“Your Gran’s quite the, erm, social butterfly isn’t she?” David responded, wiping a glass on a tea towel.
“You could say that,” I replied. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m brilliant actually, just about to go on a break, want to join me?”
I nodded eagerly.
“Meet me in the foyer.”
I leapt off that stool with the eagerness of a puppy and stalked towards the foyer with all the grace of a new born gazelle. Playing it cool isn’t a talent of mine.
“Come with me,” David grabbed my hand when he joined me and I let him lead. His touch heated me all over as I remembered our tryst from earlier in the day. He led me outside, the cold air welcoming after the stuffy heat of the hall.
“Oh, you take me to the nicest places,” I giggle. We’d ended up at the end of the campsite car park, the noise from inside a faint murmur through the wall.
“Only the best for you, madam,” David bowed stiffly and kissed the back of my hand. I couldn’t stop giggling. I felt light of head and heart for the first time in ages. He continued to kiss up my arm, over the sleeve of my party dress to the exposed flesh at my shoulder. He pressed kisses into the base of my neck, nibbled and kissed and elicited more groans than giggles from me as I wrapped my arms around him, holding tight so my knees wouldn’t give way beneath me at the assault of pleasurable sensations.
“I want you,” he whispered when his lips struck the bottom of my ear lobe, “I want to fuck you, I’m so hard for you.”
I slid my hands down his sides and rested one on his hip as the other trailed over his crotch. He wasn’t lying.
“Fuck me,” the words barely squeaked out under the heaviness of my passion, I repeated myself louder and more urgently. “Please fuck me.”
It wasn’t a fairy tale first time, least not a sanitary, flowers and chocolates one. It was scorching hot and real. I was taken hard by the hero of the piece and it certainly had a very happy ending. The cold, the bricks beneath my palms and scratching my breasts where my cleavage pressed hard against it only seemed to heighten the pleasure.
Someone could have seen us at any moment, we were in the shadows between the security lights but anyone passing would have seen us there and that added another layer of frisson of excitement. David had come prepared, he slid on a condom before pushing me up against the wall and lifting my skirt. He simply hiked my knickers to one side and pressed into me.
I was wet, there was no need for foreplay. I’d been wet since the first time he looked at me that night. Getting his cock inside me was all I’d thought about ever since. It felt divine to have him there.
“Touch yourself,” he panted, “Fuck knows I’m not going to last long and I want you to come, Sally, come for me.”
Following his command I squeezed a hand into my knickers. I lay my cheek against the wall to balance me and I hoped I wouldn’t end up with scratches from the block work. It was a fleeting thought as the pressure I exerted on my clit brought me close to boiling point, and combined with his thrusts, his heat and his body pressed up against me I was soon completely absorbed in the sexual urgency of it all.
He beat me by a few seconds, his fingers dug into my fleshy hips as he held himself in at the deepest position, his climax bubbling out of him, a muted gasp escaping his lips. It was the hard thrust, the dig of his nails into my skin and the expelation of his joy that tipped me over. I whimpered and moaned, my knees wobbled and I clung to the wall. Passion ran through my veins and pleasantly overwhelmed me.
We held together just like that for a few moments more then scrambled to rearrange our clothes as the realisation of where we were hit. All the bits of me that had been forced against the wall felt sore and I relished it. It was like the sex act still lingered on, the prickles of pain reminding me of the pinnacle of pleasure.
“It’s my day off tomorrow,” David said and led me back into the building. “So we can meet somewhere inside for a change, well, that’s if you’d like to.” His voice was hesitant, showing his own insecurities for just a moment.
“I’d love to,” I replied, “but I’ll have to check with Gran first, what she wants to do. Hopefully she’ll want to do Donald so I can spend the day with you.”
David laughed and we exchanged mobile numbers. I resolved to thank Gran from dragging me along and locking me out of the caravan. David was more than a little Welsh wonder. I was ready to book my next holiday at the caravan site already.
Patches
By Tenille Brown
Maretta didn’t believe in canned pumpkin. And on this chilly day in
November, she found herself in a predicament where she needed some of the real stuff. It just so happened that she was catering a Thanksgiving dinner in a few days, and since she had landed herself on this unexpected career path, she wanted to do it right.
Catering wasn’t what Maretta had imagined herself doing years ago, when she was picturing what her future might look like, but here she was, and business was good.
There were a few patches in Lockport, but she had heard good things about this one. It was out of the way and a good distance down a dirt road, but Maretta made the trip anyway just to see for herself. Once she arrived, she backed her truck up for her potential load, and she was so caught up at looking at the beautiful orange crop that she didn’t notice who it was doing business there.
It was Herb.
And when she looked a little to her left she saw that she should have known that
when she first drove up.
Herb’s Pumpkins, the sign said, and she seriously considered hopping back in her truck and leaving skid marks in the dirt during her getaway.
She didn’t though, opting instead to step down from her black pick-up and tug the wrinkles out of her jeans. Her sneakers didn’t make any noise against the dark, moist dirt, so not only did Herb not see her coming, he didn’t hear her either.
