She looked around her. There on the counter top was a piece of paper. Her shopping list, made out two days ago. Eggs, meat, flour, sugar, coffee, orange juice, et cetera.
That's what she needed. At least part of the cravings of her flesh would be satisfied by such. Twenty minutes later she climbed into the front seat of her Firebird and whipped out of the driveway. Her original intention was to take the ten-minute drive to the shopping plaza. There she could not only buy the food she wanted, but look over the latest thing in pants suits. Larry made good money and it was about time she started spending more of it. But she never got to the shopping plaza.
She was stopping for a stop sign when she saw the boy.
He had just pulled his bicycle up to the curb ahead of her. He was lifting some grocery bags out of the wire basket on the handle bars. He was about sixteen or seventeen. About six-feet-four, two hundred pounds, and all of it muscle-and, from the looks of him, hot blood. The weather was on the chilly side this morning, and he was wearing just a tee-shirt, those big, mountainous biceps rippling. His hair was blond and longish, but not too longish. His face-he turned and made Gert gasp-was that of a Nordic warrior. No, check that; the eyes were clear all right, but there was an upturn of the mouth that was a kind of sneer-smile that But why try to analyze? He was Leif Ericson's face on Hercules' body with the inner spirit of Attila the Hun. He was, in short, yummy.
But he was about sixteen or seventeen, Gert reminded herself. True, she answered, but then that is the age of highest sexual prowess, is it not?
Perhaps. But Gert, dating, after all After all, what?
Well, sweetie… you wouldn't want to be known as a cradle robber, would you? So who's to know?
Gert, girl, you've got an excellent point there. Follow that carer, bike!
She crossed the intersection and parked. While she awaited his emergence from inside the house. God! What if some suburban bitch was beating her to it?-she checked her appearance in her car mirror. Fine, just fine. But she re-applied a little lip gloss. Ah! there he was, walking god-like down the walkway and climbing up on his silver charger bike, dammit! and We're off!
The grocery store was five blocks from Gert's house. She'd never known it was there until now. All goes to show, she thought to herself.. Support your neighborhood merchant and all that.
The store interior wasn't all that interesting, except for her main interest who, as she entered, was engaged in stacking some empty boxes in a corner at the rear of the store.
Without consulting her list she picked up a basketful of items at random from around the store including some ingredients for the sex session already starting to shape up in her mind. She didn't want him leaving for more deliveries until she had checked out.
She waited until he stepped to the counter. She went over to him, laying a slightly trembling hand on his shoulder.
"You're new here, aren't you?" she asked. It was not a very original opening line, but it was something.
He shook his head. "I've been here a couple, three months. Just Saturdays and Sundays. I go to college."
"How nice," Gert said. "And what time do you generally finish?" She added hastily, "Finish here, I mean, I won't be home until quite late, and I was wondering if you could make my delivery your last stop."
"Sure, ma'am. How is six o'clock? You're in the neighborhood?" She nodded yes. "Good, I live close by and can just go home from your house without coming back to the store."
She gave him the address and left. At home, she waited rather impatiently. But TV soap operas helped her pass the day-those plus her preparations. She had pulled her hair back into a pony tail and put on jeans and a tee-shirt. Her method was going to be rather direct and she didn't want any apparent age difference distracting him. Not that she was old but he was only sixteen or seventeen. She was sure he would put her in the older-woman category.
The off-the-kitchen bell rang and he stood there with the two boxes of groceries she had ordered. The, canned goods and six-packs of beer she had bought showed their heaviness by the strain on his arm muscles. She motioned him to a counter. The counter was in a corner. And so was he. All according to plan. Standing behind him, one arm reached to open a cupboard at his right. The other hand was reaching around to his left to grab a can of asparagus tips from one of the boxes. She pressed him against the waist-high counter, her stomach pushing into his buttocks. Her knee lifted-rubbed gently between his legs. She brought the asparagus around in front of him, in front of them, and arched her other arm-hand around to reach it. At the encircling contact, he shuddered slightly, and she noted with pleasure that those lovely biceps of his had grown thousands of goose bumps.
"Er, if you wait a second, I can move for you," he said.
Gert chuckled deep in her throat. 'I'll just bet you can. And I plan to take you up on that."
"Ma'am?"
She dropped the can to the counter and stepped back one pace, waiting for him to move back with her. As he did her hands darted down the front of him and found the main muscle that she was so curious about. She bet that rippled too. It did, along with the rest of him.
With a grinding, circling motion of her hips on his rear and a gentle stroking of his balls through the thick denim fabric of his jeans she put her first question to him:
"Now that I've introduced myself to Peter, here, what's your name?"
"Ru-dy," he said, his voice cracking between the two syllables. "Rudolph, actually."
"Rudolph," she repeated, putting on her throaty voice. Difficult name to make sound sexy, she reflected. It could have been worse, though. Try Throckmorton on for size some time. But her attention was wandering.
"Rudolph, I bet I know what you'd like right now."
"Mmmm?" he gurgled.
"A sandwich."
"Sandwich?" Again his voice-cracking split the word beautifully, the last syllable moving up the scale about two octaves.
"Of course. A penis sandwich." She thought about the term. Maybe the boy hadn't had Latin in school. "A cock sandwich. And aren't we luckyyou brought the bread and the cock with you, both of the essential ingredients."
Grasping his crotch firmly she turned him to her, not missing a beat in her stroking of his now-expanded tool. Pain and confusion crossed his face and he opened his mouth to speak.
He didn't, couldn't, as her tongue darted in the opening and she pulled his chest down to hers. Hesitantly his hands moved around to encircle her. Then suddenly his mouth began working hers furiously, probingly. Wow! He at least knew how to French kiss. She wondered what else he knew how to do.
As his fervor increased and his hands found their way over her body-roughly, but somehow knowingly-she reached up her hands, pulling at his big-buckled belt. He flinched as she pulled down the zipper and dropped his blue jeans to the floor. His mouth and hands left her as he made a frantic grab for his lost, denimed dignity.
His shorts were the jockey type, less easy to whisk one's hand into than the boxer style, but Gert's speed was sufficient to the task. The boy's frantic grab was stopped short when both his hands came to reflexive rest upon both of hers which had in turn come to rest on his throbbing male member.
"Now," she said, "about that sandwich of mine."
"M-m-madam, I'm not s-s-sure-"
"You're quite right, Rudolph. We shall require some bread, won't we? Without bread it wouldn't be a sandwich, would it? Whoever heard of a sandwich without bread? Did you?"
Her questions had been accompanied by massaging motions around and up and down his length, which felt like quite a handful but which she couldn't afford the luxury of eye-inspecting at the moment. She kept looking into his eyes, for fear he might at any instant decide to get scared and bolt out the door. But that cock of his felt great, and the wetness on the heel of her palm told her that her finger flexings were having their desired effect.