My Alexander

This story introduces some characters new to my stories, but attentive readers will see how this one connects to the rest of my catalog. I'm entering this story as part of Lit's

Summer Lovin' Story Contest 2023

, so make sure you read all the entries and vote up your favorites!

* * *

It was beginning to dawn on me that Carl was a virgin.

I couldn't think of any other reason why he'd be so slow. It was the height of the afternoon rush, and I knew it was already a miracle no other customers had shown up out in the lobby. "Dammit. Put it in."

"I'm trying!" I felt him back there, groping my ass in the dusty motes dancing in the light of the high storeroom window, his cockhead trawling along my increasingly impatient undercarriage as I bent over the shelf with a body grown very nervy by then, after five full minutes of what Carl evidently thought of as foreplay: necking, a paw on my boob, a finger up my twat, and then

this

.

This.

"Just... can you bend over more?" he whined. I rolled my eyes, fully aware the problem here had nothing to do with how much arch I'd already squeezed into my back.

"Get it in!" I hissed. I never should have agreed to this, but it had been a slow morning, and Carl was cute, and he'd spent the past three days talking up this fantasy he had: sex at work.

It'd be so fucking awesome,

he'd gushed, and because I'd never done it? I'd agreed. Only to find I was probably deflowering the kid. I glared back at him, standing there with his shirt up under his armpits and his shorts around his ankles, teeth gritted as he stared down at me in what looked like confusion. "Just do it!"

He shrugged, bit his lip, and just went for it. "Yess!" he gasped, but he was totally wrong: that plum-colored knob of his had just skated across my pussy lips, barely hooking the top of my slit before he'd hopped back out like a motorcyclist saving himself from the gutter, his hips smacking mine with more force than he'd needed.

"Slow down," I muttered, concerned now that I'd been rushing him. He backed up, then tried once more with his brow furrowed, prodding experimentally at my taint. "Fuck. Now you need to speed up. Come on, Carl!"

He nodded, sweating, and then lined himself back up, took a firmer grip on my hips, and drove forward once more. I heard him let out a long breath, nudging in, then stopping abruptly as he felt me tense up. "What?"

I thought my voice stayed quite calm, under the circumstances. "Wrong hole, Carl."

"Oh."

"Look," I began, intending to tell him that maybe, just maybe, we should try this again some other time (like

never

, maybe, though I wouldn't tell him that), but then we both heard the door chime go out in the lobby and I snapped upright. "Sorry, Carl; that's customers!" I burbled, hauling my leggings up oer my butt without worrying too much about my thong. It would bunch, pulled up so fast, but that seemed better right then than spending even a second longer in the storeroom with my coworker and his poor, unpussied penis.

He squawked something after me, but by then I'd already smoothed my polo shirt over my boobs and marched quickly out into the lobby to see what kind of people fate had washed up to the counter at Silly PUTTy's Minigolf on this blazing-hot summer afternoon. "Hi!" I called out brightly as I stepped behind the cash register. I'd practiced my grin in front of the mirror, so I figured it would probably outshine the abortive sex-sweat pasting my bangs to my forehead.

The man was gorgeous, a slab of dad-meat, all craggy and windswept like one of the guys in those old cigarette ads: just the right wrinkles on his face. Just the right kind of piercing, blue-eyed stare. Just the right set to his mouth, firm and determined, the kind of mouth that could find my clit and wring it out. Just the right touch of grey at his temples. Just the right glitter from his ring finger. And when he smiled, even the vague kind of smile a beleaguered father gives to the girl working the counter at Silly PUTTy's, it melted me.

Fuck. It was time to stop fucking younger guys. It was more and more obvious by the day.

If I hadn't already forgotten about Carl and his useless thrusting, I certainly did then. "How can I help you, sir?" I heard the depth in my voice, that little husk in there that, I knew, had nothing to do with the fact I'd been bent over ready to receive a fuckin' just a few seconds before. No, this catch in my voice had everything to do with this catch standing before me.

And? No kids in evidence. Though they had to be here: single, sexy older men did not come here by themselves, served up on a platter for the pussy of Acting Manager Sophia Flack. "Uh, two adults and three kids."

"Of course," I said automatically as I bent to get the putters. There was no way he couldn't smell my pussy, and I assumed he'd be looking at my butt as I bent over. The length of the polo shirt did me no favors back there, but I hoped I was giving him a decent view anyway. My mind whirled, my body in sudden heat: three kids! His sperm would be thick, lush as it blasted into me, both of us clinging hard and sweaty to each other as we screamed together... "Uh, are they coming?" I asked with a slightly sterner smile, glancing around him. "We're just not supposed to hand out the putters until the players are all here, and the kids will need to pick their own balls."

