Kevin’s Special Delivery Pt. 03 — A New Arrangement
The summer was turning out to be pretty damn fantastic. I mean, I graduated from high school two months ago without having ever gotten near “second base” with a girl, and now — just a few weeks after I turned 18 — I had had mind-blowing sex on two separate occasions.
Not only that, but my sex partner (can I call her my “lover” at this point?) is much older than I am and really knows what she’s doing. Lois is 54 — which is kinda old if you think about it. But when Lois is giving me a fantastic blowjob or letting me cum inside her snug, wet pussy, I’m frankly NOT thinking much about the fact that she’s — literally — three times my age. Instead, I’m thinking about how damn lucky I am! And about how I hope she doesn’t get bored with me.
That’s what was going through my head as I biked to my job at Conrad’s Drugs the day after the second time I had been with Lois. A little more than 12 hours ago, I was kneeling behind Lois on her bed with my hands on her naked hips looking down at her rippling buns and watching my hard dick plunge in and out of her red-haired pussy. Damn!
Half a day and two showers later and I could still smell Lois’s pussy with every breath I took. I guess I must’ve inhaled some of what was dripping all over my happy face last night while I ate her out. Or else the smell of her is just imprinted on my brain. Either way is fine with me. I freakin’ love the way she smells . . . and tastes . . . and feels . . . and . . . well you get the point. Right?
And then on top of that, I get home last night — freshly sucked and fucked — and find that she’d slipped a little present into the pocket of my jeans. I didn’t notice it until I got home, because that pocket was full when I got to Lois’s house and I had other things on my mind when I was pulling those jeans back on. But Lois stuck her sexy little black bikini panties in my pocket! Her WET, smelling-like-her-pussy panties!
I nearly wore them over my face while I went to sleep.
I’m definitely holding onto them and if she wants them back she’s going to have to . . . do something really hot that I haven’t thought up yet. Yeah! It’s her turn to squirm a little. I hope.
I should call her up tonight and tell her that. Maybe I will.
But first I’ve got a full day of work ahead of me, and I probably should try to stop thinking about Lois Green’s naked body for at least part of it so that I don’t accidentally blurt out something embarrassing.
* * *
I somehow got through the day at work and went home. After dinner, while the rest of my family was watching The Waltons on TV, I snuck into the kitchen to call Lois. The phone has a real long cord, so I actually barricaded myself behind the pantry door to make the call.
Lois picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
I made my best stab at a suave, grown-up voice. “Hello Ms. . . . , I mean Lois. It’s Kevin. Kevin Fitzgerald. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Hello Kevin. I’m very happy to be disturbed by you. So you made it home safely last night?”
“I did, yes, thanks. Safe and sound and . . . very satisfied.” Shit! Did that sound OK?
“I’m so glad to hear that,” Lois responded. “Satisfying you tends to leave me very satisfied as well Kevin.”
Damn! She’s so freaking sexy. Say something smooth man!
“Um, so, Lois,” said the stammering dork! “I’m not sure I can talk very long on this phone, but, uh, I’d really love to, um, satisfy you again sometime really soon if . . . you know . . . that’s something you might like too.”
“I was actually thinking about that all day at work today Kevin, and yes I would like that very much. In fact, I think I have come up with an interesting idea. Wednesday is your day off from work, correct?”
“Yes ma’am . . . I mean, yes Lois, it is.”
“How would you feel about meeting me next Wednesday, around lunchtime, downtown?”
“Downtown? Like at your office, or a restaurant, or . . .?”
“Well dear, I don’t think my office would be such a good idea for what I have in mind. And as for a restaurant, well . . . I’m interested in some very particular menu items that aren’t generally available in restaurants? I was thinking more about . . . room service. Do you know where the Palmer House Hotel is Kevin?”
Holy Shit! “No, but I can look it up in the phone book,” I quickly blurted out.
“Good! My office does a lot of business with that hotel, and I’m going to reserve a room there. A nice one. With a big bed. Come to the Palmer House next Wednesday at noon, Kevin. Dress nicely . . . wear a jacket and tie if you can. When you get to the lobby, find a house phone and ask them to connect you with Lois Green’s room. When they do, I’ll give you the room number and you can . . . come on up. How does that sound?”
“Very . . . Um . . . satisfactory,” I said.
“Excellent,” Lois purred, “I’ll be counting the days.”
“Me too,” I agreed, then remembering the gift she’d left in my pocket I decided to give her something more to think about. “And before I forget Lois, almanbahis I seem to have left your apartment with another piece of your property. As much as I enjoy having it, I would imagine you might like it back. If so, there will be a delivery charge.”
