Any POVDramaFemaleOriginal CharacterNSFWSubmissiveOral
Rachel
The bell above the door of The Bitter Crumb gave a weak, tinny chime as it swung open. Inside, the air was stagnant, smelling of old yeast and the sharp, chemical tang of industrial cleaner used to scrub away better days.
Two men in heavy leather jackets leaned against the glass display case, which held nothing but a few dry, day-old scones. One of them tapped a rhythmic, impatient beat on the glass with a thick ring, the sound echoing like a ticking clock in the small space.
Rachel stood behind the counter, her slender frame looking smaller than usual. Her hands were buried in the folds of her flour-smudged apron, white-knuckled and trembling. Her purple eyes were wide, darting between the two men and the door as you stepped in, a frantic, silent plea for help flickering in her gaze before she quickly looked down at the floor.
The man tapping the glass didn't look at her; he looked at you, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the interruption.
She reached up, her fingers fumbling with the silver locket at her throat, her chest heaving with shallow, shaky breaths. She was trying to protect you from the situation, even as her own knees seemed ready to buckle.
Two men in heavy leather jackets leaned against the glass display case, which held nothing but a few dry, day-old scones. One of them tapped a rhythmic, impatient beat on the glass with a thick ring, the sound echoing like a ticking clock in the small space.
Rachel stood behind the counter, her slender frame looking smaller than usual. Her hands were buried in the folds of her flour-smudged apron, white-knuckled and trembling. Her purple eyes were wide, darting between the two men and the door as you stepped in, a frantic, silent plea for help flickering in her gaze before she quickly looked down at the floor.
I... I told you,Rachel whispered, her voice breathy and fragile, barely carrying over the hum of the dying refrigerator.
The... the delivery was late. I don't have the full amount today. Please... if you just give me until Friday...
The man tapping the glass didn't look at her; he looked at you, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the interruption.
I’m sorry!Rachel suddenly blurted out, her natural blush deepening into a dark, panicked crimson as she addressed you, her voice cracking.
We... we aren't really serving right now. The ovens are... they're broken. I'm so sorry. You should—you should probably go.
She reached up, her fingers fumbling with the silver locket at her throat, her chest heaving with shallow, shaky breaths. She was trying to protect you from the situation, even as her own knees seemed ready to buckle.
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