Cheyenne Blue combines her two passions in life and writes travel guides and erotica. Her erotica has appeared in Clean Sheets, Best Women's Erotica, Playgirl, Mammoth Best New Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, and Mind Caviar. Her travel guides have been jammed into many glove boxes underneath the chocolate wrappers. She usually lives in the southwestern United States. You can see more of her work on her website.
Her breast was silky in his hand. His thumb slid over the surface, caressing in decreasing circles, ever closer to the nipple...
"Are you going to serve me, or stand there playing with that eggplant all day?"
Caustic tones intruded on Jeremiah's daydream, and he struggled to return to the present. The woman in front of him raised an eyebrow, and he hastily put the eggplant on the weigh scales and fumbled for the code. Swiftly, he scanned the rest of her groceries. Tofu, lentils, soymilk, evening primrose oil.
She swiped her credit card, and stood drumming her fingers on the purse stand until he presented the slip for her signature. Thrusting it back at him, she said, "Dreaming won't serve customers. Do you think you're a poet or something?"
"A writer," he said to her retreating back. "I'm a writer."
The man next in line tossed his dreadlocks over his shoulder, and shunted his single bottle of iced tea across to Jeremiah. "A writer? Hey, man, I'm a poet. No wonder you're working here. No money in writing. I stand in the Sixteenth Street Mall and recite, and they shuffle past with their eyes cast down. Good luck to you."
The lunchtime line abated, and Jeremiah took his own meal break. A slice of quiche from the deli cabinet, a tazo chai from the coffee stand. Despite the cold, he took a chair outside where he could see the mountains. It was a crunchy Denver day, one where the trees stood stark against the sky, as blue and shining as a glacier, and the sharp chill numbed his cheeks. Below the parking lot, traffic passed on the freeway in a dull mechanical roar. The Front Range was sienna-brown, jaundice-yellow. Squinting into the brightness, Jeremiah opened the carton and poked at his quiche. It was undercooked in the center, the yellow egg wobbled slightly. His finger slid into the viscous mess.
Her pussy hair tickled as his finger slid inside. Tighter than a miser's purse, it clasped his finger with wet, frictionless suction. She arched into the air above him, her nipples tightening in the cold air, her pale skin contrasting with the jaundice-yellow of the mountains behind...
"Anyone sitting here?" His co-worker, Janey, dropped heavily into the chair beside him, without waiting for his answer. "What you eating? Quiche? I saw Ramon baking that this morning. I wouldn't go near it, if I were you. I'm not sure what he mixes with the eggs, but it doesn't look like Organic Heavy Whipping Cream, if you get my drift."
Ramon's face contorted, and his hand strokes slowed. His prick pulsed in his fist, hard eggplant purple. The commercial kitchen was quiet; no one would disturb him now. He turned the page of the magazine with his free hand, then gripped his balls, willing the climax to slow. He didn't want to come yet--not until he'd reached the page with the blonde co-ed and the scarlet dildo--but he couldn't hold back any longer. The spunk boiled up his cock, spilling over his fingers, down into the bowl of pellucid egg whites...
"Nice day." Janey tipped back in her chair and spread her heavy thighs for balance. Her face turned up to catch the weak, wintry sun. "I'm going out with my girlfriend later, happy hour at that pub on Broadway. They have two-for-one drinks and free chicken wings, if you're interested."
Her voice was too casual, she was acting like she didn't care if he joined them or not, but there was an edge of nervousness to her voice.
Jeremiah wiped his fingers on the unbleached napkin and pondered. He didn't often go out with his co-workers--their lives had no bearing on his. To him, they weren't potential friends; they were subjects. Objects to be studied and turned around in his head, until they emerged in a story. But something about Janey's fingers, fluttering slightly on her paper cup of hot chocolate, something about the heavy bulk of her thighs and her rounded belly appealed to him. He wondered if the girlfriend was a friend, or a lover.
Janey's fingers advanced purposely, creeping with intent over the pale thighs spread enticingly in front of her. Bending her head, she lapped at the milky skin, which shivered like soft poached eggs. The sharp smell of cunt, seaweed fresh, curled through the air. Janey parted the quivering folds with a thick finger, and explored, probing the smooth surface, silken as tofu outside, ridged like frozen waves within. Her tongue extended, kissed once gently, then advanced and drank as deep as cheap beer on a Friday...
"Sure," Jeremiah heard himself saying. "The Denver Dive Bar, isn't it? You going straight after work?"
Janey's surprise and pleasure were flattering. "Yeah. You can come in my car, if you want--I know you cycle here. I can drop you back after."
"That would be good."
Janey studied him a moment longer, maybe thinking he had more to say, but he stood, scooped up his meal debris, and dumped it in the trash. "Gotta get back to work," he mumbled. "See you at five."