As I already had. They were right there in those jeans the guy wore. Two of them, hanging low and full, gummed with sweat I could bury my face in as my tongue weighed his testicles...

Focus, Soph. Focus,

I commanded myself.

"She's parking." He said it almost apologetically, and it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, the wild thoughts I was having about him might be running in the other direction too. "Oh. And I'm supposed to put it on our Summer Fun Pass?"

"Of course, sir. Half-price Tuedays, with a scoop of ice cream for the kids after your round," I rapped out. Reciting my lines, that was all. "Do you have your pass? So I can total it up? Or, like, I could look it up by your phone number?" I blurted hopefully. Ahhh, the things I would do with this man's digits. The texts I could send him...

But no. The Fun Pass was definitely in his wife's name. And he was already hauling it out of his back pocket.

I thought wildly about asking him for his number anyway, but no. No way could I be that brazen. His wife would come in suddenly, towing their children like a tug making port. Or Carl would finally pack his dick away and join me, and I'd just look foolish. Or, worse, he'd tell the manager. Or, worst of all, he'd ask to try to fuck me again. So I went through the motions, my pussy leaking into my inadequately adjusted thong, the register beeping. Chitchat flowing. And, ultimately, his family coming in.

Carl showed up in time to get the kids over to the Ball Buster, the silly (but very expensive) machine that let them personalize their golf balls, leaving me time to examine the man's wife. Funny. I already thought of her as a rival, as competition, even though my craving for her husband was nothing but a figment of my frustrated lusts.

Well. And maybe, just maybe, a last shred of yearning for Greg.

She was nothing compared to me, I told myself: she was lovely, and she was the mother of his children, but I had so much to offer. I knew I was hot. Even in my occasional moments of shitty self-esteem, I never ever had problems getting as much dick as I wanted. I was twenty years old, poised and assured, experienced and intelligent, a knockout with a deadly pussy and blowjob skills I'd never gotten anything but compliments on.

The ways I could rock this man's world...

My mind wandered as I handled their happy family day out for a nice afternoon of mini-golfing. I pictured frantic fucks with this man in all sorts of places, the two of us giggling as we fooled his wife. He'd have a sturdy, tasty cock, I just knew it. He'd have staying power. He'd pummel me for hours. And, I thought with a venomous glance over at Carl, at least he'd know where to put it. He had three kids; he clearly knew how to inseminate a woman, I thought caustically.

Their name was Collins. I knew that much, it was on their Fun Pass. And wifey was called Michelle, according to the credit card info the computer spat at me as I mindlessly pecked at the keys, running the transaction. Nothing compared to me. I'd fuck him so much better than she could. I'd make him forget all about her, and a tiny little part of my mind worried about that. Why was I having these kinds of thoughts? What had Michelle Collins ever done to me? Why should I get so wet when I thought about sliding into her bed and making her man do me?

I doubted it was healthy, feeling this competitive. Maybe I needed a better outlet for these kinds of thoughts. It was new to me to feel these things toward women I'd never met, but whatever. I mean, Greg had a wife, too.

I watched her ass when the family moved out, pondering how it moved. Greg had told me one night that he could tell how a woman would fuck by how her hips moved when she walked, and I'd never been able to shake that thought. It made me stare obsessively at women like Michelle, thinking. Imagining. Trying to envision what they'd do when their sexy husbands glided into them, whether they'd ride like a pornstar or just lie there and take it.

Michelle, I decided viciously, would be a demanding woman. She wouldn't let blue-eyed Mr Collins do whatever he wanted. She'd be high-maintenance, a woman who'd take forever to get there while he nailed her dutifully. Yes. That was the word:

dutifully

. Collins sex would be dutiful. It wouldn't be passionate.

Whereas me? I'd let him have me however he wanted. I'd be his little whore, and I'd love every fucking moment. I blinked, shaking my head. "What?"

"We're done." It was a particularly shrewish woman who came in every Tuesday, like clockwork, with her four sniveling urchins. "Can we get our ice cream?"

"Oh." I glanced around, but of course Carl had made himself scarce. He was good at sweeping and mopping, but when it came to slinging ice cream? Useless, like his penis. "Let me get the waffle cones ready, ma'am, and I'm all yours."

