the excess fluids that she had produced, then stuck them in her pocket.Amy found her supervisor and told her that she wasn't feeling well, and could she please go home and come in early on Monday morning to finish the inventory? Her concerned supervisor immediately agreed, and Amy went home. Despite the early hour, and despite her desire to wash away any evidence of the day, as soon as she reached home she pulled off all her clothes and collapsed into bed.When Amy woke up the next morning, she couldn't remember why she felt so bizarre. Then it all came back to her. She remembered the events in the supply closet, but she also remembered the vivid dreams that she had been having all night, the visions of her tied down, defiled, used. She started rubbing the sleep out of her eyes when she realized that her fingers were goopy with her own juices. "Oh my god!" Amy thought. "I must have been masturbating to my dreams!"Amy got up and took a long, hot shower, paying. Clothes? A polo-style shirt and khaki cargo shorts that were a little too short for his frame, falling just above his knobby knees. He ensemble was topped off by a pair of calf-high sports socks and cheap Walmart knock-offs of Vans.It all added up to Air Force airman.He climbed all the way to the top and entered my row of seats, plopping down about three chairs to my left. He took out his phone and did something to it – I assume turned off the ringer – then shoved it back into his shorts pocket. Then he appeared to relax. He surveyed the theater and his fellow moviegoers, then unexpectedly turned my way, catching me staring before I could pretend I wasn’t. Damn. I hate it when that happens.“Nice and cool in here, isn’t it?” He said in a voice that was slightly louder than a whisper.“Thank God,” I answered. “I thought I was gonna melt outside. Hottest summer in years.”“You’re not from around here, are you?” he said, more a statement than a question.“Oh but I am,” I said back. “It’s.
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