She was dangerous with a lollipop.
Not in a conventional, your-life-is-in-danger way — though I’m sure she could find 9 ways to kill ya with one if you got her angry enough. No the danger to me was mental. The way she’d look at me while lolling that pop around with her tongue was a danger to my mental health.
I remember this one time she came into cafe with a pack of her friends, cheerleader types, although I think only one of them had actually led cheers in high school. But they all had that bubbly, too-much-hair-spray, laughing-too-loud artificiality that always made me cringe when they walked in. The settled into a booth near the far corner of the place, and, as usual, she sat with her back to the window so she could watch me when I came out of the back.
I didn’t see them come in, but you couldn’t mistake the noise level. I peeked around the corner from the kitchen, caught her eye and winked. I was feelin’ pretty full of myself and for good reason. Not a half an hour earlier, before my shift started, she and I’d been foolin’ around in my truck, parked behind the liquor store.
Part of my job was bussin’ tables, but I sure made the rounds a lot more often when she was there. I was coming around the corner of the counter as she was walking up. She brushed by me, close, rubbin’ her breast against my arm as she stepped up to pull a lollipop out of the bowl near the register. I knew without lookin’ what flavor it was. Cherry. Every time. I was standing stock still as she walked past me again, heading back to the booth, pausing ever so slightly to look me right in the eyes, with a look that said “Boy, the things I did to you earlier are nothing compared to what I’m gonna do later.”
I got a little weak in the knees. That look always got to me. My eyes followed her ass down the aisle until I became aware that her friends were laughing at me and making snide comments. Probably thought it was highly amusing that she would tease ‘the queer’ like that. She sat down, ignoring them, still staring at me, working that lollipop in a way that left no room for misinterpretation. The way she sucked lollies was probably not legal for minors to witness. Her technique, and the way I stared like a dumb dog at her, brought out additional gales of laughter from her friends. I blushed and turned back to the kitchen, bus tub still empty.
I stayed in back for a while after that, workin’ myself up into a state of horniness that was close to fatal. I kept thinking about the way her tongue slid over the curves of that lollipop, the way her lips cradled it and the way her teeth brushed against it. I was hard as a plank and if I’d been a man, my button fly jeans would have been in danger of bustin’ open. As it was, I was worried the way my cunt was gushin’ would give me away soon enough. The way she sucked on a lollipop was just the way she sucked on me.
Thinking about how she’d been that afternoon, I almost lost it. The way she’d pushed me back against the door of my truck, yanking my jeans down and spreading my knees apart. Seconds later, her face was between my legs and I could feel her working her tongue into every fold and crease. She’d get me worked up with the flat of her tongue before concentrating on my knob, running the tip of her tongue around and around, lapping at it in short, quick strokes until my groans had turned to growls. Then she’d press in harder, pulling me up into her mouth, running her tongue up across the hood, scraping me with her teeth — gently at first but harder and rougher as I began bucking up against her mouth.
I was so lost in that memory, it took a long moment to realize Betty was trying to get my attention.
“Buddy… Buddy! What’s got into you, we’ve got tables need bussin’, come on, now”
Betty was one of those sweet, motherly types, but I knew for a fact she could curse like a trucker and stand that same trucker up against a wall when it served her. I blushed like a 14 year old with a hard-on in class and grabbed my bin. She and her friends were gone, the lollipop stick sitting there on the table, a rose pink lipstick ring around it like an invitation, like a reminder. A sudden hot memory of her sweet pink hole nearly did me in. Slipping the stick into my pocket, I rushed through the tables, dropping the bin a little harder than I should have on the dishwasher counter. I almost ran Betty over on my way to the restroom, and the look on her face didn’t register until later. The cause for my haste was not lost on her.
I closed the stall door and prayed for 5 minutes alone. Bracing myself against the wall, I slid a hand into the front of my jeans. Middle and forefingers slipped down around the hard swollen knot of my clit and I stroked hard and fast. Helpful images came quickly: her head between my legs, the feeling of her tongue, her mouth, her breath; the way she opened up when I pressed my tongue into her and the way she clamped down on my fingers when she came.
My climax hit me like a pile driver and I stroked it out quick and rough, the way I like it. When I was done, breathing hard and leaning with my face against the wall, I realized that I hadn’t been fully aware of my surroundings for several minutes. Anyone could have come in and I might not have noticed. I tucked myself into presentable shape and stepped out. I washed my hands quickly, smoothing my hair and hoping my red-faced satisfaction was only obvious to me.
Much thanks to Roxy for this writing prompt.
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