None of the twenty or so witnesses in the bank would remember the tacky red carnation in the lapel of his tuxedo. They would disagree on whether he was tall or short, and whether he brandished a revolver or an automatic pistol.
But Ginger knew.
As bank manger, she had a sharp eye, and legs to match, which she always showcased in genuine stockings. Never pantyhose. Her legs had been educated to the feel of garters and silk. Even on the most mundane day, she cherished the secret mesh of lightning and stardust caressing her from heel to thigh, leaving her exposed from the top of her hose to her hips. She never wore panties.
In less than five seconds she sized up the young, nervous man waving the pistol as a slave to money. Cash was his dominatrix and he spent his days and nights satisfying every degrading command imposed upon him if it put him in the company of more moolah. And regardless of how much he possessed, he would spend it just so he would be required to humiliate himself in order to obtain more.
His tux wasn't even a real tux, but one of those party store outfits, probably a spy costume. Ginger identified the pantyhose over his head as a Hanes coffee petite, and the gun as plastic. The black nylon satchel he carried reeked of mildewed socks and gym-locker jockstraps.
And yet, through the constricting mask, his startled eyes betrayed the lengths to which he had been pushed to commit such a daring deed. Or maybe the power of her beauty stunned him off-balance, challenging his focus, his confidence, his very reason for being there in the first place.
He cleared his throat and muttered, "Fill it," as he extended his fist with the black bag.
She preferred to accept the gesture as instructions to take him to the vault, so she avoided touching the stinky sack and turned toward the back of the bank.
He followed, spinning suddenly on the bewildered handful of customers, and shouted, his voice breaking, "Nothing stupid or she dies."
Inside the walk-in vault, she discreetly loosened the top button on her blouse and "accidentally" dropped the first bundle of money at his feet, next to the satchel.
When she bent to pick it up, her cleavage strained the limits of her shirt, since she wore no bra. On her knees, she spent more time than necessary recovering the loot, at last looking up at him fearfully, Bambi eyes begging him to understand and not shoot her. When she finished dropping the bundles of cash into the gym bag, she allowed her hand to trace a path between her breasts. "I've never been this close to a real bank-robber," she lied.
Though his mashed face through nylon remained unreadable, the python crawling down his pant leg encouraged her to unzip him before he could protest or squirt her with his water pistol.
Inhaling through her open mouth, she dared lean forward, her eyes still pleading, and when he tilted his hips forward, just slightly, she extended her tongue, grazing the metal gap, the tangle of enflamed pubic hair, and connected at last with the dragon leaking fire down his leg. It tasted young and crazed and confused with impulses at conflict with each other. She savored the flavor, allowed the energy of his weakness to saturate her throat. "Please don't shoot me," she said, and closed her eyes.
His dry swallow echoed in the vault as she scooped him out and placed him gently between her breasts. Again she looked up at him for approval, rotated her shoulders to help settle him deeper into her fleshy crevice, and when she closed her eyes and pulled her blouse down he shifted his stance, adding pressure of his own.
Ginger pinched her arms tighter and his dragon stretched its neck nearly to her throat, head swelling with delicious pain, reeling with electric abandon, and she knew he wouldn't last much longer. With an easy push from her breasts he popped up and straight into her mouth before he could make his own decision otherwise, if he'd wanted to.
Indeed, he grabbed her blond ponytail, and the coral lipstick she'd taken care to apply that morning smeared along his flushed bludgeon, the one thing about him that wasn't fake. Feet planted for support, his hips hammered her face, though her hands on his ass were doing the all work. He tore the pantyhose from his head, gulping air, as her tongue snaked every inch of taut flesh until the vault, the bank, the world collapsed around him, the nuclear impact propelling him heavenward, limbs and wings contorted with pleasure as he filled her mouth with liquid moonlight.
Lungs finally free, he consumed every scent in the vault. The money, his own perspiration, her perspiration, her perfume, like roses and sex, and how can he capture this moment forever? Before he could commit everything to memory he remembered where he was, who he was, though balance proved a tougher challenge. Dazed and panicked, he looked around for the pantyhose, but the light was too dim.
None of the witnesses would remember he ran out of the bank without his satchel, or that he wore a different stocking over his head than when he came in. And no one would notice Ginger's own silk stockings had somehow disappeared.