Lust

by Violet Blue

  Molly was unable to control herself any longer and she slipped her fingers down the waistband of her skirt and cupped her cunt tightly in her hand. She was already slick and needed only the slightest bit of pressure, expertly applied, to tease out an orgasm. She came easily, without batting an eyelid or missing a stroke and as the train rushed through the tunnel her mark hurtled toward his orgasm.

  Nicholas felt his whole body tense in anticipation and lost himself in the moment. The last thing he remembered before he was thrown into the vortex of his own climax was her body spasming against his, and as the train pulled into the station he came, and came, and came.

  Molly felt his warm come seeping through his pocket as his cock went limp and she silently withdrew her hand. The train came to a standstill and Molly slipped out quietly. She knew from experience that it would have been awkward otherwise, and anyway, what else could she have done? Introduce herself, make small talk, exchange phone numbers? No, she was sure she had done the right thing.

  Spent, it took Nicholas a moment to compose himself. Part of him felt cheap and abused but his heart was pounding and his mind was racing. He couldn’t make sense of anything that had happened but it had been exhilarating and he was hooked. He wanted more: to follow her, to thank her, to see her again perhaps, but she had already disappeared into the crowds and he knew it was over.

  Molly opened her bag on the escalator and took the wallet out: black leather, soft, expensive. She stroked it before opening it up and taking out his Visa card. Nicholas Sackworth, he had a name now. There was a photo too and for some reason she couldn’t put it down. She stared at it all the way up the escalator, memorizing his face, desperately looking for clues to his life, but it was just a passport photo and the orange backdrop told her nothing. Nevertheless, she kept it along with the eighty quid that she had found but threw the rest away in the nearest bin before stepping into the road and hailing a taxi.

  RIPE FRUIT

  Bonnie Dee

  Hot! It is ninety-some degrees and my cabbages are wilting. My corn leaves look dry and brown instead of lush and green. The raspberries are ripening into a soupy mash in their little boxes. If I fermented them I could probably make wine. The rich, fruity smell of melons and peaches combined with the stifling heat is making me nauseous. If I never see, smell or ingest another fruit or vegetable in my life it will be too soon.

  A car blows by on the road raising a cloud of dust, choking me with exhaust fumes and dry earth. Looking down at “A Carol of Harvest for 1867,” I try to concentrate on Whitman’s lyrical eloquence about nature instead of the mundane reality of it that surrounds me. It’s obvious Whitman never had to run a produce stand or he wouldn’t have waxed poetic about the green stuff.

  Bored! I have this Leaves of Grass thing to read and a paper to write about it. Then I have a psych test to study for but I can’t concentrate. It’s far too hot and I have a headache. I want air-conditioning, a bottle of beer and some mindless MTV reality show. My needs are reduced to just that.

  If sweat wasn’t trickling down my spine and sticking my shirt to my breasts, I might have the energy to entertain myself here in my plywood shanty. Other days, when the customers were few and far between, I’d spent some time getting to know the vegetables. Cucumbers became my special friends. I would take one behind the cash register counter and introduce it to my pussy while I fantasized a hot, summer stud. It’s not as satisfying as the real deal but one makes do in a wasteland.

  Today I look at the limp, sad cukes and let them rest. I lay my book on the counter, my head on the book, and rest too. My cheek sticks to my arm and my eyelids drift closed, probably to seal shut forever with sweat.

  Ninety-some degrees. No one wants vegetables. No sane person would venture out of the house or the swimming pool on such a day. I rebuke myself for conjuring images of a pool and water—cold, clear, beautiful water. I dream of splashing in it, diving and surfacing, watching the sun glitter across the dancing wavelets.

  Beneath the water, something grabs my leg and tugs me under. I gulp for air and then go down but I’m not afraid. When my head bobs to the surface again, someone is there with me. His hair is black and slick as a seal’s. His eyelashes shed water as he blinks and grins at me, showing even white teeth. Tan shoulders break the water and his rocky chest is like an island floating in the pool.

