Charity Shop Charm

Charity shops were treasure hunts for skint people. Mostly you found nothing, but occasionally—vintage leather jackets, first-edition books, things that smelled like dead relatives but cost fifty pence.

The British Heart Foundation on the high street was my regular spot. Not for the treasures, though those helped. For Sienna.

She was the volunteer who sorted donations and judged your purchases. Twenty-something, piercings scattered across her face, vintage dress sense that came from working there, eyes that saw everything.

"Back again?" she asked as I browsed the men's section for the third time that week.

"Looking for something specific."

"You said that yesterday. And the day before." She leaned on the counter. "Starting to think you just like the ambiance."

"Maybe I like the staff."

"There's six of us. Most are pensioners."

"Then maybe I like one specific staff member."

She didn't blush—didn't seem the type—but her smile shifted into something more genuine.

"Bold. I respect that." She glanced at the nearly-empty shop. "I'm on break in five. There's a stockroom that needs sorting. Want to help?"

"I'm very helpful."

The stockroom was chaos—bags of donations piled high, racks of unsorted clothes, the smell of other people's histories. Sienna locked the door behind us.

"So," she said, "here's my theory. You're not looking for vintage. You're looking for an excuse to talk to me."

"Correct."

"Why not just ask me out like a normal person?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

She laughed—surprising both of us. "Fair point. Alright then. You've got my attention. Now what?"

"Now I kiss you. If that's okay."

"It's okay."

I kissed her among the donated memories—someone's wedding dress, children's clothes, a leather jacket that probably had stories. She tasted of the mint tea she always drank.

"Not bad," she said. "For a charity shop stalker."

"I prefer the term 'enthusiast.'"

"You would." She was already pulling off her cardigan. "Quick, though. Break's only fifteen minutes."

She wore a vintage slip underneath—silk, lace edges, probably pulled from the donations. It suited her perfectly.

"Keep it on," I said.

"Yeah?" She grinned. "Kinky."

"Efficient."

She laughed again, pulling me toward a pile of coats that had been used as a makeshift seating area by whoever sorted before us.

"Classy," I observed.

"We work with what we have."

She pushed me down, straddled me. The slip rode up, revealing pale thighs and underwear that was definitely not vintage.

"This is insane," I said.

"Best kind of insane." She was working at my jeans. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this."

"Good answer."

She freed me, stroked once, twice. Then reached into her bra—apparently she kept everything there—and produced a condom.

"Prepared," I noted.

"Hopeful." She rolled it on. "Been thinking about this for weeks."

She sank down, the vintage slip pooling around her hips. The sound she made was worth every awkward shopping trip.

"Fuck—yes—"

She rode me on the donated coats, vintage silk shifting with every movement. I grabbed her hips, helped her rhythm.

"So good—faster—"

I thrust up to meet her, watching her face. Her eyes closed, her lips parted, her pierced eyebrow catching light from the single bulb.

"Close—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed while she rode. She came with a gasp, muffling her cry against my shoulder.

"Your turn—inside—"

I came hard, pulling her down, feeling her shake through aftershocks.

We stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, surrounded by other people's discarded lives.

"Three minutes left," she said eventually, checking her phone. "Fuck, we're efficient."

"Told you."

She climbed off, straightened her slip, smoothed her hair. Back to professional in under a minute.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, unlocking the door.

"I'll bring donations."

"Bring yourself. That's enough." She kissed me—quick, hard. "Now go buy something so it looks like you were actually shopping."

I left with a leather jacket (two quid, genuine vintage) and a standing appointment.

Best charity shop on the high street. Personal service.