A Girl Named Hope Ch 01

A Girl Named Hope Ch. 01

By Scott Free

© 2021 Freeman Books

Like most evenings at work, this one was boring. Not just boring in the “I have nothing to do” way, but boring in the “why am I wasting my life in this dump?” kind of way. I think most people feel this way once in a while at their place of employment. My employer gets a bad rap from a lot of people, but to be totally honest, I really like my job. I work at for a certain big-box-retailer, in a smallish city in Minnesota. I won’t name any company names here, because like I said before, I like my job.

The one name that I can tell you is mine. My name is Robert. It seems easy enough. It contains six letters, and those letters are arranged in two syllables; Ro-bert. But no, customers always seem to want to call me Bob, which I hate. Bob is not a name, it is a verb that is defined as: “a short jerky motion,” or “to bounce up and down.” Bob is the motion a woman uses when she is giving head. It is not my fucking name. The only worse scenario is when a customer calls me Rob. Rob is also a verb, and when they address me as such, I want to “Rob” them of their consciousness.

Other than my name, I am an easy going guy. I am a shade over six feet tall, with brown hair, and eyes. I’m not really fat, but then again, I’m not really thin either. I’m not some muscle-bound ox of a man; but then again, I’m not exactly a scrawny fellow. Almost, but not quite, has been the story of my life. I have only one real thing going for me: I know how to talk to women. It doesn’t sound like much when compared with other super powers. I mean, it’s not as cool as being bulletproof, like Superman. It also really doesn’t compare to being able to do magic like Harry Potter. But those guys are pure fiction. Me, I’m the real deal. Before you get the idea that I’m some kind of big time player who fucks a lot of women, let me tell you; I don’t. In fact, there has been only one woman in my bed for the past five and a half years. Yep, that’s right, I’m married. I’ve been married for almost five years now.

I bet you are thinking to yourself, “big fucking deal.” You might be asking yourself, “What good does it do a married man to have a real talent for talking to women?” That is an excellent question, for which I have an excellent answer: it keeps me entertained. It can take the most boring day at work, and turn it into an adventure. A female customer comes to me looking for a widget, and within a few minutes of conversation, I not only sell her a couple more widgets than she was looking for, but I get her whole life story, and usually her phone number too. The conversations, I cherish. The phone numbers, I diligently throw away, always uncalled. After all, I wouldn’t want my wife to get upset after finding some girl’s number in my wallet. It is just a little innocent flirting.

Like I said at the beginning, I was bored. All my aisles were straightened, all of my returned merchandise had been put away, and all of the stocking that the day shift was required to do was done. That left one thing to do: clean. Cleaning is the bane of my existence. Whenever work seems like it can get no more tedious, a manager will come by and tell you to get out the paper towel, and the glass cleaner. My section has about a dozen huge display cabinets, which are always in need of a good polish, thanks to the sticky fingers of grubby little children. Just as I began to dread the prospect of becoming Mr. Clean, the department manager from the next section over cruised by, looking like he wanted somebody to tell off. This was his second time by in less than fifteen minutes, so I knew that this self-important prick was on a mission. I quickly looked for a customer that I could assist, but I had no luck. The only customer in sight was being helped by my section partner, Bailey. Damn!

“When is the last time that you checked for returns, Robert?” The smug bastard asks. At least the bastard didn’t call me Bob.

“I finished them about ten minutes ago, Mitch.” He looked me over closely, like a cop who was trying to tell if I had been drinking, or not. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been drinking. Otherwise, this day probably would have been much more awesome.

“Maybe you should clean the display cases.” He paused to see if I would protest. I didn’t, because I had known from the minute I saw him that I would be buffing some glass in the near future. “It’s not good for the other managers to see you just standing around like that.” What he meant was, “It’s doesn’t make me look good for my boss to see you not sweating, and busting your ass for your measly pay.”

“Sure, Mitch.” I gave him my most winning smile. This smile had got a woman’s panties thrown at me twice, when I was in college. Yes, I went to college. Why am I working here? Well, that’s a long story. But Mitch was unmoved by what my wife calls my “Million Watt Beam.” I was not totally disappointed, because if Mitch did happen to wear panties, I did not want him to throw them at me. In fact, if he did, I would probably have to give him an old fashioned ass whooping. He turned, and walked away, probably thinking of his next intended victim, or more probably of the kittens or puppies that he tortures in his free time. Watching him walk, I wondered for the millionth time, what he could possibly be smuggling up his ass to make him walk that way? With any luck, I will never find out.