  “Hey there, Pool Boy. Come clean my filter.” I feel his hand touching me under the water, a finger slipping into the waistband of my bathing suit and delving lower….

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  I snap awake and sit up straight so fast that I almost fall backward off the stool. “Yes?”

  “I want to buy a peach.”

  I look up and am blind for a moment. The man is backlit against the bright sunlight. He is only a dark silhouette and for a moment I think he looks exactly like the pool boy in my dream. I blink and resist the urge to rub my eyes with my fists like a child waking from a nap. “Of course. Um, we have half-peck bags or a full peck. If you want them for canning, you can buy a whole bushel.”

  “No. I only want one peach.”

  The guy steps out of the light and I stand and move around the counter. Now I can see his face. He doesn’t look like the hot pool boy in my dream. He looks even better.

  I take in his wavy black hair, dark eyes, arched brows, sculpted cheekbones and full-lipped mouth. He has one of those mouths with the deep bow in the upper lip and a sexy lower one you’d like to bite a chunk out of. I look past him to his car, low-slung, sleek, jet black and shiny. This guy is money.

  His face is vaguely familiar and I’m thinking that I should recognize him. Maybe he’s a minor celebrity of some type, a singer, actor or model that I’ve seen in a magazine or on a TV screen.

  “Just one peach.” I smile. “Go ahead and pick one.”

  “I didn’t know if I could buy only one or if you just sell them by the bag.”

  I’m tempted to tell him, yes, he does need to buy a bag, because I haven’t sold anything all afternoon. Instead I smile even wider and say, “No. One is fine. I’ll charge you a quarter. Does that sound fair?”

  “I don’t think it’ll break me.” He grins back at me and he’s adorable. He scratches the side of his neck with one hand and looks from me to the table of produce. “The problem is I don’t know how to tell what’s ripe.”

  I’m not about to explain that everything on that table has been ripened to mush from the hot weather. I sashay over to the peaches with an extra swing to my hips and select one of the firmer fruits. I present it to him, pressing it slightly with my fingers.

  “Here. Feel this.” I place it on his palm and it looks tiny in his big hand. “Give it a little squeeze. Not too hard, not too soft, see? It should be good and juicy and sweet.” I don’t mean to make the words suggestive but they sit there, resonating with double meaning all on their own.

  I look up into his eyes and he’s not looking at the peach in his hand but at my cleavage. His tongue darts out, licking his lips.

  “Go ahead and try it,” I say and I do mean to sound suggestive this time.

  Ten minutes earlier I’d felt about as sexy as a garden slug. My pits were sweating, my hair was limp and a slick of oil shone on my face. Now, suddenly I feel like Eve offering the apple. I am sex personified. One of the straps of my tank top slips provocatively down my shoulder like I’m a Dogpatch slut. This guy radiates magnetism and my crotch clenches and unclenches under siege from a sharp surge of lust.

  The pretty man bites into the fruit with his white teeth. His eyes never leave mine as the ripe fruit bursts into his mouth, releasing thick, honeyed juice. A little trickles from the corner of his mouth and I unconsciously run my tongue out to the side of my own mouth as if to catch it.

  “Good?”

  He nods, chewing and swallowing. “Nectar.” He wipes the sticky juice from his face with the back of his hand and extends the peach toward me. “Want a bite?”

  I completely forget
that I’ve sworn off fruit for life, that the very smell of it gives me a headache now, that the only good peach is a dead peach. I take the fruit from his outstretched hand and bite into it. Of course, he’s right. It is sweet nectar in my mouth. The taste of a peach perfectly reflects its bright golden-red color. It tastes exactly the way it should.

  Despite sucking in as I bite, some of the juice escapes my mouth and wets my chin. When I pull the peach away from my lips, the man reaches out to wipe my chin with his finger then sucks the juice from it. I watch entranced as the finger enters his mouth, his cheeks hollow with sucking. I hear the firm pop his lips make when he takes it back out. My own lips purse, half-parted in anticipation.

  He leans in and I meet him halfway, hypnotized. Our lips touch and we kiss. His tongue parts my lips and sweeps inside my mouth to taste me. We don’t touch anywhere except our lips. My pussy swells like an overripe peach ready to burst.

