The Pink Taco. The best tacos in town, the worst landmark. The neon taco on the roof makes the snow look like giant pink glitter dust, and puts all the seven sins to shame. Especially gluttony.
After a long day of being on her feet, Emily heads straight to the Pink Taco for a late night dinner. Priority one: eat. Priority two: strip naked and masturbate the rest of the night.
Only a man in shiny black shoes might change Emily’s plans.
PINK TACO TRYST
Emily pulled into the snow and pothole covered Pink Taco parking lot, the Ford Taurus sputtering on fumes, and killed Kenneth’s engine. The car no longer deserved a name. Brown Rust Bucket would be more appropriate. Or Turd on Wheels.
Fluffy, soft snowflakes fell and splattered on the dust covered windshield. On the restaurant’s flat roof was a five-foot tall pink neon-lit taco, larger than life and uglier than sin. The seven deadly sins had nothing on this monstrosity, even gluttony would be shamed. The pink neon taco fired up the night sky in an unnatural hue, pinkifying the snow like giant-size glitter dust.
The best tacos in town, the worst landmark.
Where’s the post office?
Ah, turn left at the pink fucking taco.
How about the library?
Five blocks from the neon taco. Can’t miss it.
Emily’s stomach growled like a pent-up beast with its foot stuck in a bear-trap. Her feet hurt something awful from standing on them all day. The black, flat-heeled leather calf-boots that felt sexy to wear this morning, now embraced her legs like vices.
Priority number one: get food and eat.
Priority number two: get naked and masturbate with the blue vibrator until midnight.
And then set the alarm clock for six-fucking-too-early and do it all over again.
She loved her job, managing the flower store on Second Avenue. The wonderful crew worked hard, for the most part, and goofed off as if they had nothing to lose. The customers were a hoot, too, normally. Except for the abnormal ones. And the smells of orchids, roses, and tulips all day never got old for a jaded romantic like Emily.
But she’d been a patron of the Pink Taco three nights a week for an entire year. More. A change would be nice.
Not a big change, necessarily. Sure, she could roll with the punches and she knew the flower store wouldn’t last forever. The job was wonderful, but entirely replaceable.
A small change would do. Just a kick in the pants. A light under the fire. A spark in the bedroom.
Emily dropped the jangly key-ring, chock full of bobblies and motivational sayings, into her over-the-shoulder purse and stepped out of Kenneth. Snow crunched under her boots. Wind whipped her shoulder length brown hair into her face and mouth.
The door didn’t catch on the latch, and Emily reopened it and slammed it shut with her hips. She wrapped her wool long-coat across her waist and tightened the belt.
A man dressed in a waist-length leather jacket and jeans on the other side of the parking lot was getting out of his car too. He headed to the Pink Taco’s glass and finger-print covered front doors. He wore shiny black shoes and a fuzzy black skullcap.
Emily hustled, taking long and careful strides, not wanting to be out in the bitter cold for too long. One advantage of having freakishly long legs, she could walk slow and outrun most anybody. If that was a consolation prize for being a six-foot tall woman.
The man beat her to the door. He was built like a bulldog, with a square chin, big shoulders, with a wrestler’s stout build. Emily had six inches on him.
He smiled and held the door open for her, his eyes cast down at her boots.
“Thank you,” she said, and whooshed inside. Emily stomped her feet on the black carpet, getting most of the snow and slush off. She held open the next door for him.
“Thanks,” he said, stomping as well.
Maybe she had more than six inches on him. The guy was boob-height, just tall enough to lean over and suck on her nipple.
Dammit. Eat, then vibrator time.
Emily’s stomach growled.
He glanced back over his shoulder, and looked up. Nice, brown eyes. The stubble on his cheeks and chin was maybe a day old, no more. Enough to be noticeable, but not from a distance.
Emily gave him her best flower shop manager smile. Friendly, warm, inviting. But not sexual, implied or otherwise. Unless he wanted to take it that way. Most of her male customers bought flowers for other people. Significant people.
Wives, girlfriends, mothers. Et cetera.
She long learned the value of taking the flirt out of her friendliness.
Shit, she was out of practice.
He returned the smile. Eyebrows raised to right underneath his cap, cute rosy dimples in full view, cleft chin broadened.
Everything she liked in a man’s face, just in a smaller package.
And then he turned away and got in line. Maybe he was hungry, too. He had a nice ass packed into his jeans, and broad shoulders that tapered down to narrow hips. He strutted like he was the biggest man in the world.
