The air inside this place was stale - as always - but Gum would be lying if she said the allure of french fries didn't tempt her every day she put on the uniform and got behind the counter, and if she wanted to avoid becoming a porker she had to keep from buying/stealing aforementioned fries with any sort of frequency. The thrum of the milkshake machines, crackling, boiling oil, of people chatting, of bad muzak and advertisements crooning over the cash register area, of aforementioned registers beeping and cha-chinging and spewing out receipts pressed in from all sides, probably the most outright oppressive part of the job, this cacophony paid for by The Man.
She didn't like what this job stood for, but it was really a necessary evil; Rudies need money to buy supplies, and it wasn't like she had any applicable life skills. Mew and Tab had been lucky, she'd landed a job at a family-owned place, but any remaining gainfully employed GGs had been forced into this sort of crap. And at least she wasn't alone here; Yo-Yo, Piranha and Beat had lucked out everywhere else, as well as a Poison Jammer, a girl named Thrash. Their presence made working a corporate job more tolerable.
Not by much. It was shitty pay and the customers were obnoxious and she didn't even get any paid days off.
"Welcome to Grody Burger," she said (every time somebody stepped up to the counter, and she was starting to believe you could get allergic to certain words if you strung them together in the right order). The customer in question - a tall guy in a business suit, clearly frustrated over something, and that was a great sign because he'd probably take it out on her.
"Two Dollar Double Chicken Grossnesses and an Ugly Frosty Coffee to go," he grumbled, bringing a hand up and massaging his temples. "Make it quick, I have to be at work in twenty minutes."
Yes, of course. Gum would press the button that let the food cook faster and the coffee brew in half the time physics allowed, reserved only for people who had to be somewhere in a certain time. Because everywhere he had to go was important, derf. She bit her tongue to keep from vocalizing that charming thought, because she was only allowed to look miserable. And this guy might be an asshole, but he hadn't turned all of that on her just yet, and she wasn't exactly going to give him a reason to do that. So instead, she just relayed the order through the microphone to the left of her register, her voice echoing out behind her, into the kitchen, where Beat, Yo-Yo and Thrash slaved away. She jabbed a few buttons on the register, the price - five-twenty - flickering in blue letters on a display attached to it. The man grunted, as if that pittance was too much for him to have to part ways with and it was Gum's fault, but whatever, she was used to that by now.
The man took his change, looking up at Gum for the first time as if realizing an actual person had taken her order rather than some autonomous robot - and pointed out, "You're flushed."
Asshole. At least some customers noticed and asked if she was doing alright.
"I'm getting over a cold," Gum lied, smooth and clean and perfect - she'd gotten used to giving that answer out by now, and people believed it. Mostly because they were disgusted by the fact that a sick person would be handling their food, and hell, that did her just fine. She wouldn't tell them that her face was red because the vibrating between her thighs had been driving her closer and closer to climax, that just out of sight, she wasn't wearing anything but socks and shoes from the waste down and the toy she smuggled away buzzed, the noise masked by those already present in the restaurant.
Gum considered it a personal challenge.
It was - different from the norm. She loved doing this sort of thing publicly, just out of sight so nobody who didn't already know what was going on wouldn't even realize. Oh, the GGs were in on the secret, of course, because even though she was experienced, she wasn't perfect, she made mistakes. All it took was the right mistake at the wrong time. The GGs were cool, though, because none of them had really judged her for it! Most understood outright, while others needed time to adjust, but being a Rudie meant not being judged for your habits, and it was with that pre-set attitude that it hadn't really been a problem when they found out.
What she did when she got out of the Garage depended entirely on her attitude. She didn't always feel like a sexual deviant, so it wasn't a constant thing. But when she was in the mood? Some days she would "forget" to have put her panties on, and that alone was risqué enough in the Rudie world, because more often than not you'd have to grind on a telephone wire or something similar, and all it would take to be found out was somebody seeing her coming and looking up. (Her sun dress was long enough to hide everything without issue when on even ground with anybody else, though, but one strong breeze could end that mystery.)