  His mouth drops lower to lick my chin clean of the sticky residue of juice and then he pulls back. “You taste like summer,” he says with a smile. “Salty and sweet.”

  My pulse pounds. I’m ready for more. I dismiss the fact that the day is hotter than the sun’s surface. I’m anxious to sweat some more with this stranger.

  “Look, do you want to sit in my car for a while and get cooled off?” he asks.

  The idea of sitting in cushioned, air-conditioned comfort and making out with this hot guy sounds like heaven, but I’m cautious.

  “My mother warned me about getting into strangers’ cars,” I say with a laugh, fingering the peach, which is still dripping in my hand.

  “But I’m not really a stranger.”

  There’s a pause during which he looks at me expectantly, then an almost comical look of dismay comes over his face when it’s clear that I don’t know who he is.

  “I’m Tom Stander. I play Bobby on ‘Wild Hearts.’ ”

  “Oh,” I exclaim. “That show. Yeah. Sorry. I don’t really watch soaps.”

  “Oh.” The word is small. It’s obviously been a long time since Tom has interacted with anyone except adoring fans.

  “Rachel Neidema.” I supply my name and hold his peach back toward him. “And even actors can be serial killers.”

  “But, I’m not. I swear.” The twinkle has returned and the way it dances across his dark eyes reminds me of my pool dream. “I have an idea. Why don’t you help me pick out some more ripe fruit—a melon and a box of berries. We can take it to my hotel room and have a picnic.”

  I hesitate.

  “I have the whole afternoon,” he explains. “The movie I’m in is shooting on location near here but I don’t have any scenes until later tonight.”

  “What’s it called?” I stall for time, seriously considering his offer.

  “Death After Dark. I play the deputy.”

  I look around the shed, which trapped heat has turned into an oven, and wonder what is keeping me from refrigerated bliss and possible wild sex with a handsome stranger. “I am actually working here,” I remind him. “This isn’t my stand. I run it for someone else.”

  “‘Okay.” He glances at the display of wilted produce and back at me. “How much to buy everything?” He reaches in his hip pocket and produces a wallet. “I don’t suppose you take plastic.”

  I’m taken aback. I can’t imagine these limp vegetables and squishy fruit being worth more than a couple hundred tops. Before I can say anything, he hands me five hundred dollars, counting crisp twenties and fifties into my palm.

  “Now can you take a break?” he asks.

  I don’t know if accepting the money turns me into a hooker but I put the cash in the register drawer and turn to him. “Let me help you carry your groceries to the car.”

  “That’s all right. I only want a few pieces of fruit. You can keep the rest.” He’s flashing me a deep pair of dimples and shiny white teeth.

  I imagine those teeth nibbling on my nipples. They instantly peak even harder against my shirt.

  We bag up peaches, cantaloupe, raspberries and blackberries, and lock up the stand, then I’m sliding into the buttery leather seats of his car. Cold air blasts my face and rap blasts my eardrums. He turns down the music and asks me questions about myself.

  I tell him I’m on summer break and that I’m studying toward an English degree for some foolish reason.

  He says he didn’t go to college and although he likes acting, sometimes he regrets not having gotten a degree.

  By the time we’ve exchanged all this we’re at his hotel. It’s not too fancy. I’m surprised, but I figure this movie he’s in must be a made-for-TV type with a limited budget.

  We enter the room. Now that we’re here, I’m more than a little nervous. I’ve occasionally gone home from keggers with guys I barely know and slept with them, but this feels different. Maybe because I’m not drunk.

  The air-conditioning dries my sweat and my skin feels stiff. I really want to freshen up with a shower. Tom has other ideas. He sets down the bag of produce and moves in close to me.

  I feel overpowered by his maleness and wilt against him. My hands press against his chest and it’s hard. I tilt my face up to accept his kiss and smell the spicy, woodsy aroma of his cologne—not too strong, just right.

