I'm still in my favorite season -- Indian Summer -- that time of year when I love to fix desserts of frozen melon and peaches marinated in brandy, berries with clouds of homemade whipping cream, and hot fruit pies with enormous melty scoops of hand-cranked vanilla bean ice cream. Just saying "rock salt" "crushed ice" and "crank" gets me a little woozy.
Rocket’s Red Fucking Glare
The horrific noise of Eddie Bilger’s old Good Humor ice cream truck crashing over my rose garden sent me running to the front yard half-dressed in a tennis skirt and sports bra.
Eddie flew out of the truck swatting at his neck.
“What the fuck!”
“So sorry! There was a fucking bee in the cab.”
I circled the truck, my eyes brimming. “Oh Eddie! You flattened my ‘Barbara Bush’ signature rose!”
Eddie stood there looking pathetic in a faded “I Piss Excellence” t-shirt. I realized I hadn’t really noticed Eddie in a long time. He wasn’t the ice cream boy anymore.
“Just get me a popsicle.”
I followed him inside the truck.
“Well, you’re certainly all grown up Eddie,” I said, unwrapping the rocket pop, licking it slowly and biting off the shiny red tip.
Eddie grinned and took it from me, sliding the treat between my thighs, teasing my swollen clit with it and soaking the thin fabric of my blue lace thong. Patriotic juice ran purple down my leg.
The popsicle fell from his fingers. He unclasped my bra, moaning as he sucked hungrily at my breasts and finger-fucked my sticky wet cunt. I popped the buttons on his jeans.
“Sweet Jesus, Mrs. Linguine.”
“That’s Linguisto, Eddie, but for God’s sake, just call me Sarah.”
Then the Ice Cream Man let me have it, banging me hard from behind against the freezer doors, his grown-up dick hot and hard in my treat-flavored pussy. And I hardly gave Barbara Bush a second thought.
Tomorrow the sensual feast wraps up with Nikii's grand finale!