“How intriguing,” she replied, “I am rather fond of that item, so I’ll come prepared to negotiate fair compensation for its return.”
“See that you do,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “But now I’m afraid I have to cut the call short before one of my sisters comes looking for the phone. Goodbye for now Lois. See you next Wednesday.”
“Goodbye to you as well,” she responded. “Oh, and Kevin?”
“Yes?”
There was a pause from the other end, and then Lois’s voice came in a husky, sexy whisper: “Get a good night’s sleep on Tuesday, because on Wednesday I’m going to be expecting a lot out of you.” And she hung up the phone.
Oh My God!
* * *
Friday morning I was back at work and, as had become usual over the last week, all I could think about was having sex with Lois Green. Unfortunately, I think it was affecting my work performance, because Mr. Conrad got a little pissed off at me after I bumped into him behind the counter and almost made him drop the bottle of medicine he was carefully filling up.
“Jesus Kevin, watch where you’re going,” he growled at me, “what’s up with you today?”
“Sorry Mr. Conrad,” I said hazily, “my mind was elsewhere.”
“Well I’m paying for it to be here, with the rest of you,” my boss barked back. “Snap out of it, OK?”
I tried, but it was tough, and I honestly wasn’t sure how I was going to make it all the way to next Wednesday. To tell the truth, I was half tempted to just show up at Lois’s apartment tonight, or tomorrow or Sunday and just beg her to let me in. Would she be cool with that?
Probably not, I decided. She might think I was desperate, or creepy . . . or both.
But actually, I kinda was desperate. I mean, I had somehow managed to make it through 18 years and 27 days of life without having any sex at all, but now — now that I’d gotten a good taste of what I had been missing — I wanted it ALL the time! Was there something wrong with me?
Mr. Conrad finished up what he had been working on and called me over. He handed me a couple of bags and said: “See if you can avoid riding the bike into any cars or trees while you make these deliveries, OK?” He was smiling at me, so I guess we were friends again.
“Will do Mr. Conrad,” I chuckled, “but I get extra points for baby buggies, right?”
“Get outta here you nitwit,” he laughed as he pointed toward the door.
Somehow I managed not to do any damage to myself and others as I completed the deliveries and headed back. I pulled the bike onto the sidewalk as I neared the store and walked it toward the street sign I locked it to when I wasn’t using it. My path took me by Grossman’s Florist Shop, where Mrs. Grossman was outside sweeping. I couldn’t help noticing how every broom stroke made her enormous boobs sway under her apron, but I tried hard not to stare.
I also couldn’t get past her with the bike. Everything about Mrs. Grossman is . . . well . . . let’s say “oversized”: her breasts, her bottom, her curly black hair, her personality, her speaking voice, and — to be fair — her heart. Mrs. Grossman was nice to everybody and talked to everybody, and as a result knew everybody’s business. She was a soft touch when it came to kids, and she bought more Girl Scout cookies and school fundraising stuff than anyone else.
So, of course, I had to stop and shoot the breeze with her. “Hi Mrs. G, how’s it going.”
“Well hello to you Kevin Fitzgerald, my valued customer. So, how did your new girlfriend like the flowers?”
“Not my girlfriend, Mrs. G, just a nice old lady, like I said.” Geez, I wished she would let that subject rest. I had sent Lois flowers from Grossman’s after our first “meeting,” and that had started Mrs. Grossman’s radar spinning for some reason.
“Ehhhh, if you say so Romeo,” Mrs. Grossman chuckled back at me with a wink.
“It’s hot out here, Mrs. G, you should let me do that for you,” I offered — motivated more by my wish to change the subject than by chivalry.
“That’s very nice of you, but the day I get too old to swing a broom is the day they should put me out to pasture,” she replied. “Besides, I don’t pay you, Mr. Conrad does.”
“Not nearly enough,” I joked. Mr. Conrad was actually very good to me.
“I’m sure,” she nodded, “I understand that the big college man to be needs all the dough-re-mi he can get his hands on, yes?”
“That’s right Mrs. G. I’m off to Loyola in the fall.”
“Well, if you’re interested, I could use a strong pair of arms around here for a few hours.”
“I’d be happy to help Mrs. Grossman,” I said. “What exactly needs doing?”
“A little of this, a little of that, some help with a box. Are you free on Sunday maybe,” she asked?
“I could come by after church,” I offered.
“Perfect,” she said, smacking the broom for emphasis. “Meet me here at almanbahis yeni giriş noon.”
“Will do,” I said, as I steered the bike around her and headed back to work.
