Fabulously Fun, Kinky Erotica
"Mom & Pop Enterprise," an exhibitionist short story by Jeremy Edwards
The beloved mom-and-pop magazine store in downtown Port Cranberry was, like much of Port Cranberry, too cute for words. For starters, the owners were actually called “Mom” and “Pop.” Everyone in the community thought it was impossibly adorable that two very unmarried, evidently very disconnected thirtysomethings operated their small business under a sign that said MOM & POP'S MAGAZINES—in large, folksy letters that made you think of friendly heads of gray hair, and big pots of stew that had been bubbling continually on the stove since you were a child.
“Mom” was Monica Trent, who had been “Moms” to her friends as early as junior high—despite her notable lack, both then and now, of any qualities that were either literally or figuratively maternal. Mom, fire-eyed and unpredictable, was more in the mold of the classic boundary-pushing daughter than the classic nurturing mother; but euphonious nicknames have a way of sticking. This notwithstanding, she had lost the “s,” around the same time she’d lost her virginity. (The two events were unrelated.)
Monica’s business partner was a bookish fellow named Paul O'Pelham. Paul, for obvious reasons, had long been known as “Pop.”
Though the two proprietors were often in the store together, they seemed to function with almost complete independence, and customers rarely saw them interact. "You'll have to talk to Mom," Paul would say softly but emphatically when someone tried to sell him advertising space, without offering to pass the phone over to her. "Sorry, Pop's in charge of paying the accounts," Monica would brusquely inform wholesalers, omitting the fact that he was standing ten feet away. It was a system that worked well.
What nobody knew was that Paul and Monica were screwing each other senseless every night after the store closed. Many of the customers didn’t even suspect that Mom—who wore her black hair super-short and favored men's dress shirts—liked guys. And it certainly wasn’t common knowledge that Pop, who liked girls even more than he liked books, especially liked giving it to Monica from behind, with her small breasts dancing against his sensitive fingertips and her trim runner's ass pounding in time to his thrusts.
Mom and Pop got off on the fact that no one knew they were fucking. But, being of a mischievous disposition, Monica also got off on giving hints. For example, she would sometimes run a hand across her chest, quick as a wink, when mentioning Paul’s name to a customer. Only on a subconscious level could the patron have known that she’d touched her nipple for a microsecond, through the stiff oxford cotton.
Mom wanted it both ways: she wanted the intense, dark-chocolate rush of secret satisfactions; and she wanted the frothy strawberry milkshake of showing off—and even, perhaps, the caramel drizzle of being discovered. If she could have stood bare-assed in front of a gallery of the regular customers, with Paul pumping her pussy, and magically contrived things so that the crowd was at once oblivious to and acutely cognizant of the naked immediacy of her penetration . . . well, she would have done so, faster than you could say “Pop’s not in” to a bill collector.
***
In the evenings, after the phone stopped ringing, Pop was always in.
One night, while Paul satisfied her in the store’s rear amid the clutter of the tiny office they shared, Monica again articulated her fantasy:
“I wish they were watching.”
“Close your eyes and imagine that they are,” Paul hissed back with passion, knowing this would bring her close to coming. He could visualize her visualizing a selection of their regulars, ranging from Gloria, a suit-and-lipstick-perfect Fortune purchaser, to Gregg, a good-looking geek who always spent time among the sex mags before checking out with a technology periodical.
“Look,” Paul pretended, “there’s Arlene staring right at your wet dream of an arse.” Arlene was a handsome butch lady who bought woodworking magazines; as he dropped her name, Paul tapped Monica’s clit—the way you’d tap someone on the shoulder—and closed his own eyes, to best enjoy the ensuing fireworks.
“Come for me, come for Arlene, and come for the rest of the fuckers,” he coaxed, and she was already doing just that, whimpering in his arms.
The sun-hot longing in Monica’s eyes burned straight through the softer incandescence of afterglow. “Damn, I wish we could really do it.”
Paul thought for a moment. “Maybe we can.”
Monica laughed. “Yeah, right. ‘Live sex show at Mom & Pop’s Magazines!’” She punched him playfully on the arm. “You must be drunk on pussy juice.”
“We’d have to be more subtle, of course,” he persisted, ignoring the roughhousing and insinuations. “For the real-life version, we’d have to do it without their knowing we were doing it. And we probably couldn’t get them all at once.”
