I was just suppose to take my groceries and go. I should be eating my PMS pack of ramen, with tiny shrimp, and drinking the last glass of open chardonnay from the fridge. Instead, I’m watching the bag boy from the local Penny General cook turkey bacon and pancakes in my kitchen. Let me start from the beginning...
I’m an art historian and curator at the West Lake Agricultural Museum. I’ve been there for three years and have shopped at Harvey’s Penny General for that same amount time. But it wasn’t until fo-- no, five months ago that Randal started working there.
Randal Cummings. I hadn’t even given a second thought to the name when the elder, eighty year old, Mr. Cummings had first introduced himself to me those few years back. Nor had it become much of a notion when his grandson came to work in the store to pick up some of slack when the elder Mrs. Cummings had fallen ill several months ago. However, I can now say that the young Mr. Cummings does not only come in name alone. My sore pelvis, hips, thighs-- and mouth can attest to that.
I’d just finished up an event at the museum and was running later than usual. I wanted to get a few groceries for the weekend and was happy to see that I could still make it to the local store, before the 9 o’clock closing--and avoid having to go the superstore on the outskirt of town.
For tonight’s event I’d dressed in a black knee length a-line skirt and a cropped cream colored sleeveless blouse along with my favorite pair of black peep toe heels with small bows on the top. I wore my hair free from the normal workweek bun, leaving it to fall in kinky waves over my shoulders, using small sparkly hair combs to keep it a bit tame and away from my face.
Pushing through the door of the Penny General, I wave a brief hello to Randal who’s at one of the, only two, registers ringing up and bagging the groceries for another customer. Quickly grabbing a cart I head toward the small produce section. Within ten minutes I’ve made it to the ice cream section but can’t seem to decide between the Moose Tracks or the Fudge Brownie. I must take longer than I know because all of a sudden I hear the loudspeaker crackle to life.
“Get the brownie one, you got the Moose Tracks last time.” I hear the deep timber of Randal’s voice stream through the loudspeaker and I anxiously look around trying to figure out how he can see me. Looking up and to my left I see the camera pointed over the freezer section. Cute. Grabbing the Fudge Brownie, I head toward the register.
“Sorry, if I took too long.” I say, as I begin placing my items onto the counter. Randal moves to stand from the stool behind the register placing his current book selection face down in the bagging area. Tom Clancy, I read on the front sleeve at a glance.
“I’m in no hurry, I just happened to look and saw you standing there…” I look up meeting Randal’s grinning face. With his eyes still on me he drums his fingers on the mini tv monitor beside the register. I offer a small smile nodding my understanding, holding the gaze of his cornflower blue eyes for a few seconds more, before reaching for the debit card in my wallet.
“You look nice. You had a date?” I look up again and Randal’s only interest seems to be ringing up and shifting my groceries into the bagging area. His biceps and forearms bunching and flexing with every movement in the familiar red polo shirt that’s entirely too tight for his broad shoulders and thick arms. When he stops to open my carton of eggs, checking for any cracks, he looks up at me expectantly. What did he ask me again?
“Date? No, no.... Just something for work.” I smile wiping my brow with the back of my hand, resisting the urge to fan myself. Once I’ve swiped my card and taken my receipt I move around the cart and begin to help him bag my groceries. Since Mrs. Cummings decline in health old Mr. Cummings hasn't been around much.
“Seems like a waste. You know… You should really wear your hair down more often.” I look up to find Randal watching me. A mix between curiosity and lust? At a loss for words because-- is he flirting with me?-- I quickly place the bag I’d been packing into my cart.
“Thank you?” I say, finally settling on a response. Grabbing another bag I begin stacking fruit cups into the bottom and try to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. There is no way that the blonde haired, blue eyed kid that bags my groceries each week is trying to get me into the sack. However, the crooked grin on his face seems to imply otherwise...
~~~
Breanna Baker. I’ve been watching her for months now. Twice a week, after work, she comes in to buy bags of salad, chicken breasts, fruit cups and cottage cheese. Every alternate week warrants ice cream. Something with chocolate.