"Thank you." She said it icily, but I didn't care. She was always a shitty tipper, and I figured she'd be just as shitty today.

I was right.

* * *

I was back in the storeroom again when the Collinses came back in, all sweaty from the minigolf course, and I didn't even realize it was them until I bustled back in with a huge stack of styrofoam cups in my arms. Fucking styrofoam. In this day and age. Silly PUTTy's: always at the forefront of environmental consciousness.

I blinked as I emerged from the storeroom's warm, cockroachy cocoon, seeing once more those piercing blue eyes now hanging back as his kids invaded the ice cream case, jabbering excitedly while Carl stood there like a fucking moron. "Here," I told him gently as I dumped the cups and took the ice cream scooper from his nerveless hands, "why don't I do that?" He'd never quite mastered the sizes of the scoop choices, and I'd quickly learned it was much harder to train him on that than to do it myself. "Whatcha want, kiddos?" I beamed, peering down at the Collins children.

Their mom answered. Of course. Bitch. The kids were more than capable of choosing their own ice cream, but I bit my lip and smiled at her anyway. "They'll have a kids' scoop of Neapolitan."

I waited for more, then cocked my head. "Like, just Neapolitan? One scoop? To split, or something?"

Her glare would have withered me, if I gave a shit about her. "One for each child, Sophie," she went on, with a stare at my nametag.

Jesus Christ, what a hag! Nobody ever looked at the nametag, except the men trying to study the boob behind it. "Coming right up, ma'am. Anything for you or your husband? We're featuring Bluemallow Apple Crisp for a limited time?" I peered around her at the fabled Mr Collins, a man who had vaulted rapidly from Nobody to Somebody in my mind and my vagina in just the time it had taken his urchins to finish nine holes.

I have a couple holes I'd offer him,

I thought.

And then my heart lurched as he made eye contact with me, and smiled.

I had to have him, I told myself. Had to. It wasn't even an option. I knew I was blushing furiously as I dug into the Neapolitan and started dishing up three perfectly sized kids' scoops, realizing too late that I hadn't gone all the way through my patter. "Oh. Um, cup or cone? We have sugar cones or cake cones."

"Just a cup," sighed Wifey. I snuck a glance at the kids to see whether they'd feel bitchy about not getting a cone. "For each of them."

"Mmhmm," I nodded, imagining her little soul shriveling at my tone. "I got it." I risked another glance at Mr Collins, my heart thudding, but alas. He was pretending to look at the zoo brochures by the door, instead of pretending not to look at me. I handed up the first two ice creams. "Did you little dudes have an awesome time?" I asked, grinning down at the kids.

"Yeah!" I'm no judge of age, but they were pretty young. Whatever; they were happy with their old-skool ice cream, so I wiped my hands as I closed the cooler. "The fifth hole was awesome!"

"Cool!" I had no clue what the little guy was talking about, which was just as well since they skedaddled straight out of the lobby toward the picnic bench outside. I nodded at Mrs Collins.

"Y'all come back now!" I grinned.

"Oh, we will. We have no choice." She did give me a smile, but not with her eyes. "Thanks." I looked away, pretending to clean the scooper while actually looking from the corners of my eyes at Mr Collins. I wanted to believe he was checking me out, and maybe he was. So maybe, just maybe, I gave my spine a little extra arch. I was hoping the curve of my butt might defeat the length of the polo shirt, just in case his blue eyes strayed there. I gave him a few more seconds as I heard the door chime, his wife icebreaking her way out, and when I looked back over at him?

It was just him and me.

"Anything else I can do for you, Mr...?"

"Collins." His smile hadn't left him, and I now wondered whether it had an edge to it. A little air of sarcasm? Superciliousness?

Conspiracy?

That last one made my heart race. "Alex."

Alex. A nice, studly name. A name I could scream in the night, in bed. "I'm Sophia, but people call me Sophie."

"Oh. Well, I'm actually an Alexander then." He nodded politely. "See you next time, Sophia."

"Only if I'm on my shift, Alexander," I beamed back, willing him with every ounce of telepathy I possessed to volley back,

Oh? When are you working?

But instead, he merely gave a tight smile and a little wave. Then he pushed through the door to join his family, leaving me dry-mouthed but wet-crotched, the strong summer sun still dancing through the dust-motes as it bludgeoned through the windows. My pussy on fire, I did the only thing I could do: I found Carl again and dragged him back into the storeroom. Only, I made him use a condom this time. Now that I knew he was a virgin, I had to plan for a load that might arrive unexpectedly. He probably wouldn't last long with me.

