Selena Kitt
TICKLED PINK
COLD DAY IN HELL
The wind chill factor, that’s what they said on the radio-made you feel like it was well below zero, even when the thermometer read somewhere in the teens. It didn’t seem so bad when Matt and I were snuggled up in bed and I hit the snooze on the radio alarm for the third time. So class was a mile walk—I’d just bundle up.
“I’m going to get it running today, I promise,” he told me when he kissed me goodbye and sent me on my way. Lucky bastard didn’t have any Friday classes.
“Yeah right.” I rolled my eyes. Of course, I didn’t believe him for a minute. We’d been married six months, and for five of those, our little brown Dodge Dart hadn’t even started, let alone run! “It will be a cold day in hell…”
“Maybe today’s cold enough?” He grinned and I flipped him off on the way out the door.
It didn’t matter so much when the weather was nice, but now that it was cold, I hated walking everywhere. By the time I got to my poetry class, I couldn’t feel my fingers, even through two pairs of gloves. My nose and cheeks were so red, and I sniffled so much, the guy next to me kept handing me Kleenex and asking if I had a cold. My teeth chattered through my reading of Alfred Prufrock, and the professor made me stop and told me to go out in the hall to buy a coffee from the machine.
I was just desperate enough to do it, too. That coffee was like sludge, but it was so hot I could use it just to warm my hands if I wanted to. It really helped, and by the end of class, I could actually feel my toes wiggling in my boots again. I packed everything up as slowly as I could, drinking the last of my coffee before pulling my gloves back on.
“Hey, Sara, do you want a ride?”
It was the guy who sat next to me. I could never remember his name, although he clearly knew mine. James? John? At that point, I didn’t care—the prospect of a warm car was more temptation than I could resist!
“Yes!” I exclaimed, beaming at him. “I’d love one!”
He talked the whole way back, but I didn’t care. I just kept directing him where to turn and cranking up the heat. It was like a furnace blowing over my cheeks, making them tingle, and I was in heaven. When he pulled up to the house, I sat there, shocked, seeing Matt’s legs sticking out from under the car.
He’s actually working on it!
“Thanks for the ride,” I said to John (James? Damn!), giving him a big smile before climbing out of his truck.
I approached Matt, hearing him swearing softly under the car. Something fell and tinked on the cement. He clearly didn’t know I was there, and he cocked one knee up, letting it fall to the side as he whistled some tune. All of a sudden, I had an idea.
“Shhhh, don’t say anything,” I whispered as I squatted between his legs, glancing around. We were pretty well protected by the side of the house, although someone could see us from the road if they were looking.
I pulled one of my gloves off with my teeth, grasping his zipper and easing it down. It was so cold he was actually wearing long underwear—and I didn’t even know he owned any! Quickly, I reached in and found his cock, pulling it free and squeezing it toward hard in my hand.
“You’re such a good boy,” I murmured, glancing toward the road to see if anyone was approaching. “Coming out here in this awful cold to fix the car… let’s warm you up a little.”
He made some noise and shifted his weight, but my hand was wrapped tight, working up and down his shaft, making him stand up straight. It didn’t take long, really. I pumped him hard and fast, feeling his hips bucking up against me. He was a throbbing tower of heat in my fist, much warmer than a cup of coffee, the friction heating both my hands and his cock. I worked him up and down, my eyes still on the road to make sure no one was watching.
When I heard him groan, I glanced back, and then saw the first hot spurt of cum shooting over my fist. I grabbed him in my other hand, squeezing his cock in my glove, letting him spill over onto the material, cleaning the head with it before tucking him back in and zipping him up.
“Don’t stop working,” I murmured, putting my bare hand against the crotch of his jeans. “If you get it fixed, I’ve got an even better reward. I’ll be waiting inside with a nice warm pussy for you to fuck, baby.”
I gave him a good squeeze and, grinning, headed into the house. I was peeling off my layers and fantasizing about making us hot chocolate and tomato soup when Matt came into the kitchen from the living room, seeing me standing by the side door.
“I’m sorry, baby, you look like you’re freezing.” He came up and gave me a kiss on my cold, flushed cheek. “But the good news is, I met a mechanic today who said he’d come look at the car, so you won’t have to walk anymore.”
I blushed red, staring at him, my mouth working but no sound coming out.
“Mechanic?” I finally choked out, glancing over my shoulder when I heard the side door open.
“Found your problem!” The mechanic was a balding guy with a ponytail, and he was grinning right at me. “Now, little lady, how’s about that reward?”
CANDY HEARTS
You crack open a fortune cookie and find: “Help me, I’m stuck in a fortune cookie factory!” Everybody laughs… but do you see people up in arms about it, anyone picketing for the ethical treatment of fortune-cookie workers? Some poor guy makes his one break for it, sends up a desperate flare, casts his little message in a bottle, and we all laugh.
But I tell ya, I know how he feels. I’ve been pouring pink syrup into a machine for six months now, day after day, and I can’t take it anymore. I can sympathize with the guy. There’s nothing more monotonous than working in a food factory. Nothing interesting ever happens. Well, at least most of the time. I have no doubt the people who made the fortune cookies were driving the people who wrote the fortunes just batshit, and the guy cracked and went all Norma Rae on them. (No bad fortune cookie pun intended, I swear it.)
I ask you, what is so entertaining about some poor man’s mental anguish?
That dumb-ass “Unwrapped” show on the Food Network came out to film here around Halloween. They’ve been airing that episode all week, so lucky me, I get to pick up take-out Chinese food on the way home from work and settle in for a little vegging action in front of the TV, and what do I see? My ass bent over tipping syrup into the hopper. Deja-fucking-vu.
If they weren’t so small, I’d figure out a way to print a whole truckload of them that read:
Help Me, I’m Stuck in a Candy Heart Making Factory!
So all week long, no one can shut up about it, because I’m the only guy you can see in this little two-minute segment on their nauseating Valentine’s Day show-aside from our manager, Sid Vicious. (Ok, so that’s just my little pet name for him-but the punk rocker and our fat-ass manager with his big purple Barney ties and pink shirts, I kid you not, have not just a first name in common but a temperament, too. Except I think Vicious was more polite.)
All I hear all week is: “Ooooo Gus is famous now!” and “Hey, candy man, come give me some sugar!” (I admit it, that last line might have been hot, if it were coming from Maureen, Sid’s brand new little secretarial acquisition, instead a seven-foot, three-hundred-pound man with a tattoo of a barcode on his forearm who wears Ozzfest t-shirts to work. What can I say? Mr. Big just isn’t my type!) Woo-hoo, I’m a freakin’ celebrity, now, right?
So, Valentine’s Day comes around, and I can’t wait for the fucker to be over with.
That’s all I’m thinking as I’m standing there at the hopper, pouring the fourth batch of the day, when she comes up behind me and says there’s a problem with the machine down in Text. That’s what we call the part of the factory where they have the stampers that put all the messages on the little hearts. Shit like: Kiss Me. Be Mine. They’re updating them for the millennium now, Sid announced it this season. We’ve added Hot Stuf and Cool to the “conversation hearts” shtick.