Warehouse Night Shift
"She's his supervisor at the Amazon warehouse. He's new, trying to make rate. Break room chats become something more over the long night shifts."
First night at the warehouse, I meet Stacey.
She's my supervisor—been here five years, knows every trick to make rate. She's also thick as hell: curves that her hi-vis vest can't hide, arse that strains her work trousers, tits that bounce when she walks the floor checking on pickers.
"You're the new lad, yeah?" She looks me up and down. "Try to keep up. This isn't a holiday camp."
"Yes, boss."
She snorts. "Don't call me boss. Makes me feel old."
She's maybe thirty-five. Not old at all.
Week One
The work is brutal.
Twelve-hour shifts, walking miles, picking items until my feet bleed. The only bright spots are breaks—fifteen minutes every four hours—and Stacey.
She finds me in the break room on my third night, collapsing into a chair.
"You look rough."
"Feel it."
"It gets easier." She sits across from me, opens a Twix. "First month's the worst. After that your body adapts."
"Or I quit."
"Most do." She shrugs, takes a bite. "But you don't look like a quitter."
"How can you tell?"
"Because quitters don't ask for help. They just struggle and leave." She pushes the other half of her Twix toward me. "You asked questions on day one. That's smart."
Week Two
The breaks become our thing.
She finds me in the same spot every time, and we talk—about the job, the managers, the arseholes who don't pull their weight. She's got stories about everyone.
"See that bloke over there? Got caught shagging in the loading bay."
"Seriously?"
"Cameras caught everything." She cackles. "Still works here though. Hard to get fired from this place."
"That's reassuring."
"Depends what you want to do in the loading bay, doesn't it?"
She winks. I pretend not to notice.
Week Three
She starts touching me.
Nothing obvious—a hand on my shoulder when she passes, a brush of fingers when she hands me paperwork. But I notice. I notice everything about her now.
The way she walks, all confidence and curves.
The way she smells, cheap perfume and sweat.
The way she laughs, loud and genuine.
"You're staring," she says during one break.
"Sorry."
"I didn't say stop."
Week Four
We're in the break room at 3 AM, the dead hour when even the vending machines seem tired.
"You know what I miss about having a bloke?" She's not looking at me, staring at her phone. "Someone to actually talk to. Most of the men round here can barely string a sentence together."
"What happened to your last one?"
"Fucked off with some skinny bird from Basildon." She shrugs like it doesn't hurt, but I can tell it does. "His loss."
"Definitely his loss."
She looks at me then. Really looks.
"You're sweet, you know that? Too sweet for this shithole."
"Maybe I'm just smart enough to appreciate what's in front of me."
The air changes. She leans forward, elbows on the table.
"And what's in front of you?"
"You."
Week Five
Nothing happens at work.
But she gives me her number—"for emergencies"—and the texts start. Random stuff at first. Jokes about managers. Photos of weird items she's picking.
Then, one night: Can't sleep. What are you doing?
Thinking about you.
A long pause. Then: Good. Keep thinking.
Week Six
She invites me over after our shift.
"Just a cuppa," she says. "I'm too wired to sleep and my flat's closer than yours."
Her flat is small, messy, lived-in. Kids' drawings on the fridge—she's got two, with their dad every other weekend. Right now, it's empty.
"Tea or something stronger?"
"Stronger."
She pours vodka. We sit on her sofa. Close, but not touching.
"I've been thinking," she says.
"About what?"
"About whether this is a bad idea." She turns to face me. "You work for me. I'm ten years older than you. I've got baggage. Kids. A psycho ex."
"Doesn't sound like a bad idea to me."
"It should."
"It doesn't."
She kisses me like she's been holding back for weeks.
Because she has been. We both have. And now there's nothing holding us back—her mouth on mine, her body pressing me into the sofa, all those curves I've been dreaming about finally in my hands.
"Bedroom," she breathes. "Now."
Her body is everything I imagined.
Thick thighs, soft belly, massive tits that spill out when she pulls off her top. She's self-conscious—I can see it in how she moves—but she's also hungry.
"You sure?" she asks, standing there in just her knickers. "Last chance to run."
I pull her onto the bed as my answer.
We take our time.
The slow-burn that's been building for weeks spills out in slow, deliberate touches. I learn her body like I learned the warehouse—every corner, every secret spot, every shortcut to her pleasure.
When I finally push inside her, she sighs like she's coming home.
"God, I needed this."
"Just this?"
"This. You. All of it." She wraps her legs around me. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
I don't stop until we're both finished, sweaty and tangled in her sheets.
After
We don't hide it at work—not exactly—but we're careful.
Breaks are still breaks. Work is still work. But now there's something underneath, a current between us that makes the long nights bearable.
Her kids meet me after two months. Suspicious at first, then won over by my willingness to play FIFA and order pizza.
Her ex kicks off once—shows up drunk, shouting—but we handle it. Together.
"This is mental, you know," she tells me one morning, curled up in my arms. "You're twenty-four. You shouldn't be playing stepdad to some warehouse slag's kids."
"You're not a slag."
"I am a bit."
"Then you're my slag." I kiss her forehead. "And this isn't mental. This is just... us."
A year later, we get a flat together.
The kids have their own rooms. We have a proper bed. The warehouse still sucks, but we take breaks together and the nights don't feel so long.
"Best thing that ever happened at that place," she says sometimes.
"What's that?"
"You walking in the door."
She's not wrong.