What amazed me was that this time? He found the right hole on the very first try. What amazed me even more was that I almost came.

* * *

I was still marveling about that the next day, when I went out to dinner with Chinese Mike. "You're looking good, Soph," he nodded as we sat down to dessert at Zimbardo's. "Real good."

"Thank you, Michael," I purred. Mike had been a friend of mine since high school, when he'd been on the boys' lacrosse team and I'd been on the girls'. We called him Chinese Mike not because he was Asian (though he was), but because there'd been another Mike on the team and, well, that meant "Mikey" was already taken as a nickname. And there's not much you can do with "Choi," his last name. Choisey? ChoiBoi? Choier? Nah.

So Chinese Mike was the name that had stuck. I let him take me out every now and then because he had lots of money and I had expensive tastes. Then there was the fact that his girlfriend had always been jealous of me, so he tended to ask me out when he wanted to piss her off. "Any plans for tonight?"

I eyed him. "It's a Wednesday, Mike."

"It's summer, Soph." He laughed. "People sometimes make plans on Wednesdays."

"Not the kinds of people named Sophie Flack," I declared. "I have homework, anyway." This was true, on a technicality: the paper was due first thing Friday. "I'm taking a 75% load for summer semester. Some of us still need to study."

"Yeah." Mike's father had written a large enough check to the university that he didn't have to fear failing his classes. "Whatever. My parents aren't home." His eyebrows wiggled. "Want to come over?"

I chuckled and dug into my half of the creme brulee. "Your girlfriend would probably be unhappy if I did," I pointed out.

"Probably." I passed him the spoon, still marked with my lipstick, but that was no big deal. Mike had sampled my lipstick often, usually fresh from the source. "But you wouldn't be."

"Oh my god!" I spluttered, my lips splitting open in an incredulous grin. "Is that Chinese Mike Choi, talking smack about sex?" We laughed. He and I had fucked more than once over the years, and he wasn't bad.

"I'm just saying," he winked, "my load is 100%, since 75 is all you're used to."

I rolled my eyes. "If you only knew. Want to know something funny?"

"Shoot." He scooped up some dessert.

"I was dating one of my professors until a few weeks ago." He arched an eyebrow. "That? That was about 130%. Maybe more."

"That good, huh?"

"So fucking good," I sighed. It was nice to be able to talk to a friend about this.

He was nodding, handing me the spoon back. "Why? Was it the teacher-student thing? The age thing? Is he married? Was it that?"

I looked down at the table, mouth twisted in thought. "All of the above, maybe? But I think now it might have been the age thing. Or, like, experience maybe?"

"Aha. Knew his way around a vagina, did he?"

"I swear to God, Mike, just... fuck."

He cocked his head, considering. "I did a MILF once. A few months ago. I was expecting better."

"Yeah?" I shrugged. "Well. My guy was amazing. So."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Mind if I kill it?"

"Go for it." He dug out the rest of the creme brulee, my thoughts now on Greg. Who had, indeed, been amazing. It was so hard to quantify, though, and I wasn't about to try figuring it out over dessert with Michael Choi. "So tell me about your 100% load, honey, because usually you're more like forty. Fifty, maybe."

His eyes narrowed, but he knew I was teasing. "Why should I tell when I could just as easily show?" He smiled. "Offer's open. Parents ain't home. Up to you, Soph."

So that's how I found myself nude on Mike's parents' bed, spread way out in the unaccustomed freedom of a California King, my hair fanned out across their pillow while their naked son did his best with his face between my thighs.

He'd always been polite and energetic when going down, but there had never been a time with Mike's tongue in my pussy that I hadn't felt his impatience, the idea that he'd rather be doing something else. A faint, unmistakable sense of haste rolled off him like the smell of his sweat, always a scent that got me going very easily with any guy, and before? I'd always understood: Mike Choi thought of this as foreplay, and didn't care if I knew it.

Greg hadn't been like that.

I knew, even as my thighs warmed to the pleasure of his enthusiasm, that it wasn't fair to compare Mike to Greg. But dammit, the differences were just too obvious. With Greg, I'd been everything, my pleasure all that mattered to him. And that, in turn, had made his pleasure all that mattered to me. I'd wanted to serve him. To provide pleasure for him, however he wanted it. That's what he'd given me: selflessness.