He had another twenty minutes of break, but he didn't want to talk to Janey and her thighs. He wanted to walk the quiet streets to the park, and try to find some inspiration for his short story. Maybe he could study the patterns of the wind on the lake, pluck description from the joggers that circled, find a bounce from the smiling dogs trotting briskly through the crisp and shining day. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his baggy boarder pants and strode off.
It was a quiet afternoon, so his supervisor had him stack shelves instead of working the checkout. He shuffled boxes of Organic Blueberry Crisp and thought about Janey and her belly. So pillowy. He'd like to rest his head on it, and let her stroke his hair, absorb the tide of her blood through her belly. It would be like returning to the womb. Stealing some chips and salsa from the sample table, he ambled past where Janey worked in the deli. She was leaning forward, earnestly expounding on the different imported cheeses to a customer.
"Manchego," he heard her say, "is a semi-firm mellow cheese made of sheep's milk. It's natural and untreated in Spain, where it originates, but, of course, the stuff we get is pasteurized. Now, this cheese here comes from the west of Ireland, and the purple lines you see are dillisk, which is a type of seaweed."
Her customer nodded, and asked a question, but Jeremiah had moved on.
Janey lay naked on a bed of kelp, her thick sienna-brown hair spread around her, blending with the crinkly fronds, merging with the sea. She was a mer-child, a selkie, a child of nature, surrounded by the sea's harvest. Her breasts flattened on her chest, her cherry-red nipples protruding like small cocks. He lowered himself down to her, kissed her scarlet nipples, her clotted cream thighs. His own cock bobbed, and he probed between her sturdy thighs, seeking...
Janey's friend was painfully quiet. Jeremiah was wrapped in his own head, studying the customers at the Dive Bar, so Janey ended up doing most of the talking.
"Then the silly bitch demanded I slice the meat for the third time, a little bit thicker. I wouldn't mind, except that she'd said the thickness was okay the first two times when she'd complained it was dry. Then she asked for some of Ramon's Jack Off Quiche--you had it for lunch, Jer, what did you think? --and she sniffed it and said it smelled like it was off. Of course, I couldn't tell her that Ramon had got his rocks off into the filling, so I offered to change it, but no, she wouldn't have that, so it was wasted as well. Then she turned to go, fucking finally, slipped on a piece of spinach on the floor and skidded into the hot cabinet. She'll probably sue, she seemed the type. Not that she looked like she needed the money though..."
Jeremiah let her words curl away from him like the smoke from her cigarette. Instead, he watched the bartender's hands, as she uncorked, decanted, rattled, poured, and pulled. In his head, he matched her with the supercilious woman with the eggplant from earlier.
"A bartender?" Freckles wrinkled enticingly over the patrician nose. "Surely, you should get a real job?"
"I like it." The bartender shrugged in response, and ran a short, square fingernail down the other woman's arrogant chin, jumping down the chain of freckles to tap idly on a collarbone, jutting like a spare rib on a rack. "The tips are good. Especially when I give extra favors." She moved closer, into the customer's space. "Women like you. I could look after you real good."
The woman's eyes didn't flicker. "How?" She took a deep gulp of her martini.
"Silk to caress your skin, soft ropes to bind you to the bed. And a cherry red dildo, thick as an eggplant, to plow you with..."
Jeremiah finished his two-for-one beer without thinking, and ordered another from the bartender. Belatedly, he caught Janey's stare and bought a chablis for her as well. The friend had gone, slipped out into the night without a word.
"Game of pool?" He made the suggestion to avoid having to talk. That and to watch the denim stretch over Janey's ass as she bent over the table.
"Sure." Janey slid off her stool, crossed to the pool table, and started racking balls with a swift proficiency. "We gonna play for money or drinks? Or something else entirely?"
There was a predatory look about her, and her eyes roamed over the crotch of his baggy pants. His pulse leaped in response. He took a gulp of beer. "Something else."
"What?" She moved closer, into his space, and for a giddy instant, he thought she was going to grab his balls. But she merely sidestepped, and made a show of testing the weight of the cues.
Her heavy-lidded confidence irked him. "Winner names their price."
"Sure. Best of five?"
"Seven." He figured he might as well make her sweat a bit before he creamed her. He seldom lost at pool, and for all her confidence racking the balls, he didn't see why this should be any different.
She broke with easy efficiency, watching as two solids tumbled into the end pockets, then potted a further three balls. Better than he thought; at least she knew how to manipulate a cue.
He cleaned the table of all his balls, and unobtrusively set her up for a difficult shot on the black. A bank shot that required she lean far over the table. A shot she would surely miss.
Janey hitched a hip up onto the cushion, and leaned into the cue. From the side, he could see how her heavy breasts fell forward, straining against her aubergine sweatshirt. He was reminded of the sandbags he saw along the South Platte River when it was in flood. The ball fell cleanly into the pocket.
"One." Janey drained her wine. "Loser buys?"