She’s usually dressed in something business-like. Slacks mostly, sometimes a skirt, with a blouse and her wavy black hair pulled into bun a the nape of her neck… But without question she’s wearing high heels. Those fucking heels. I think she must garden in the damn things. Every time she steps through the door the click of her heels on the
tiled floor draws my attention no matter where I am in the store.
A while back I’d been stocking canned goods down a quiet isle and I’m--mostly, certain that she didn’t see me kneeling behind a stack of boxes. When I took a peek in her direction, between the stocking cart and shelving, she’d had her skirt raised while adjusting a garter belt attached to a pair of thigh high stockings. That happened weeks ago but ever since that evening she’s invaded my dreams and every second of my extended shower sessions.
I was only suppose to be here for a few weeks. I have my own business back home to run but when Gramps and Gram said that they needed me, I didn’t hesitate. Family is family. It’s already well past the five month mark and I’m practically running the store. Gram doesn’t seem to be getting any better and it’s breaking the old man’s heart. I saw what it did to my dad when my mom died. I hate to think of the same fate for Gramps. But that’s life...
“You need help to your car?” I ask, watching as she carefully places a final tub of oatmeal into a bag. When Gramps told me about Breanna working at the museum as an ‘art restorer, somethin’ or other,’ I took it upon myself to get more accurate information-- no offense to Gramps, from somewhere other than the trappings of a general store gossip.
“No. No, thank you, I should be fine.” And in this moment I wonder what it would take to make Breanna Baker, the art historian from Jacksonville by way of New York, to just say yes.
“Alright then, have a good night.” As she makes her way to the door I watch the gentle sway of her hips and her hair flounce over smooth shoulders the color of perfectly cooked caramel.
“You too, Randal.” She says turning to smile one last time in my direction and I’m certain that nothing has ever sounded sweeter than my name on her lips. I take a second to adjust myself before trailing Breanna to the door, because yes, just the sound of her voice is enough to get me going.
In short order, I begin dragging the produce bin of pineapples in from beside the exit door, followed by the pomegranates on the entrance’s side with the hope of making quick work of the close. Gerald from the deli and Marge from the bakery have already left for the night. I swept earlier, so as soon as I have the cash drawer counted down I can be on my way. Just as I’m making my way back to the door to lock up, Breanna meets me there with a grim look on her face.
“I think my engine’s dead.” She says with a sigh. “I’d call the garage for a tow, but I’m afraid Pete’s is closed for the night and the only other place I know is over in Silver Creek.”
“Let me take a look at it. I’m no mechanic but maybe I can get it to turnover.” I say, already moving in the direction of the parking lot. The sound of Breanna’s heels clicking the pavement fast behind me makes my dick slowly rise. Geez, what am I, twelve?!
“You don’t have to do that, I was just going to call a friend… Hoping that I could maybe leave it in the lot for the night?” What sort of friend is she planning on calling-- and am I not a friend?
“If you need a ride, I can be the one to give it to you…” I say, still stalking toward her car. Well, that came out wrong but fuck if I don’t mean every ounce of innuendo…
“No. I can already give her a call as long as you say that it’s alright.” What is it with this woman and that word? She’s been cordial and pleasant for all of the months that I’ve known her, but she’s constantly depriving herself. No samples at the bakery, no bread, or chips, not even an occasional Kit-Kat. I wonder if she’s dick deprived too?
“Hop in and pop the hood.” Breanna complies without another word.
“You want me to crank it?” She asks. There’s just one stadium light shining over the parking lot and it’s difficult to see much of anything but the instant she tries to turn the engine over I know that she has a dead battery.
“You’re going to need to replace the battery.” I could probably give her a jump but if this night is taking that turn that I hope that it is, my jumper cables are staying right where they are-- safely in the back of my truck. I’ll probably burn for this but I’ll be damned if this is the road I have to take to get there...
~~~
He’s like an action figure. An Incredible Hulk action figure with blonde hair and golden skin. It’s nearly the middle of October and his sun kissed-- almost white, hair and rippling shield of skin is so tanned you’d think it was the middle of July. Where the hell is Marge to tempt me with a brownie when I need her!? I need to get the hell out of here!
