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.