Emily strutted up right behind him, head high and shoulders held back. She unbuttoned her coat, letting her sweater-covered breasts stick out. If only he’d turn around, he’d get a face-full of boobage. Emily stood close behind him, just in case that happened.
An older woman was in front of him, ordering and asking about every damn item on the menu. Emily’s feet screamed at her, so did her calves and thighs and lower back. The older woman repeated the same question three times in a row.
Emily cleared her throat.
The man turned just enough for Emily to see the brown twinkle in his eye.
“Cold night, eh?” she said.
He quarter-turned, hands in his pockets, and looked up at Emily. “You betcha,” he said.
She shrugged, and then slumped a little so she was closer to his height. Feeling sheepish, unsure what to say next, she blurted the first line that came to mind.
“You think we’ll get to eat tonight?” she said.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“The shortest possible line, the world’s longest wait. I could’ve ordered three times by now.”
“I know. I’m starved, too.”
“I usually get the Foot Long Stuffed Burrito.”
“Yeah? I like the Twin Pink Tacos.”
“I eat one right after the other.”
Emily giggled, and then felt even more sheepish for giggling. She couldn’t help it. The smooth way he ignored the obvious double innuendo of the menu items, was just too funny. It was dumb. She covered her mouth, and looked away, entirely unsure how to follow up. Surely, he wasn’t into having some dirty talk with her? Now?
The guy was staring right at her boobs. Not just because he was the right height. He was staring. And then he looked away.
Oh, thought Emily. I could say something funny, like wow what a lucky guy you are. In response to his non-joke about the tacos he likes to order.
Instead, Emily cleared her throat, and introduced herself.
“Oliver,” he said, giving her a handsome smile that made her smile back. A non-professional, sexy smile that Emily could’ve sworn she forgot how to do.
Okay… first step accomplished. She knew his name, which happened to be one of her favorite man names. Now to flirt. Maybe. How do adults do this again?
Right as she opened her mouth to say something, anything, sexy and funny and maybe witty, Oliver turned to her and opened his mouth.
“You should go first,” he said. “I’m still deciding what I want.”
The old lady had given up, apparently needing a bathroom break before finally figuring out what to order. She huffed off, and slammed the restroom door closed behind her.
“Okay,” Emily said. “Thanks.” She stepped around Oliver, brushing against him just a little, giving him a teeny feel of her nipple through sweater and underwire bra. She ordered her burrito, clarified this was to go, and paid.
While she filled her foam cup with soda, Oliver ordered his usual tacos.
“I thought you weren’t sure what you wanted?” Emily said.
“Always a tough choice,” said Oliver.
“But you just ordered your same damn tacos!”
“Yeah. But the choice is always between doing what I always do, and doing something completely different.”
Emily stabbed a straw through the lid of her soda drink, and took a sip. “Well, sounds you need to shake things up and go a little crazy.” She winked at him. Was this how adults flirted? Emily forgot.
Oliver gave her his sweet smile and looked away, shrugging. “I’d like to go off the rails, when I see a good opportunity,” he said.
“What does a good opportunity look like?” she said.
“Pretty brown eyes, long hair, sexy laugh lines. And preferably taller than me. Like twice my height.”
“If you find this opportunity, be sure to point her out to me. Okay?”
Oliver touched her hand, just for a second, and pulled away. “Would you like to eat Pink Taco with me?”
“I would love to. But not here, the tables look extra unwashed tonight.”
“Nightcap at my place?” blurted Emily.
Where the fuck did that come from? Surely he wouldn’t say yes to that, unless he was a little tweaked in the head, or desperate. Or both. Would he?
“Umm,” he said. “Sure.”
“Sounds wonderful. I have Irish whiskey at home. Goes wonderfully with Mexican, I swear.”
“You have a date,” said Oliver. “Maybe more.”
“I’d like that,” said Emily. Who was this strange person that was speaking with Emily’s mouth? Was this really happening? Fuck, Fluffy was going to be jealous and a tad bit pissy tonight. Popcorn withdrawal was the shits for cats.
The warm burrito in the greasy bag pressing against Emily’s stomach was small reprieve from the Minnesota cold. The snow fell even harder now, not quite turning into a blizzard but the school kiddies were almost certainly getting a day off if this continued into the wee hours of morning.
“Hey,” Emily turned heel on Oliver, and placed a hand against his chest. He grabbed her fingers, his skin just as icy cold as hers. “I have to warm up my car for ten minutes.”
“Sit in my car,” he said. “I left it running the whole time.”