“Let me just give Jules a call.” I say, quickly scrolling through my contacts as I step out of the car.
“Why? I’m here. You live over on Klein, right?” I’m not sure if I should be more concerned with the fact that he know’s where I live, or with the bulge not so subtly trying to escape his Levis…
“How do you know where I live?” I ask with a bit more accusation in my tone than I intend.
“I have a buddy that lives on the same block. Frenchie Malone.” Okay, so I know Frenchie, but wait... He’s friends with Frenchie?
“Frenchie? You’re friends with Frenchie?” Frenchie is like the gayest man I have ever met. He makes RuPaul look like an amateur drag queen.
“Is that so hard to believe? We grew up together. Frankie McMillan was once in the Boy Scouts.” I laugh in spite of myself. Okay let’s try a different route.
“I’m sure you just want to get out of here. Jules can be here in fifteen minutes.” Dropping the hood, Randal moves in my direction not stopping until he’s close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his aftershave and see the shadow of sandy stubble on his jawline. He doesn’t touch me but I suddenly wish that he would…
“I’ll be done locking up in five minutes and you’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Let’s grab your groceries.” It’s not in my nature to take instruction from someone who isn’t my superior but the sound of his voice and the wisp of his breath on my cheek is enough to make me at least feign compliance.
~~~
Within ten minute we’re in my truck and headed in the direction of Breanna's house. She stood back and watched me lock up the front doors and trailed me slowly to the back office-- with what must have been a car length of space between us. She courteously stepped away as I quickly counted down the cash drawer and secured everything in the safe. Once her groceries were in the back of the truck I helped her climb into the the front passenger seat. While making the maneuver, Breanna’s skirt shifted just high enough that I could see the lace trim at the top of her thigh highs and if my dick hadn’t already painfully hard and confined behind the denim of my jeans, the pain is now excruciating.
“So you grew up here?” Breanna asks and I’m belatedly realizing that this night is probably the most we’ve ever spoken to one another in all of the time that I’ve been here.
“My dad and I moved with my grandparents when my mom died. They basically raised me.” May as well cut to the chase. I’ve got nothing to hide.
“That must have been hard. I can see that you and your grandfather are close.” When I look in her direction Breanna is looking down and fiddling with zipper of her handbag.
“I was young, I got over it. My dad was never the same though. Lost him when I was in high school.” Breanna quickly turns her head in my direction. I wasn’t really going for shock value but I guess I’ve long resolved myself to these being the facts of my life.
“I’m so sorry...” And I truly think she is. Once she’s spoken she quickly turns her head away and well, shit... I think she’s crying.
“That was a long time ago. How did you end up in Moony County?” I already know why she’s here but if this will get her to stop crying, I’ll give it a try.
“There are only so many places that have a need for what I do and this was the closest I could get to Jacksonville. I was up in New York for a few years but I wanted to be closer to my parents...” The sadness in Breanna’s eyes returns and well, that didn’t work. So, maybe…
“You don't date much…” I say, in an attempt to change gears.
“Is that a question or an accusation?” Okay, this, I did not expect. I begin to grin knowing that I’ve hit another nerve-- one that I’ll gladly contend with.
“I just don’t see you around with anyone, and your grocery list is pretty basic. I don’t imagine that you're cooking dinner for anyone else…”
“Monsoon Country isn’t exactly a font of eligible bachelors… And my Louboutins were not made for mudding.” Those damn shoes…
“I can’t argue with you there. Moony is a pretty one note place. Which house is yours.” The drive to her place was way too short, but I really couldn’t get lost in this town even if I’d tried.
“The one with the brick driveway.” The moment I pull to a stop, Breanna already has her door swung open even before her seatbelt is unfastened. I follow suit, meeting her at back of the Tahoe. Feeling for the latch of the trunk with her hand, Breanna seems anxious and almost... Flustered.