* * *
My Saturday workday went better than Friday. I was still kinda preoccupied, but at least I didn’t knock over anything, or anyone, in my horny-for-Lois haze.
On Sunday after mass, I changed into a t-shirt and cutoffs to go do chores for Mrs. Grossman. It was going to be another warm day, so I didn’t see any point in wearing nicer clothes to do whatever grunt work she needed.
Mom and dad and my sisters were busy with other stuff, so I didn’t bother telling anyone where I was going. I figured I’d be back before too long, and anyways I’m an adult now so I can do what I want. Right?
I walked over to Grossman’s Florist Shop and knocked on the front door. Mrs. Grossman was already there, and let me in.
“Hello Kevin, you’re right on time. Mr. punctual. That’s a very good habit.”
“Hi there Mrs. G,” I greeted her back. “Is Mr. Grossman here too?”
“Nah, he’s at home. Probably napping on the sofa in front of the idiot box. Nobody here but us chickens.”
As my eyes adjusted to the relative dark inside the store, I noticed that Mrs. Grossman looked different than usual. I don’t think I had ever seen her in anything other than her work clothes: usually a dress with an apron tied around it.
Today, however, she was wearing a blouse over black pants and had her dark curly hair tied up neatly in a scarf. I supposed that all of that made sense since we were going to do some work. But it was frankly hard not to take a second look at Mrs. G’s blouse. It had a brightly colored pattern and was sorta low cut in front, which meant that she was showing some skin. On all the previous occasions that I had glanced (discreetly I hoped) at her huge chest it was fully covered, but today I could see the tops of her breasts and just a glimpse of cleavage too.
Shifting my gaze quickly back to her eyes, I asked: “So what’s on your ‘to-do’ list for today?”
“Right down to business, good for you. Let’s go in the backroom and I’ll show you.”
We went through the curtains into what I thought of as Mr. Grossman’s domain. “I’ve never been back here before,” I told Mrs. G. “Is this where all the flower magic happens?”
“This is where all the schmutz happens,” she muttered. “My husband the artist. But does he ever clean up after himself? Meh!”
“The first thing I’d like you to do is to grab that big thing over there on the floor.” Mrs. Grossman pointed to a huge cardboard box sitting next to the worktable in the middle of the room. “That’s going upstairs.”
“I didn’t know you had an upstairs,” I told her as I walked over to pick up the box. “I mean I can see the windows up there from the street, but I thought someone else probably lived up there.”
“Mr. Grossman and I lived up there when we were first married a hundred years ago,” she said. “But we moved out when the kids started to come. Nowadays we sometimes let out of town visitors stay up there, but mostly it collects dust. Follow me.”
Mrs. G walked to the very back of the store where there was a door in the side wall. As I watched her go, I couldn’t help thinking that the black stretch pants she was wearing probably had zero stretch left in them: Mrs. Grossman had quite the caboose on her. Maybe was what kept her from toppling over forward from the weight of her chest, I thought, and immediately felt bad for thinking it.
I picked up the box, which surprisingly weighed next to nothing, and followed after her. The box was bulky though, and I couldn’t see around it, so I was sorta navigating by sound, following Mrs. Grossman’s voice and footsteps.
After squeezing the box and myself through the door she had opened, I stumbled onto a stairway and made my way slowly up after Mrs. G. There was a door on the other end, which she opened and I followed her through into a small kitchen space.
“Let’s put that all the way in the front room,” I heard Mrs. Grossman say as she moved in that direction. I continued along behind her, trying not to bump into walls I couldn’t see. Eventually, we emerged into a brighter space at the front of the upstairs apartment. It was sparsely furnished with some chairs, a sofa and a coffee table.
“Where do you want this,” I asked Mrs. Grossman?
“Put it down anywhere you like,” she responded, “it’s empty.”
That seemed sorta strange to me, so as I set it down I asked: “What do you want an empty box up here for?”
“I don’t want an empty box up here,” she said, “I want YOU up here.”
“Huh?”
“I want to talk to you, Mr. Kevin Fitzgerald, you sly one.”
“What about,” I asked her?
“About how you’re shtupping that little red-haired minx Lois Green,” she said flatly.
Uh Oh!
“Whoa, you’ve got that wrong, Mrs. G,” I protested. “Ms. Green is just a customer who I brought a delivery to. Like I told you, she’s a nice lady but that’s it.”