Herb possessed a natural look of smug. She gave him a once over as he sat on a stool behind a picnic table before she attempted to walk unnoticed into the patch.
Maretta cursed under her breath. She knew this town wouldn’t big enough for the both of them. Not after they had broken up, or whatever it was. She had said it then and she was saying it again in her head now as she searched through the narrow paths of robust orange and green for enough pumpkins to make ten pies.
After they had decided to end things, she more so than he, Herb had told her he
was leaving, and damn it, that’s what he should have done. What in all hell was he still doing in Lockport, selling pumpkins of all things?
“Maretta?”
Herb’s voice stopped her in her tracks. Should she keep walking? Was it too late to pretend she didn’t hear him, or better yet, head back to her truck and act like it was a case of mistaken identity?
Then came his voice again, louder and deeper. “Maretta Johnson, I know you hear me.”
Maretta turned around and forced on a smile.
“Herb? Herb Forbes, is that you?”
It was the fakest thing she herself had ever heard, but it was all she could come up with at such short notice.
“You know damn well it’s me. Who else could recognise you by your ass alone?”
The comment shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Who other than Herb would be so blatantly crude in the middle of the day, and with people walking by?
That was Herb though, and his observation made Maretta wish she had worn a longer coat, something to camouflage the notorious hump Herb was referring to. And if she really wanted to piss him off, she could tick off a list of names right then and there of who could and would recognise her by just her ass, but she didn’t.
“That would be you, Herb,” Maretta said instead, and walked to stand in front of his table. “But, the last time you saw me or my ass, you told me you were leaving Lockport for good.”
Herb shrugged. “That doesn’t mean I had to go through with it. It’s not like you own Lockport or anyt
hing.”
“Well, neither do you.” It was the best comeback Maretta could muster. Herb was quick, while Maretta was hesitant and thoughtful.
And she always had to have a comeback. That was the way it was between them, always fighting to win or have the last word. Neither knew the meaning of compromise or truce.
“I do, actually. A little piece anyway. Enough to live on and run a pretty good business.” Herb pointed to his barn-like house behind his patch, that sat an acre or so away.
He was bragging. “Cocky bastard.” Maretta couldn’t halt the words from escaping.
“That’s not nice.”
“Well, I’m not nice. Remember? That’s what you always said.”
“I do remember that, and a little something else. I know you liked to be bent over as opposed to being on your back.”
“Fuck you.”
Not only was Herb a cocky bastard, he was a bold one, too.
“Would you like to?” Herb asked and winked.
He was toying with her and she was embarrassed now instead of bold and strong like when she’d gotten there, and that pissed her off.
And then he leaned down, whispering real low and sexy in her ear, “Baking pies, is that all you’re doing?”
And Maretta knew that the question basically equated to “Who’s doing you?”
And she didn’t want to answer that because no one was doing that at the moment, no one besides herself.
Herb hadn’t been the last, but there hadn’t been many in between, and there hadn’t been many to knock her socks off either, not since him. She could count them on one hand as a matter of fact, but no, she didn’t want to do that.
Maretta just wanted to choose her pumpkins and be done with it and be done with Herb, once and for all. Maybe she should have been the one to leave Lockport.
What Maretta did say was, “I’m catering, yes. And that’s about it.”
“Have dinner with me.” Herb was blunt, as always.
He leaned in close to her, too close. His dark, wide nose nearly brushing across her short, lighter, rounded one.
Herb told her instead of asking or suggesting.
But Maretta knew that dinner with Herb was never just dinner. Dinner with Herb was a glass of wine in his kitchen while he fumbled with ingredients for spaghetti.
Dinner with Herb was Maretta tasting a spoonful of sauce that led to him slipping his finger between her lips and her sucking the Italian seasoning off of it. And they would wind up on the floor, right there in the kitchen, the pot boiling over, dinner ruined. Both of them too satiated and spent to notice or care.
And though the decision to end things had ultimately been hers, Maretta thought about him for quite some time after, and wanted him, too. But she couldn’t bring herself to tuck tail and call, so she didn’t. And Herb, the stubborn bastard, he had never called either.
The thought suddenly occurred to Maretta. Maybe Herb had been fucking someone else all along. So, she picked right there in the pumpkin patch to ask him.
“Were you fucking someone else, Herb?”
“What?” Confusion pressed wrinkles into his forehead.
“Back then. When I scrammed and you didn’t so much as pick up the phone. Was there someone else waiting in the wings?”
This time it was Maretta who moved closer, as if invading his personal space would intimidate an answer out of him.
Herb backed up a little, put a finger up and waited on two customers. Then he came back to her.
He asked, “Does it even matter now? Like you said, you scrammed.”
Maretta felt a flutter in stomach that she hadn’t expected. There was nothing like little twinges of jealousy five years too late. Had the other woman been taller, thinner, prettier, smarter? Was she still around? Did he marry her? Did they have kids now?
Maretta decided she didn’t really want to know. But she also didn’t want the conversation to end, not just yet.
“So, how’d you end up running a pumpkin patch? Somebody leave it to you in their will?” she asked.
“Nope. I bought it. But is that what you really want to know?”