“Here, let me help you.” Reaching for the latch with my left hand I rest it over her right one and am now near enough to distinctly smell her lilac perfume made more intense by her body heat. She’s nearly as tall as I am in her heels and I take this opportunity, one that may never come again, to touch her-- placing my hand over the curve of her hip. We have yet to raise the hatch of the trunk, but I can’t find much fault in standing here for the whole damn night if it means being this close to her.
“I really need to get my ice cream into the freezer...” And just like that, the warm body that was momentarily leaning into mine, becomes rigid and we're back to business as usually.
“Let me carry the bags to the door for you.” I say already gathering the handles of her, of course, eco-friendly cloth bags.
“No, I can manage. I always do.” Breanna says this in a way that, screams ‘I don’t need a man,’ but need and want are two very different things.
“But I’m here, now.” Pulling the trunk closed, I hit the button for the locks and make my way toward her front door. Her front yard is filled with flowers organized in a way that lets me know that she doesn’t tolerate much chaos in her life. Fortunately, neither do I...
~~~
What does he mean with, he’s here now? I also now know for sure that he’s trying to get me into bed but I didn’t get to be thirty-three years old not knowing how to protect myself.
“Thank you.” I say, pulling open the screen door before unlocking and pushing my heavy wooden front door only partially open. I can either invite him in for coffee or…
“I’ll try to get my car before tomorrow afternoon. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get the tow.” I attempt to reach for my bags in the hope of dismissing him but Randal isn’t having any of it.
“I can give you a lift over to Pete’s… I’m pretty sure he’s open by seven.” Shouldering his way between me and the molding of the door, Randal makes his way to my kitchen, which is a short trip with the open floor plan that I have. Only the two bedrooms, one of which I use as an office space and half bath are behind closed doors.
“No, that’s really not necessary. Jules is off this weekend, it shouldn’t be a problem.” I share, reaching to flick on the reading lamp on my small butlers pantry. Placing my groceries on the island, Randal briefly rummages thought my bags before turning toward me holding out the carton of Fudge Brownie ice cream to me.
“Thank you...” I say walking toward him and taking the carton from his hand. Moving to the fridge, I can feel his eyes on me. Once the ice cream is in it’s proper place I turn back to find him with my tub cottage cheese in hand. When my eyes roll of their own accord he actually begins to grin. Dammit!
“Don’t you have someplace to be? I’m sure Frenchie could use some company...” After nearly throwing the cottage cheese into fridge I head directly for the front door.
“Don’t you ever say yes?” I’m already pulling the front door open before I risk looking back at him slowly moving in my direction. I’ve seen old ladies count pennies faster… Wait, what?
“Yes… To what? What are you talking about?” What exactly is he getting at?
“Don't you ever say yes to anything…” Once again he’s said something that seems like it should be a question but instead comes across as a declaration.
“If that’s the answer I want to give-- but you haven’t offered me anything to say yes to.” I counter with a challenge of my own. My nearly two years of life without sex is, obviously, starting to take a toll on any sensible train of thought.
“Is that it?-- You need a good reason, huh?” Finally finishing his approach, Randal comes to stand several steps closer than is acceptable for any place other than the Manhattan Q-- in the middle of rush hour. Stiletto to steel-toed boot.
“Preferably… Yes.” I say as sternly as I can manage while he leans into me… His chest rubbing intentionally, yet cautiously against the tips of my breasts. My nipples instantly pucker at the contact but there is otherwise no other parts of bodies touching. When Randal next speaks I feel gusts of air, with each word that he utters, against my mouth and nose-- my eye now drawn on his lips.
“So, you need a bit of persuasion?” I try to take a step back, but the knob of the door slips from grasp effectively slamming the door shut and, for the first time in a long time, my four inch heels get the better of me. Though, I needn’t worry as Randal catches me with the precision and grace of a tango dancer…
~~~
I reach for her, helping her to stay balanced-- my arm circling her waist and keeping her upright as the front door swings shut. The moment her lips brush mine, I accept that as an invitation, crushing my lips to hers. Tugging my polo shirt and wife beater from my pants, Breanna gently explores my abdomen and chest with her fingertips while I work to undo the buttons of her blouse. Searching her mouth with my tongue I begin to slip her blouse from her shoulders and she suddenly pushes me away.