If she felt like being more ham-handed, then she'd go out without the under-shirt on, too - during the summer, people could just assume it was too hot out to go skating in anything more than the sun dress and her accessories, or whatever they wanted to think because it really didn't make a difference. Their opinions didn't matter, they never had, and that's why she'd become a Rudie in the first place, you know?
Sometimes she switched that up, and went out with the shirt but not the sun dress (and still no panties)...sometimes, just the accessories and nothing more (her back always hurt after that, though, so she didn't do it often). At that point carrying more than two cans of paint became an issue unless she got...creative, which was the next step up. Hell, some days she just 'got creative' with her spray paint management even when she had the shirt and the sun dress - never with panties on, though, that had been a mistake and had ruined a perfectly good pair of underwear. Also, cleaning spray paint off your skin? Not fun, and scrub as hard as you want, it wouldn't all come off at once. Again, it all depended on the mood, but she only indulged in the super-obvious ones once in a while and in Kogane or Shibuya at night, because if everyone knew she loved doing the public stuff, the thrill of potentially being found out would be lost.
And with any given amount of nudity, the spray paint could be substituted for anything else - one of those vibrating bullet things, a dildo, an actual vibrator, some miscellaneous item that actually wasn't supposed to be used for sexual application (lipstick, various foodstuffs, cell phones, her panties, so on, so forth). The only thing that really mattered was the edge, the high...and the fact that none of this made her a slut, because she wasn't. She didn't sleep around, and she really didn't want that kind of attention, even though it was inevitable, even though there had been some people bold enough to actually try things to her, but a skate to the crotch usually put them off, and if nothing else, a swath of blue or red or green paint in the eyes did the trick.
This, though...this was totally different. This blew the other stuff out of the water because it was so much riskier, and so much hotter.
The vibrator filled her up; it was long enough that the end stuck a couple inches outside, and a small, knob-like protrusion rubbed that part, making her entire body buzzy, her legs and fingers all tingly, her mind almost-but-not-quite going light-headed. The counter was wide and narrow enough that nobody on that side would be the wiser (unless they were some sort of otherworldly behemoth, in which case just being caught would not be Gum's top concern). And the other Rudies - including Thrash - were in on it, so whenever they just happened to share a shift together (Beat was a manager, thankfully), Gum would make the necessary preparations for a very enjoyable day at the workplace. The uniform's shirt was about as long as her own long-sleeved, green-striped shirt, long enough to further the illusion.
The only way anybody would notice is if she had to go back to the kitchen, through the small entrance behind her on her side of the counter - but she was experienced, after all, and she'd come up with a contingency plan just in case she actually had to go back there with customers at the counter. She kept her pants bunched around her ankles at all times, so if she needed to hike them up, all she had to do was crouch down and slide them up her legs. To that end - to keep people from getting suspicious - she hid large ring of keys (there were fifty on the thing) in a small cubby below the register that was about knee-high if she was standing upright, amongst other things (including a clean shopping bag to drop the vibrator onto). People saw the keys and made the connection that she'd been searching for them, rather than, well, getting dressed where they couldn't see.
Sometimes she would up the ante - bring along a vibrator with one of those wireless remote controls, give it to Yo-Yo or Beat. (She trusted Thrash, but not that much.) They would amp up the intensity at their own whims - sometimes randomly, although usually she'd catch a glance of ginger hair and round or trapezoidal sunglasses through the hole in the wall separating the kitchen and register area before the vibration turned either into a dull murmur or a raging thunderstorm. For the most part - to the boys' credit - they'd drop the setting down when there were customers out the door, but sometimes they were dicks and did the exact opposite - she could have a line of customers from here to the other end of the store and they'd notch it up a few settings. (The end result was always the same, though - and even if they were being dicks, they were still helping her out, and she loved them for it.)
Ohh yes, it was definitely a good time.