It wasn’t. But it filled the void. It made things a little less awkward. The stubborn bastard had stayed and purchased land out of spite just to let her know he wasn’t planning on going anywhere.
And she had gotten stuck here catering for the locals. Neither was doing what
they said they were going to do, though Maretta had intended to. She had planned to evolve after Herb.
And she had. A little. She lost ten pounds. Got a tattoo. She cut her hair and dyed it jet black. She wore it in a spiked pixie cut now, complementing her small, butter-cream-coloured face.
And Herb had done…something, though she didn’t know if evolve was a word she
would use to describe it.
He stood there in his flannel shirt and overalls, completely covering what she knew was just beneath the material. Toffee body hard from outdoor work and the darkest and tastiest cock she had ever come into contact with.
His age didn’t show on his face, not even in the thick curly hair that covered his head and rested above his lips and on his chin.
Maretta began to walk away. “Well, Herb, are you going to let me pick my pumpkins in peace or what?”
Herb stepped back, both hands up in exaggerated surrender. “Pick away.”
Maretta walked through the vast pumpkin patch and saw several that appealed to her. One of Herb’s guys, tall, skinny and light-skinned helped her load them onto a large wooden wagon and he pulled them to the back of her truck. He loaded them for her and refused a tip.
Then, as she was ready to hop in and leave without even so much as a goodbye to Herb, Maretta eyed one pumpkin in particular.
“That one,” she said, walking toward it and pointing. She had to have it. It was the perfect size and colour. When she lifted it, just enough so she wouldn’t snap its vine, it was the perfect weight, too. It would make an exquisite pie.
But Herb intervened, walking quickly down the path toward Maretta. “You can’t have that one. Pick another; any of them but that one.”
“Why? Is it sold?” Maretta asked.
“No.”
“Are you saving it for yourself or something?”
“No. You just can’t have it.” Herb was adamant.
He hadn’t even taken the time to think about it, and this threw Maretta for a loop, so she paused before she responded.
“That’s no way to run a business,” she said eventually.
Herb had that look in his eyes, that we might be able to negotiate a little
something if you’re willing, look. But Maretta wasn’t going for it.
She didn’t need to flirt for what she wanted. She was never one to show a little thigh to hail a cab, cry to get out of a ticket, bat an eyelash to get a drink at a bar. She could hold her own.
Now Herb thought he had the upper hand and Maretta was going to show him that absolutely was not the case. Fuck Herb and his pretty-ass pumpkin. His wasn’t the only patch in Lockport, and if he didn’t realise it, Maretta would make damn sure he knew.
She jumped inside her truck without another word, and drove away.
Maretta had a very specific reason for being back at Herb’s patch, and in her nightwear no less. That reason was called impulse, and impulse didn’t allow her the moment it would have taken to think to put on at least a pair of sweats and a jacket over her camisole.
Maretta shivered when she hopped down out of the truck. She had parked a ways down the road because Herb’s barn-shaped house was just across the way, and though he never had been a night owl, she couldn’t take the chance that he had gotten up for a glass of water or something and would look out the window to see she was trespassing on his property.
She walked the almost-mile hurriedly, nearly jogging. The plan was to borrow his wagon to bring her pumpkin back to her truck and if Herb had denied her out of pure spite as she suspected, then he wouldn�
��t even know the pumpkin was gone the next morning. The only thing that would tip him off would be the money she planned on leaving behind.
That’s right, she was going to leave him every dime she owed right there on the picnic table he worked behind. So, instead of being the great pumpkin caper, Maretta was working on the honour system. Herb just hadn’t jumped on board.
Maretta bent over to pick her pumpkin.
“I thought I made myself clear earlier. If I wanted you to have it, I would have given it to you.”
Herb’s voice booming into the night startled her. What was Herb doing in the patch at this time of night? Shouldn’t he be sleeping? Or wasn’t there a woman he should be climbing on top of?
Now Maretta was pissed. “Well then, at least tell me why you don’t want me to have it, asshole!”
She wished there was somewhere else she could go, just so she could tell him to screw himself, she didn’t need his damn pumpkins, but his were the best, there was no denying it.
“I wasn’t being an asshole when I wouldn’t let you get that pumpkin.” For the first time since she’d seen him again, Maretta heard sincerity in Herb’s voice. “It’s just that when I saw you again, a lot of stuff came back, old stuff.”
“So you were being spiteful.”
“Not really. I was watching you walk and load up that wagon and for some reason, all I could think of was you on top of me, your back turned to me so that I could see that sexy rose tattoo on your right shoulder. And I thought about the way your hair twists floated down your back and you would bend your head back the slightest bit so they would graze both your ass and my crotch.”
Maretta didn’t know how she should be reacting, but she knew that her reaction shouldn’t have been standing there in her nightwear with a completely dry mouth, unable to speak.
“Then you were chasing me away.” Maretta fumbled with the edges of her white camisole, now even more aware of her appearance. “You wanted me gone.”
“No, actually,” Herb said. “I wanted you to come back. And I knew that if you were the same bull-headed woman I knew from five years ago, you would come back. And now here you are.”
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