“Okay. Shit, I’m sorry.” I say moving a few steps backward, nervously reaching to re-tuck my shirt, while pressing at my seething erection as if my dick will magically disappear. I am here practically uninvited.
Turning wordlessly away, Breanna walks the two paces to the closed door, pausing for a moment, but instead of opening it and asking me to leave she flips the lock on the knob and latches the chain. Returning to face me, Breanna looks at me head on and wordlessly proceeds to undress right before my eyes.
Her blouse falling from her shoulders leaves behind a black lace bra that cuts nearly straight across firm breasts that are larger than I’d ever imagined with dark nipples peeking and protruding through a thin filigree of fabric. Draping her blouse over an armchair, Breanna never drops eye contact as she reaches for the zipper at the back of her skirt. The hum of the parting teeth break the silence of the room as it falls in a black puddle at her feet. Stepping from the center of the fabric she takes her time, bending at the waist to pick it up, before placing it to join her blouse over the back of the chair.
Her body is some sort of masterpiece. A black garter belt with tiny white bows near the clips bracing lean thighs that lead up and over a firm and sculpted ass that I’m certain quarters would bounce on. With the lace of her garter hugging her waist there’s a sheer triangle of fabric that barely disguises the folds of her sex. Scraps of lace hold it in place, floating it across a stomach that still curves with flesh that I’m sure she considers stubborn and unwanted but makes her all the more feminine and desirable to me.
“Are you thirsty?” Breanna asks, walking past me and in the direction of her kitchen as if she isn’t half naked. Subtle. I can do subtle.
“A glass of water’ll work, beer if you got it...” I say, while slipping my polo shirt over my head and loosening the laces on my boots before toeing them off along with my socks. If she has beer I’ll know that I’m only her most recent male guest-- not that it matters...
“Is Heineken okay?” Oh. Well, she can't be any worse than my tramp of an ex who it turns out was fucking anything on two legs-- anything on four legs would surprise me even less.
“Yeah. Sure, anything...” I got tested the day I left town with my doc calling me a week later with a clean bill of health. Not wanting to stir up any unnecessary dust… I haven't had sex since I’ve been back in Monsoon County and it just so happens that the one woman who’s given me the worst case of blue balls over that last couple of months is now standing, availably, five feet in front me. I unconsciously watch as Breanna flits around her living space putting away the rest of her groceries before pouring herself a glass of water and grabbing a beer for me. Standing idly, with just short of my dick in my hands, Breanna startles me back to the room with her words.
“You plannin’ on fucking me with your jeans on?” She now has a hip resting against her kitchen island as she pops the top on the green bottle. Her lips briefly pucker around the opening, as she takes a small swig, before holding it out for me to take.
~~~
Seemingly unfazed by my question, Randal steps forward taking the bottle from my hand. His tongue quickly snakes out wetting his lips before he takes a long pull from the bottle. Stepping closer to me he raises a hand that makes me think he’s going to pull me in for a kiss me but stops short and instead trips a thumb over one of my hardened nipples. The simple action sets my body on fire and an unexpected moan escapes my lips. In several swift movements Randal steps back, setting his bottle on the countertop behind him, while simultaneously reaching to slip his tank top over his head followed by quickly dragging the zipper of his fly down. I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat echoing through my head as I watch him step from one pant leg and then the other, and finally, unceremoniously, drop a pair of grey boxer briefs from his body. And well, he most certainly has no reason to be shy…
Without realizing it I take few steps back, mostly overwhelmed by the sight of his naked form. Clearly a natural blonde, he has smooth golden skin from head to toe with one small scar on his lower abdomen. A scar that I’m not even sure I’d have noticed if not for his thick erection arching upwardly, and nearly flush with his belly button, beside it. My gaze, having a bit of trouble departing from the sight of his drooling tip, finally meet his eyes staring back at me.
“I’m assuming that I’m allowed to touch you.” For some reason I retreat yet another step at his words. Was that even a question?
“If you have to ask… Maybe…” I say looking away. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea...