I went behind the checkout counter, and got the gigantic, industrial-sized roll of paper towel and a spray bottle of window cleaner. I walked over to the iPod display, and sprayed a generous amount of the blue liquid across the clear surface. Yes, I forgot to tell you before, I am probably the asshole who sold you that television that you watch fourteen hours a day. I finished the top case, bundled up my used towels, and crouched down to spray the lower half of the case. I put the spray bottle down, and began to unroll some more paper when I caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of my eye. I hate to admit it, but my very first thought was of Mitch throwing his lacey undergarments at me while I was otherwise occupied. Thankfully, this was not the case, and although it was a pair of panties that had caught my eye, they definitely did not belong to Mitch “the Bitch.”

They were very small, and lacey, and red, and hanging from a hanger that was held by the woman standing next to me. The term woman was probably stretching it a little. Girl, would probably be more accurate, or at least, young lady. She was a pretty little thing. She stood maybe 5’1”, and if she weighed over a hundred pounds, I would gladly eat that lacey red thong. After a full twenty seconds of looking, I decided that I would have no problem eating that miniscule article of clothing, provided that she was wearing it at the time. She was absolutely stunning. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a pony tail. I try not to actively fantasize about other women, but I couldn’t help but wonder what that hair would look like flowing free… down her back… her naked back… and maybe a little damp with sweat from our lovemaking.

I tried to pull myself together, and stop my mind from wandering. Unfortunately, that is when she pivoted about a quarter turn, and I caught sight of her best asset. No pun intended. I have always been a butt man, but I had never seen one in person to match hers. It was unnaturally large, perfectly heart-shaped, and it was stuffed into the smallest possible pair of lime green soccer shorts. The color of the shorts only highlighted the thin strip of cloth, that was obviously from a thong, exactly like the one she held in her hands, except for the color. It was peeking out of the top of her ridiculously small shorts, beneath her too small tank top, that left a full three inches of her flat belly bare.

I was almost afraid to stand up, because in all my not-so-secret gawking, I felt my cock start to stir. Unfortunately, my slightly baggy khaki pants leave nothing to the imagination when it comes to erections; and if things continued to develop this way, mine would be in undeniable evidence. I stood up anyway, though. I had to talk to this stunning creature. This is the entertainment that I had craved all afternoon, and I wasn’t going to let it pass by unexplored because I was afraid of getting a woody, like some fourteen-year-old boy.

“Hi,” I said smoothly, “Can I help you find anything today?” Her blue eyes darted towards me, and she smiled. I have no idea why, because the almost, but not quite also extends to my looks. I have never let my lack of ruggedly handsome appeal stop me from talking to women. After all, girls don’t always want some bad boy that will treat them shitty, sometimes they want a guy that they can take home to meet mom. And very occasionally women just want a guy who can bang them until they forget their own name. This is probably how I got my wife, who is also ridiculously out of my league.

“Yeah, maybe you can. Do you know anything about laptops? Mine died yesterday, and I’m thinking about buying a new one.” A scenario ran through my mind where I offered to fix her laptop, and afterward, I grudgingly accepted sex in lieu of payment. Even for me, this fantasy sounded farfetched.

“I happen to be the resident laptop expert. What exactly are you looking for, and about how much were you wanting to spend?” I wasn’t lying about my expertise in the field of computers. I have been building my own machines since I was twelve years old.

“Well…” she started, tilting her head sideways, and unconsciously twisting her hair around her index finger. It was adorable. “I’m just mainly looking to get online, and get on Facebook, and do some word processing, you know, for school.”

“Oh,” I said, and gave her another glimpse of my pearly whites, “what college do you go to?” Rule number one, women always like to talk about themselves. Most guys always want to monopolize the conversation, that way they can tell the woman repeatedly how great they are. Women see through this in an instant. But a woman is usually always flattered when a guy asks her about herself, and actually pays attention to what she says.

“I go to North Central University.” She smiled devastatingly at me again. She was surprised at my interest. This was going just as planned. “It’s in Minneapolis.” It was probably about a forty minute drive to North Central from our store. Bummer, she probably didn’t even live around here. “I’m majoring in accounting.”

Most guys would give her a compliment here. They would tell her how smart she is, or how good looking that she is. In comes rule number two: never give a woman a sincere compliment. Once you compliment them, they know that you are putty in their pretty little fingers. The only compliments that I ever give are veiled insults. If a woman is perfectly fit, and trim; tell her that you don’t mind a woman with a little junk-in-the-trunk. This may sound like a compliment, but au contraire. The fact is, the better looking that a woman is, the poorer her self-esteem usually is. She will interpret this comment as, “he thinks that I am fat.” So her self-esteem will take a small blow. Enough of these small blows and that chick will blow you just to prove to herself that she is good enough to do it. It sounds crazy, and it totally is, but the majority of women have a fucked up psyche; and this especially applies to good looking women. Why, you might ask? I’m no certified expert. Try it for yourself. Think of it as a social experiment, and see if you don’t catch more flies with vinegar than honey.

“That is a pretty decent school,” I allowed, with a smug grin.