This morning in the parking lot, Daphne says there’s no better summertime treat than a frozen Snickers, slicked up with KY, pushed in deep. Into her pussy, she means. She’s got one in there now, she tells me.
You lie, I say.
Come over here and feel. She makes like she’s unbuttoning her whitewashed jeans, like I’m going to reach down in there and feel around. I’ll do it, too, but the whistle blows and we have to get on the line. Today I’m in A12. That means I’m adding bolts to the tops of salt mills. Drop-turn-tighten. Drop-turn-tighten. Daphne is three rows over. I can see her plywood-colored ponytail and her bony shoulders and her fine, fine waist. I cannot see her ass. If there was a candy bar up in her, I wonder how long it would take to melt. Would she look like she crapped her pants?
It’s not sexy, I tell her over a smoke on the first shift break. She doesn’t remember what I’m talking about. I tell her how the chocolate would melt and she’d look like she’d shit her pants.
Speaking of not sexy, she says.
You’d look like a suicide, only alive. Dead people shit, you know.
Easy, Mister Doom. You’re just jealous.
Jealous of what?
She drops her cigarette butt on the sidewalk, grinds it with her boot, then leans in closer to me than ever before, except for that time back in junior year when I drove my little sister and all her friends to see Springsteen. Seven fourteen-year-olds crammed into my Malibu, and Daphne was the one pressed up against my thigh. I didn’t want to be hard touching the girl touching my sister; hell, I was just trying to drive. But now that twenty years have passed I realize spontaneous carpool erections must date back to the days of covered wagons. Especially with fine women like Daphne.
She’s almost got her mouth to my ear, when she whispers something about her pussy lips sealing all the sweetness in.
Daphne says real quiet that her boyfriend’s going to eat the whole thing right out of her during lunch break, and do I want to watch.
Do I want to watch. Daphne, you’re full of shit.
Back on the line, drop-turn-tighten, I keep thinking about what it would look like to see a melty Snickers sliding out of her. Maybe it’s gotten so warm that the chocolate stays mostly in and only the nutty, nougatty part slides out. My pants get tight over my dick. I imagine slamming that candy bar back up into her hard. I want to make her grunt. I’ve never heard a woman grunt in person. Not a fine woman, anyway.
When the bell rings for lunch, her guy is waiting by the parking lot fence. I leave my sandwich in my locker and light up a smoke out where I can watch and be seen. Daphne comes out with her purse and doesn’t say anything to anyone except the man with his fingers through the chain-link mesh. She’s far enough away that I can’t hear what makes him laugh. As they walk to his car, he smacks her ass.
It would be sludge, I decide. A fudgey goo. Nothing to ram back in. Nothing to make her grunt anyway.
Photo: Public Domain | Used under CC0 1.0
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the glorious Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
Read all the fabulous Wicked Wednesday “Chocolate” entries here!