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He shot, his cock so thick in my hand that I could
barely hold on to it. Ounce after steaming hot ounce of
white hot spunk shot up and out, landing in dull splats
on his thigh and the floor, his body rigid as he came, his
groans ricocheting all around the room. They were
quickly joined with my own as my prick erupted, chest
rapidly expanding and contracting, dripping sweat down
on to him as my heavy load covered his pecs, his chin,
his beautifully etched belly. I gently popped the ring out
of his ass, his fingers unentrenched from my hole, and
then I collapsed on top of him, his softening cock
pillowing my cheek.
"Even your come smells sweet," I practically purred.
He laughed, his body quaking beneath me. "And your
asshole tastes awesome."
I, too, laughed and rolled off of him, doing a one-
eighty so that we could be face to handsome face.
"Gives a whole new meaning to fudge packing." Our
lips met again, tongues colliding in midair, my body
pinning him, his arms holding on tight.
Minutes later, we were sponging each other off in the
backroom, all that candy and come and fudge dripping
down onto a thick towel below. Naked and newly
cleaned, he pulled a tray of fudge off a nearby rack and
cut it up for my nephew, bagging up an extra pound for
yours truly. Then we got dressed and he walked me to
Pour Some Sugar On It - 120
the front door. This part was going way too fast for my
liking.
With my goody-bags in hand, I turned to look at him,
those blue eyes of his reaching down into my very soul,
the butterflies set loose yet again. I leaned in and kissed
him, soft and tender. Perfect. He winked and tousled my
hair.
"Almost forgot," he said, with a snap of his fingers.
Then he reached inside the pocket of his baggy
checkered pants and dropped something hard and round
into my outstretched hand.
I stared down in stunned surprise. It was a marble,
red and blue stripes swirling all around the translucent
core. "You carry marbles around in your pocket?" I
asked.
"Doesn't everybody?" he replied, the wink and the
smile fast returning.
"Don't you need more than just one, though? To play
with, I mean?"
He nodded, scratched his chin, squinted his eyes, and
pondered for a few seconds. "Guess you better come
back then and earn that second one."
I leaned in and kissed him again. And again. Then I
looked around his shop, at all those barrels of candy, at
all the possibilities for deviant fun, and replied, "See you
this weekend, Glenn. I plan on winning all those
marbles of yours."
He laughed and led me outside, the hot sun radiating
off of us. "Might take a few weekends to win them all,
Chad," he said. "Or longer."
I beat his wink and smile to the punch. "Only if I'm
lucky, candyman," I told him, tickling him beneath his
chin. "Only if I'm lucky."
Pour Some Sugar On It - 121
Banana Ice Cream
By Emily Moreton
"Get in the car," Mal says, holding the passenger
door and looking at Owen over the rim of his
sunglasses. "And, so help me, if you say one more word
about paperwork for the school, I'll disembowel you
with a rusty child's spade."
"I think they're all made of plastic now," Owen points
out, hovering on the porch with his keys in his hand.
"Unless you meant the child would be rusty."
"Car. In. Now."
"I just want to know where we're going at nineteen
hundred on a Wednesday."
"Are the details important?" Mal asks, sounding
honestly curious. "If I was inviting you to get into the
car with me to go to a destination unspecified at, say,
one in the afternoon on a Sunday, would you do it
without asking why?"
"Probably not," Owen admits.
"Fine," Mal says, ultra-patient. "We're going for ice
cream, because there's none in the house, and I want
some. Chocolate. Strawberry. Maybe banana, if we can
find someone selling it."
"You're lying."
Mal smiles, all teeth. "You'll never know unless you
get in the car."
Owen knows that this is true, and also that Mal will
just keep going until he gives in. Which he will, because
he always does, and also because he's pretty sure he saw
Mal load a duffel bag in the trunk when Mal thought he
Pour Some Sugar On It - 122
wasn't watching. Since he's pretty clearly not leaving,
Owen really wants to know what that's about.
"Fine," he says, giving in gracelessly. "But only if I
get to pick the music."
Mal grumbles something as he slams Owen s door
shut, but just says, "Knock yourself out," when he gets
in the driver s side and starts the engine.
Owen skips at high speed through every radio station
the car picks up, just to annoy Mal who's driving with an
awful lot of focus as they head south along the beach.
He finally settles on a soft rock station, and turns it
down until it's barely audible over the draft from the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]