Emily thanked him, and ran off to turn on Kenneth’s engine again. He sputtered back to life, slowly warming up despite the brisk cold. Emily hurried back to Oliver’s car, burrito in hand, and slammed the door shut before letting in more snow.
He had the heater turned up on full blast, and the radio playing on the classic rock station.
“I should’ve left Kenneth running,” Emily said. “My car. He’s kind of grouchy.”
“Yeah, just always liked that name. Like the REM song.”
“Does Kenneth have a frequency?”
“Bouncy and rusted.”
“Looks like a classic to me,” said Oliver. “Okay, just kidding. You know something? I’m hungry.”
“Good. I’m starved.” They ate together in his car, keeping polite conversation going between bites. Once done, Emily offered Oliver a breath mint, which he gratefully accepted. They sucked on mints, more polite conversation followed.
And then Oliver leaned over, arm behind Emily’s headrest. She could smell his breath, along with the cologne he wore. His lips got closer, eyes slitted nearly shut. Emily hunched down to his level and puckered, waiting.
She felt awkward and too tall, towering over him while he spent far too much time assessing his situation.
Emily slouched and grabbed Oliver by the collar, meeting him halfway, pressing her lips to his. He took the hint, and poked his tongue into her mouth, just a little to feel around. Then the kiss grew. Emily played tongue tag with him, jabbing him to take more risks.
Oliver pressed a hand to her chest, right below the collarbone and between the breasts. His fingers lingered for a moment, then tickled her southward. He chose the left boob first, cupping it in his palm and flicking the tip with his thumb. Emily adjusted herself in her seat, giving him the best angle while deepening the kiss. He pulled her closer, tighter, into a snug embrace.
She didn’t want this to end. Being touched, and touching, felt so right, as if her body were made to fit inside his. Or perhaps he was made to fit inside her? What did it matter? Warmth flooded her body, from the meal and from the companionship.
Oliver pulled away first, panting and ruddy faced. He cupped her face in one hand, and stroked her skin with thumb and forefinger. Mouth moving, but nothing came out, as if he were at a loss for words.
“Something wrong?” Emily asked.
“Perfect,” he said. “I just didn’t expect this to happen so quick.”
“We can have a regular date if you want.”
Oliver shrugged. “I get enough of those. Honestly, I want to play.”
“I don’t like players,” Emily laced her fingers into his and squeezed gently. “I like fuckers though.”
He stroked her hair, then cupped the back of her neck and brought her closer. He said nothing, but let his lips and tongue doing the talking in a non-verbal way. Emily placed a hand on his thigh, feeling Oliver’s tight muscles. He flinched slightly at first, catching his breath in a reflexive chuckle, then relaxed to her touch. She toyed with the tickle spot for a second, and moved higher up his leg. Closer to his junk, where she really wanted to be. Until her hand hit a road bump.
A rather massive bump in his pants, and it wasn’t a cell phone or a wallet. Surely he was uncomfortable with that monster stuck inside at such an awkward angle? Emily stroked him through his jeans. Oliver definitely wasn’t ticklish there. He still squirmed, but for a different reason.
“Let me help,” Emily fumbled with his belt buckle, making minimal progress at opening his pants. She was surprised at how fast this was all going, but that thought was in the back half of her brain.
In the front half of her brain, she was only thinking about whipping that cock out of his pants.
Oliver shooed her hands away, and did the work of unzipping for her. Underneath, he wore a pair of silky blue boxers with white polka dots. Even in the darkness of the parking lot, the little wet stain at the tip of the teepee was obvious.
One more kiss on the lips, then Emily hunched over low and ripped his boxer leg up and over the shaft. Oliver was thick and a little longer than average, with blue veins and trimmed hair. He smelled musky and salty.
Work, paying bills, and life had distracted Emily for far too long from the joys of sex.
Who needed to flirt anyway? Not when the guy already had his pocket rocket hanging out.
Emily licked the tip, tasting the seeping pre-cum before swallowing the head. Inch by inch, she disappeared his lovely cock, like a sword swallower at the circus. When Emily got to the base, his tip hit the back of her throat. Perfect. Oliver was exactly the right size, no bigger and definitely no smaller.
She stroked him with one hand while sucking him off, keeping her teeth tucked behind her lips. Every muscle in her jaw got overtime as Emily made a slobbering mess in Oliver’s lap. He throbbed against her touch.
Oliver bucked his hips up, deeper into her throat, and mumbled how close he was. Sweat beaded down Emily’s back, the car suddenly feeling much too over-heated. She sped up the pace, hungry for his orgasm and wanting so much more. Oliver’s juicy head leaked into her mouth.