  Closing my eyes, I revel in the pressure of his lips covering mine. He’s a good kisser. He’s probably had lots of practice with actresses on his show. Our mouths move together greedily. I can still taste a hint of peach on his soft, wet tongue. His arms around me are strong. His hands slide up and down my back in a comforting caress.

  I relax into this, stroking my fingers up his neck and into his softly curling hair. Even though I don’t watch “Wild Hearts,” I have to admit that it’s kind of a thrill to be making out with a real, live TV star.

  After a few moments he looks down at me through heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Time for that picnic.” His hands move on my shoulder, pushing the straps of my tank top down. I wear no bra underneath. It’s one of those shirts with the built-in cups so it is easy for him to uncover my breasts. They pop out of the front of the shirt, full and ripe, the nipples erect and red as raspberries. He leans down to suck one into his mouth.

  I gasp at the heat and wetness and the pulling sensation that extends all the way down to my crotch.

  “Mm, nice,” he says when at last he pulls away. “But they need something.” He goes to the paper bag and pulls out a peach. Coming back to me, he squeezes the fruit and the skin breaks letting juice trickle down my chest and over each breast. Before it can drip from my nipples onto my shirt, he leans in and sucks it up. The feeling of his tongue bathing my breasts and the sight of his mouth moving all over me; his thick, dark eyelashes closed in rapture; makes me incredibly horny. I imagine how it must taste, the fructose mixed with the salt from my skin.

  Tom evidently loves it and keeps licking and sucking long after the juice is gone.

  Quickly now, he strips me. My shirt flies one way, my shorts and panties another. I kick off my sandals and tug on Tom’s shirt. Underneath it, his chest, arms and abs are as sculpted as a male model’s. I bet he has a personal trainer and works out for hours every day. Must be hell to have your face and body be your fortune and to have to work to maintain them. He’s so beautiful I feel a little embarrassed about my less-than-toned body—but only a little. Self-consciousness has never troubled me much.

  Besides, Tom’s eyes tell me that I look pretty good to him. He asks me to lie on the bed, then he searches around the room for something.

  “What?” I ask.

  “A knife.” Realizing how that might sound he adds, “To cut the fruit.”

  “I take it you were never a Boy Scout,” I tease, shifting on the bed and splaying my legs a little to entice him.

  He looks at me blankly with those chocolate-drop eyes and I have to explain, “Not prepared. No pocket knife. Why don’t you call the front desk?”

  There are perks in being a pseudo-celebrity. Whoever is working the desk
hops to it when they get Tom’s call. A paring knife is delivered to the door in the time it takes me to unzip Tom’s jeans and start sucking him off. His cock is thick and pulsing and he has a hard time tucking it back in his fly when he goes to answer the door.

  “Here, Mr. Stander,” says a gushing, breathless female voice. “If there’s anything else I can get for you…”

  I suppress a giggle, imagining her eyes bugging out at seeing him shirtless.

  “Thanks. This is all I need.” The door is closed and he’s back beside me on the bed in seconds. I watch as he cuts into the melon, slicing a thick wedge, scooping the seeds into the wastebasket then cubing it. He lays the melon slices in a neat line down my body from chest to groin. They’re slippery. The juice trickles down my rib cage and tickles. It drips onto the bed on either side of me. I believe we’re going to totally trash the bedcover before we’re through.

  Tom’s tongue pokes out, resting against his upper lip as he concentrates. It’s endearing. Coupled with that floppy dark lock of hair on his forehead, it makes him look like a boy. He cuts into a peach, making thin wedges and arranging them artistically alongside the melon. I watch my naked torso turn into a fruit plate as he scatters handfuls of bright red and dark blackberries across the landscape of my body.

  My contours are not flat and the berries start to tumble off of me, but Tom picks them up and mashes them into place. As he approaches my groin, I tilt my head up from the pillow to see what he will do. He squeezes the berries in his hand and lets the juice ooze through his fingers. The rich red and purple juice drips on my pubic mound, slithers on my inner thighs and sweetens my labia. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.

  Tom rises, wipes his hand off on his jeans, then takes them off. He stands naked by the bed looking at picnic-me for a few moments.