Now, how is it my business what happens down in Text? I show up and pour syrup. That’s my job. That’s what I do. But she’s standing there in this pink skirt barely covering her ass and a white blouse tied up at her waist, and I can see this girl’s got a navel ring, for God’s sake, how is anyone supposed to get candy made around here?
So, before I know it, I’m off like some cotton-candy covered knight in a white apron to see if I can fix her problem.
The problem is clear as soon as I get down there. No one’s on the floor in Text!
Two people stand on the line and are supposed to go through the candy hearts as they come out the end. Quality control they call ’em. Well, I don’t know about that, considering so damned many are stamped cockeyed or with the words half cut off, but I guess it makes sense, in the scheme of things, now that I know what “quality control” was doing.
As we’re standing there, the machine is going bonkers, spewing out candy hearts with no messages or bizarre letter combinations: MsC Me and KsOl LF. The hearts are shooting out of the machine and bouncing off the belt into the floor. One of them hits poor Maureen in the face. Lucky thing she was wearing her little rimless glasses!
So I’m off to figure this one out. Something is clearly jammed somewhere. I pop the emergency “off” switch. That’s for when someone gets their hand caught in the machine or something. It alerts the boss in his office, so I’m expecting him to waddle in at any moment as I’m looking over the machine.
Maureen taps my shoulder, and I glance in the direction she’s pointing with her little chewed-up pen tip. There, I kid you not, are our two quality control agents behind one of the ovens, working up a sweat. I don’t remember her name, although I’m not likely to forget what she looked like bent over with her red skirt up and Mr. Big’s cock ramming into her like a piston!
The sound of the conveyer is normally so loud we’re all supposed to wear earplugs, although no one does, and now that it’s off, I can hear every word they’re saying. He’s grabbing her hips and fucking her for all he’s worth, and she’s gripping a piping pole and moaning like all get out.
“Fuck me, fuck me, yeah!” She’s practically screaming it, and my face fills with blood as I’m watching, although I think my cock’s taken most of the supply. It’s straining my zipper and I’ve never been so glad for my girlie little apron.
I’ve never seen anything like this, even in porn. They’re just going at it like two bunnies, and neither of them has noticed the machines are off, or that we’re standing there.
“Come on, take it, you dirty little whore!” he yells and, I kid you not, slaps her ass like he’s riding some wild pony.
I’m expecting her to turn around and slug him, but no, she arches her back and goes up on her tiptoes and says, “Yeah, baby, shove that big cock into your little fuckslut!”
Jesus Christ! Does this girl kiss her mother with that mouth? I notice the front of her blouse is open and her tits are swinging free with every pop from Mr. Big.
I look back at Maureen and she’s turning as pink as her skirt, looking like she wants to crawl under the belt and hide. I clear my throat, hoping to get their attention, but it’s no use.
He slaps her ass in rhythm as he fucks her, and she grinds back on him and screams, “Make me come, baby, fuck me harder!” and I’m pretty sure this whole damned thing is gonna get broken up in less than a minute by Sid Vicious.
I don’t wanna be caught standing here watching, so I turn back to the machine, looking for what might be the problem. I’m sure I won’t find anything. I mean, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, but at least it looks like I’m doing something.
I hear Sid. He bellows at Maureen, and her cheeks have now surpassed the color of her skirt and have moved into deep shades of red. She looks over her shoulder and sees him coming, then she looks at the couple still fucking their brains out in the corner, and then she looks up at me as I’m leaning over the conveyer belt, like I’ve got some magic wand I can pull out of my ass or something.
I shrug at her, showing my hands in white flag surrender, and turn back to the machine like the coward I am. I hear Mr. Big growl, “Yeah baby, I’m gonna come in your little fuck box! Are you ready for Daddy’s hot cum!?” She’s just screaming now. I can tell you for certain there weren’t any intelligible words coming from the woman, unless she was speaking alien.
“Jesus Christ in a sidecar! What in the sam hell is going on down here?” Sid is panting and red-faced, looking like a Weeble in pants.
That’s when I find it. There’s a lacy red bra stuck in the machine.
I pull it out like King Arthur at the stone, turning around and waving it in triumph.
“Here’s our problem!”
Maureen stares at it and then looks at Sid, and then back to Mr. Big and red skirt.
Sid’s just noticed them and I think they’ve finally noticed us, at least that’s what I gather from the way they’re scrambling to untangle themselves and pull their clothes back on.
Red skirt sees me holding her bra up and she rushes forward, reaching over the belt to snatch it out of my hands. I shrug, turning toward Sid and Maureen. He’s sputtering, she’s biting her lip, and I just stand there and shove my hands in my pockets and try not to look like I’m sneaking peeks over at red skirt’s tits while she’s turning around to put her bra back on.
“You two, in my office!” Sid finally explodes, his face like a grape. For a minute, I think he means me and Maureen, but he’s waving his arms at Mr. Big and the “fuckslut,” who turn tail and skulk off in that direction.
“You, get back to the hopper!” he yells, poking his finger into my chest. “And someone turn this machine back on! It’s Valentine’s Day! We’re making candy here!”
So I get back to my post, where I’ve got to scrap the whole damned fourth batch due to my trip down to Text, and I don’t see anyone again until I’m punching out for the day. The time clock’s in the office, and I see Maureen sitting at her computer, chewing on her pen. I wave a little and she smiles and waves back, and we say goodnight, but she’s flushed and there’s no blood in my head because it’s all rushing below my belt again.
Maybe being trapped in a candy-heart making factory ain’t such a bad thing after all.
Especially on Valentine’s Day.
SLEEP STUDY
I never would have known I even I snored, let alone had some sort of sleep apnea issue, if Trish hadn’t started sleeping over so often. Really, I didn’t mind. The sex was pretty good, thanks to Viagra, and she didn’t have too many annoying habits, aside from the yoga thing at six in the morning and the sound of crunching Grape-Nuts across the breakfast table. I guess I had to make concessions. Trish said it kept her at her fighting weight, which was altogether too accurate. Redheads. They were always spitfires.
Trish was the reason I was sitting in a pair of gray shorts on a cold metal table in a dimly lit room with a nurse kneeling in front of me. Really, I had a lot to thank her for, I reasoned, watching the blonde’s head tilt back and forth as she attached little sticky circles all over my body. She was a tall, cool drink of water, that one, just a young thing, in her late twenties at the most—just the barest hint of crow’s feet when she smiled, and what a smile!
“Okay, Mr. Harris,” she murmured, fixing one of the sticky circles to my thigh. “I think that just about does it. Now we have to hook you all up.”