Then Emily spat him out. “Want me to keep going?” she said.
“Yes, please,” Oliver said.
She sat upright, and kissed him on the mouth. “Then follow me home. Now.”
He gave her a look of mock disappointment, before shoving his cock back into his pants.
Emily got out of Oliver’s car. The cold was so bitter and dark, compared to the warmth of giving this strange man a blowjob. She had never felt this confident before, or this much much in control.
She very much wanted to see how this ended.
At Emily’s apartment, they sat on her tattered green sofa and shared a quick nightcap of straight up Irish whiskey. She tiled her head back and finished hers in one gulp, Oliver took only a sip of his.
Emily tipped the tumbler upside down and slammed it down on the coffee table. “I think it’s time for bed,” she said.
He set his glass next to hers. “Sounds like a wonderful plan.”
Oliver pulled her into his arms, and once again she had to hunker down to kiss him. He craned his neck up toward her. Now the passion had simmered down a bit, the position just wasn’t the same. This stranger tasted just as good, but now Emily’s neck and shoulders ached from slouching.
Clearly, this was what beds were made for, besides the all important sleep. The bed… the great equalizer of height, where everyone was the same size.
Emily stood, and pulled Oliver up by the hands. He came along willingly all the way to the bedroom, a slave to her desires. She had little doubt she could do anything to him, and he’d be game. The real question was, what would she be willing to allow him to do to her?
She flicked on the night-table lamp. He leaned his fine backside against the edge of her queen size bed, and peeled his black socks off. Emily one-upped him, criss-crossing her arms and grabbing her sweater by the hem. In a flash, she was naked from the waist up, except for her bra. No man had seen this much of her skin in months. Minnesota winters were too long, too cold, and Emily didn’t sleep around with strangers.
Oliver stared at her, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. He smirked like a schoolboy who’d found a toad in the backyard. He held out his arms to her, and Emily happily obliged him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, grabbing his hair from behind and yanking his head around for her enjoyment. Tongue in her mouth and a hot prick poking up from his pants, Oliver got busy massaging her back and sides.
Pure heaven. Emily helped him take off her pants, then she tore off his. About to repeat her performance in the car, she tugged on his boxers. Before she could get them all the way off, Oliver pushed on her shoulders and told her to lie down.
On her back, Emily spread her legs for him, panties already soaking wet at the middle. He made short work of pulling them off her, and then he kiss his way up her thighs, all the way to the sweet spot. At first, he merely tickled her with probing and petting. Once his tongue hit the clit, she eased into his touch.
And then he really worked her. A finger, then two. Finger and tongue action. Sucking on her clit, he curled his fingers against her G-spot. Emily went through the roof with an orgasm, and a small squirt came out.
Oliver wasn’t done. He kept eating her out, nibble after nibble, until she came again. Rougher, faster, a little mean even. She didn’t want this to end.
But it did. Oliver kissed his way north, to her bra and over her mounds, and back to her mouth. He tasted sweet and musky now. Emily pushed him off her, onto his back, and straddled him. She unclasped her bra and tossed it aside.
Now, he was all hers. Emily guided his dick into her pussy, bearing down on it slow. Once he was balls deep, Emily wiggled around on him, gyrating her hips like a belly dancer, making that cock stroke every inside part of her.
Pressing her hands to his chest, Emily went crazy and bounced up and down on him, every nerve and muscle in her body on fire.
Oliver reached up and pinched her nipples.
Which made her fuck even faster. The world shrunk to just her, him, and this bed. Nothing mattered—work, bills, life plans—just this crazy moment that was happening. Skin slapping on skin. The feeling of being filled and used, while using somebody else.
He bucked up inside her, pushing deeper and hitting the spot just right. Her body felt radioactive with heat, sweat dripped down her back and between her breasts.
Breathing became hard. Then Oliver’s chest flushed bright red as his eyes slitted closed. He stopped bucking and grabbed Emily by the hips. She felt him spurt come inside her, filling her insides. A moment later, her pussy muscles clenched and spat his cock out. Another orgasm ripped through her.
Emily settled down at his side, and wrapped her arms around him. Oliver laid on her shoulder, whispering sweet romantic things to her. Not long after, he snored.
Outside the window, the snow kept falling.
Fuck it if Emily were getting out tomorrow in that. She wanted to make the most of the night, wake up Oliver in an hour or two, and sleep in late.
Thank the fucking gods for Pink Taco.
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