“Sure, now pull the other one,” Mrs. Grossman shot back, almanbahis giriş pointing one of her legs in my direction. “Just a nice lady to who you send nice flowers and a nice card thanking her for ‘the most wonderful afternoon of your entire life.’ So, you expect me to believe you two were playing Parcheesi all that afternoon or what? Admit it boychik, you’re makin’ whoopee with this Lois Green!”
“Hey now, Mrs. Grossman, that was a private card. C’mon!”
“Private-schmivate! Whaddya think I’m running the post office? Private? Pah! So sue me. You want I should deliver a message to somebody, I’m gonna know what’s in that message. And let me tell you Mr. Lover-Boy, that card of yours nearly steamed itself open.”
“Believe what you want, Mrs. G, but it’s just not true. I am NOT having sex with Ms. Green!”
But Mrs. Grossman wasn’t buying. “So what’s it been now, a week or ten days since you started playing hide-the-salami with the skinny redhead? By this time I suppose you’ve told all your little guy friends about it, so now the whole neighborhood knows, huh. I’m surprised I haven’t heard about it from someone else.”
“Now wait just a minute Mrs. G. What kind of a jerk do you think I am? I haven’t told a single soul about me having sex with Ms. Green!”
“A-Ha! Gotcha!”
The look of triumph on her face kinda pissed me off.
“Shit!!”
“Such language, Mr. nice Catholic boy, I’m shocked,” Mrs. Grossman cackled. I must have looked despondent, because she softened her tone as she went on. “Ahhh, don’t look so verklempt. Your secret is safe with me. Cross my heart and hope to die, I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”
“Thank you,” I said, a bit dubiously. Mrs. Grossman was the biggest gossip on the north side of Chicago. “So is that it? You brought me up here just to make me confess to having sex with Lois Green?”
“No,” she said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. After pausing a moment she looked at me and said: “I brought you up here because I want you should have sex with me.”
Holy Crap!! That rocked me back on my heels. But there was no misunderstanding the bombshell that Mrs. G had just dropped.
All I could think of to say next was: “But what about Mr. Grossman?”
Mrs. Grossman’s face turned serious. “You’re a good boy, Kevin Fitzgerald. That’s exactly the question you should ask, and I’m proud of you for asking it. And I’m going to answer it for you too, but before I do you have to promise me something. OK?”
“OK . . .,” I said, tentatively.
“I promised to keep your secrets about Lois Green, and I will to my dying day. But I need you should agree to do the same for me. Before I answer your question, will you promise never to tell anyone else in the world what you and me say or do here today?
“Of course I will, Mrs. Grossman,” I told her in complete honesty.
“Swear on your mother’s grave!”
“Uh . . . my mother is still alive Mrs. G.”
“Trust me booby, if your mother finds out that you’re doing the funny business with old ladies, she’ll probably drop dead!”
She had a point there.
“I swear to God, Mrs. Grossman. Best I can do.”
“OK . . . I think maybe that’s good enough,” she said after a moment, then she looked me straight in the eyes and told me: “Morrie Grossman is the absolute love of my life and the father of my children. Believe me that I would NEVER do one thing to hurt that man.”
“But, god love him, Morrie is also 72 years old with a bad ticker. Two years ago when he had his heart attack, the doctor told Morrie that he had to give up some of the things he enjoyed most — like for instance jumping my bones — if he wanted to see more birthdays.
“Morrie didn’t want to hear that, and neither did I. And in fact we tried a couple of times to disobey doctor’s orders, but unfortunately it also turns out that Morrie’s age and his health and the medicine he has to take now makes it impossible for him to get it up anymore . . . which is a shame because that man has a schlong like a horse I tell you.”
Jesus, Mrs. G, that’s too much information, I thought to myself. But I didn’t say anything.
“Long story short,” she went on, “a couple of months after the doc gave us the bad news, my Morrie comes to me all serious and he says to me: ‘Shelly, you know I love you and I always will. But also I know you are a younger woman with strong sexual needs. Needs which I can no longer satisfy. I’ve thought a lot about it and I decided that you should find another man or other men who can give you what you need sexually.’
“Now at first I told him to get lost with that mishigas. But he insisted and . . . eventually . . . I agreed. With the strict understanding that other men were for screwing only and that I would always love only him.”
“Sooo . . . and remember, you tell anyone else any of this and I will kill you with my bare hands . . . over the past year and a half I have had sex with four men who were not my husband: nine times with Phil Cacciatore the butcher, who was separated from his wife all the time; six with Eddie Kramer the vacuum cleaner salesman, who’s been married and divorced three times, probably because he spends 50 weeks of the year on the road; and for the past six months, once a week or so with Manny Schatzman, the truck driver for the flower wholesaler, whose wife died two years ago.”