Expo ’98: The Merchandise Girl

By the summer of 1998, the memory of Kasia had faded slightly, replaced by the chaos of Expo '98. I was working IT support for the massive World Fair—a playground of international pavilions, free drinks, and thousands of new people.

I was obsessed with Poland, still chasing the ghost of Kasia. I befriended the staff at the Polish pavilion, learning the language, impressing them with my accent. I was picky, though. I compared every girl to Kasia. The Portuguese girl at the Norwegian pavilion? Too available. The Italians? Not beautiful enough.

I went months without sex, turning down perfectly good opportunities because they weren't "her."

Then came Marta.

Marta worked at one of the merchandise stands. She was local, about twenty, with a beautiful face and blonde hair. She was also chubby—"fatty" in the brutal honesty of my mind back then. But after months of celibacy, my standards were shifting, and a small, dark fetish was waking up. I had never been with a big girl. Curiosity began to itch.

We went to dinner with her colleagues. Afterward, sitting on some stairs watching a concert, she made her move. She lay between my legs, using my chest as a pillow. In the parking lot later, she kissed me.

The switch flipped. The "Saint" phase was over. The Player was back.

I invited her to the beach that Sunday. "I'll pick you up in the car, we'll stop at my place to get the motorbike," I lied. The motorbike was just the bait.

At my apartment, I steered her to the couch. "Aren't we going to the beach?" she asked. "We have time," I murmured, my hands already under her shirt.

She didn't resist. I undressed her, revealing a body that was soft, heavy, and pale. Her tits were massive—huge, but sagging under their own weight. I played with them, fascinated by the sheer volume, before moving her to the bedroom.

The sex was... mechanical.

She gave a standard blowjob, and then she rode me. I lay there, watching her heavy breasts bounce, enjoying the visual spectacle of it. It was a friction-based pleasure, devoid of emotion.

But the moment I came, the post-nut clarity hit me like a sledgehammer.

The excitement vanished instantly. I looked at her naked body on my bed—the rolls, the softness that had intrigued me five minutes ago—and felt a wave of regret. What am I doing?

She suggested a shower together. I declined, cold and distant. I drove her home, and she smiled, thinking this was the start of something.

It wasn't. I ghosted her.

It was cruel, selfish, and easy. I avoided her stand at the Expo, dodging her angry glares whenever our paths crossed. I had scratched the itch, but I didn't feel good about it. I was back in the game, but I was playing dirty.