“Maybe what, Breanna?” Randal asks, speaking my name to me for what seems like th-- no... For what I am certain is the first time ever. His name, I’ve only mostly read as embroidered writing on his work shirt for the last several months. We’d of course been introduced but I don’t recall so much as shaking his hand at the time. Okay, but hey, let’s fuck now! Great idea.
“How old are you?” When’s your birthday? What’s your favorite color?...
“Twenty-seven” Randal takes his erection in his hand and begins to stroke himself. I do my very best to look him in the eye again but I’m mesmerized. Moving in close, he rests a hand on the countertop beside me, caging me in. He’s stopped stroking but is now thumbing the slick slit.
“If you want me to leave, then I’ll go. Do you want me to leave Breanna?” Cinnamon. His breath smells like cinnamon. Big Red, I think.
“No.” I finally say, my eyes focused on the parted lips of his mouth. Randal immediately spins me on my heels bending me over the marble countertop and proceeds to slip my thong halfway down my thighs. For the last year and a half I’d regretted spending so much money on marble when I’ve had no one to actually cook for but tonight the cold surface of it against my skin is my saving grace. After what, eventually, occurs to me as the longest minute ever I turn to find Randal stooping to the floor and rummaging through to his pants. Condom...
“I have some in the bathroom.” I offer, although, not with complete certainty that they haven’t already expired. Two-thousand-- fifteen?
“Got it.” Before I can give any more thought over to my fast approaching spinster lifestyle I feel Randal behind me again. Running a flat palm down the length of my spine I feel the tips of three fingers begin to massage my inner lips and my already embarrassingly wet entrance.
“I see you're already ready for me...” I find myself unable to speak any actual words as his fingers, of pure magic, begin to stimulate my hot button. So close…
“Breanna, I want to hear it. Are you ready for me? Are you ready for me to fuck you?” His words are my undoing and the first wave of an orgasm startles me like a cluster of unexpected firecrackers going off. With his fingers still working small circles over my sensitive nub I attempt to grip the countertop clawing at the smooth blank slate but there's nothing there. Nothing… Nothing to hold on to.
“No...” Is the word I happen to breathe and I regret it instantly. Randal slows the movement of his fingers and I’m left on a very high peak with no parachute.
“Randal, please.” I resort to begging, willing him to carry me again over the edge. But...
“Fuck me please...” I murmur and my body is suddenly invaded by a finger. His thumb. I push back against his hand, physically pleading with him to finish what he started.
“Do you want me, Breanna?” I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing but I imagine women have killed for less...
“Yes!” And there it is.The magic word so it would seem. In one swift motion Randal buries himself so hard and deeply inside of me that my teeth clack together at the first impact. The sound of heavy breathing and the repeat squelch of penetration echo through the room. Still reaching for something, anything, to hold on to frustrates me to the point of tears. It's been so long. Too long... My body is overwhelmed by sensation. Where I could once feel his low hanging sack slap against me, I feel his entire body begin tighten.
~~~
My balls begin to draw close to my body far faster that any grown man’s should. Breanna is clawing at the countertop like a kitten that’s lost it’s footing. I reach for her hand with mine but am only able to catch her wrist. Wanting her there with me at the finish, I shift my hand around her waist cupping her sex-- my middle finger strumming a soft rhythm between her lips and over her clit. I feel her body begin to shake beneath mine followed by small whimpers and as if a switch has been flicked I begin to pump with ferocious thrusts-- my seed rushing to escape my body while she grips me tightly within hers. I finally come to rest, my body still covering hers as my heart’s pace settles back to normal. Breanna begins to wriggle beneath me which prompts me, with little urgency, to raise my chest from over her slender back as my dick takes its slow and reluctant retreat.
With little regard for me even still being in the room, I watch Breanna smooth her panties back up her body and into place. A woman confident in a ways that I’ve never before witnessed... Reaching for the hooks of her bra, Breanna looks to me over her shoulder and next speaks with the sheer goal of enticement.
“I’m going to take a shower and then have dinner. You’re welcome to join me…” Breanna says this while pushing through a closed door as her bra slips free from her body... And there has been an offer more impossible to refuse...