Jeremiah dug into his pocket, finding a bunch of crumpled notes, and signaled the waiter.
Janey racked the balls.
He lost the next game. And the one after. Janey's grin became wider, more feral.
The bartender's freckles stood out in sharp relief as she laughed over the bar. "So, you thought you were a sharp one, eh? Looks like your girlfriend got you beat."
His armpits felt damp. Janey broke badly, and he managed to salvage the game, scraping the black in.
He lost the next game.
Janey advanced toward him.
She reached for him, and the cue clattered to the floor. The waiter looked up in surprise.
The bar was nearly empty, with only the seasoned drinkers still propped against the bar. The neon beer sign above the pool table cast a green glow over the room.
"Gotta pee," said Janey. "I'll be back to tell you what I want for winning."
No doubt, she expected him to lean against the pool table, stick his hands in his baggy pants and wait. Instead, he followed her out into the concrete corridor, green painted, like the neon sign. She was waiting for him.
Jeremiah placed large hands on her shoulder, pressing her back into the wall.
She reached up and took his mouth with needy lust. Her hands wove themselves into his hair, freeing his ponytail from its confines.
A fleshy thigh rubbed against his, and he smoothed his hands down over her hips, curving around to cup her generous ass. Her leg pressed higher, up against his groin.
His cock ached in his pants and he thought he could feel every tooth of the zipper imprinting itself along his length. To distract himself from the pleasure-pain, he burrowed under her sweatshirt, up under the layers of turtleneck and tee shirt. Her skin was softer than he imagined, smooth as an eggplant and as softly curving.
"Slow down a bit," Janey muttered into his mouth, and shifted position so that her leg could press up higher, against his aching balls. Her hands traced their own pathways over his skin, and she reached up to stab her tongue back into his mouth.
"Can we do it here?" He found his objective, and her breast bloomed into his hand, the nipple peaking under his fingers.
"Yes. No one ever comes here. And the waiter is a friend of mine. She knows what we're doing. Hell, she'd be joining in if she had the chance. But I want to have you first. Nothing like an eager cock, ready to burst." Her hands left his skin and tugged impatiently at her skin-tight jeans. He helped her push them down, along with her cherry-red panties, brilliant against her white skin and dark thatch of pubic hair.
He was too impatient to wait--how long since last he'd had sex? Three months? Four? --and discarding the niceties, he put his hand between her legs, stroking up between her thighs. She didn't seem to mind. Janey pushed against his hand, rubbing herself on his fingers, encouraging his explorations with grunts and squeals. Her moisture coated his hand, thick and viscous.
Maybe Ramon would let him cook the quiche tomorrow; maybe Janey could be persuaded to join him. With his free hand, he untied the drawstring of his pants, tugging awkwardly to loosen them. Janey had her head thrown back against the wall, her eyes were closed, her breath coming in great gulping pants. He thought of the dogs he saw at lunchtime in the park, their glossy hair bouncing like shampoo ads as they gamboled and played. Finally, fucking finally, he got his cock free; it sprang upright, drooling moisture, hard and ready to go.
Bending his knees, he placed himself at her entrance, fumbling in his eagerness. No time for the condom tucked into his back pocket, the writing rubbed away from months of inactivity. One thrust, up, deep, into all the clasping heat. He grasped her hips firmly, and prepared to pound her.
Her head hit the wall with every punishing thrust, her breasts bounced on her chest, the nipples hard and pointing below the pushed up sweatshirt. He pummeled away as five minutes became ten. Orgasms wracked her body, thick and fast, shivering little clenches around his dick. Her mouth shuddered open, a gaping O of pleasure. She must be getting sore, he wasn't a small man, and he'd been banging her for nearly twenty minutes.
One thrust, two, three, then he was coming, a premature rush of spunk.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, as his cock slipped out of her. "I'm not normally so fast."
Janey cupped a hand under her pussy, expertly catching the slide of his seed. "S'ok," she said. "Use your mouth. Or fingers."
Dropping to his knees in front of her, he parted the sodden lips, and delved with his tongue. Salty sweet, hot and sour soup, radishes, seaweed. Luckily, she came quickly, before the concrete floor made his knees go numb.
He worked her with his tongue so hard that his head spun. The walls tilted, but her pleasure was paramount, and he wouldn't rest until she came, and came again. Her juices coated the tops of her billowy thighs, and he could smell the fresh, grassy scent of his own semen.
Jeremiah rose to his feet and hauled up his pants, tucking his sticky member away. Turning, he started down the corridor to the restroom, but a twinge of tenderness slowed his stride. He halted, turned around. Janey was standing there, buttoning her jeans, her eyes an unfathomable mix of hope and disappointment.
He walked back and held out his hand. It seemed an eternity before her fingers curled trustingly into his palm. Tucking her hand through his arm, his body close to hers, they left the bar together.
© 2004 Cheyenne Blue. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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