Monica struggled into a sitting position on their temporary bed of old invoices and credit-card receipts. “You’re not kidding, Pop, are you?”
“Can you make a breakfast meeting tomorrow?”
***
“I know you’re fond of your jeans, but I’m going to suggest you run home and change into those boots that I like.” Paul looked at his watch. “You have just enough time. I’ll settle up in the pancake department.”
As she hastened to the store after her quick-change detour, Monica listened to the shiny squeak of the lavender vinyl boots, which came so far up her legs that even her miniskirt didn’t leave much thigh exposed.
Arriving with five minutes to spare, she relocked the door behind her.
Paul smiled at her—at her boots, at her pleated black mini, at her clingy jersey – but most of all, at the glint in her eye. She observed that Paul’s eyes, in turn, were simmering on low heat, as they usually did when he was horny.
“So, do you think Gregg will be in today?” he asked casually.
“Probably. He almost always shows up after lunch on Wednesdays.”
“Yes, I thought so,” Paul purred. “Now, the key is to keep his gaze from veering below your waist.”
Monica’s mouth was as dry as the Economist while she awaited clarification.
“That way I can stand behind you—pretending to take inventory—and slowly slip your panties down your thighs, without his noticing.”
In a flash, Monica transitioned from dry upstairs to wet downstairs.
“All the way down to the tops of those delicious boots.”
Mom’s vinyl-coated knees knocked together, and she broke into a hungry grin. Her skirt swished behind her as she went, keys jangling, to open herself up to the Port Cranberry world.
French Salute, by TC Reiner (available on ObsessionArt.com)
The candied smell of girly vinyl seemed to take over the store that morning. But things were subdued. The few people who came in didn’t even comment on Monica’s out-of-the-ordinary attire.
When afternoon rolled in, Gregg appeared, as anticipated. He checked Monica out ever so briefly, then headed discreetly for the smut shelf. Monica and Paul made eye contact, then gradually moved in Gregg’s direction—Paul accompanied by a clipboard, and Monica brandishing a sample issue of yet another technology mag.
“Hi, Gregg.” She smiled at him, noting the slight blush that rose to the man’s face as he was caught with one hand on the ample, glossy bosom of a cover model. “I was wondering if I could get your opinion on this new magazine.” She thrust it at him, while Paul—his eyes on the stock he was carefully counting—sidestepped toward her. “If you’re not in a hurry, I was hoping you could flip through it for a minute and tell me what you think.”
“Sure,” said Gregg, looking at her face, then at the magazine she’d handed him.
All was quiet for a moment, as Gregg flipped pages. Soon Monica felt a hand under her skirt. More specifically, she felt it pulling at the leg elastic of her mauve silk panties.
“Hunh,” murmured Gregg noncommittally, reacting to something in the mag.
In luxurious, silken slow motion, Monica felt her private covering creeping down her thighs. She shivered pleasantly as the top of her bottom crack tasted near exposure beneath the thin crinkle of the pleated skirt.
She swallowed. “Any good?” Suddenly her clit sizzled, as waistband elastic strummed past it.
“Hmm,” the cute nerd replied. “I’m not sure it’s anything to get excited about.”
But Monica was excited. Her knickers were now halfway down to her boot tops, and someone hunched over a clipboard was secretly fondling the parts of her that had previously been inside these knickers. She swayed, as much as she dared, with the kinky thrill of the situation.
“Okay. Thanks!” She smiled broadly again at Gregg, and he handed her the magazine. In another instant, Gregg was heading toward the technology rack near the front counter, and Paul was right behind him, ready to jump on the cash register.
And Monica was standing there with her panties around her boot-tops and her pussy on fire.
Within seconds, she was spread apart for heavy jilling in the back office. She heard the cash register dinging just as her head seemed to bounce off the low ceiling in the frantic euphoria of quick, urgent release. Then she heard the door chime, as Gregg left the store. Paul joined her in the office.
“Fun?” he asked.
She managed to grunt in reply, while licking her fingers greedily.
“Perfect!” chirped Paul. “I’m glad the warm-up went smoothly. Tomorrow, I thought we might take it to the next level.”
Monica’s eyes glazed over, as a new surge of erotic fever washed through her.
“Your turn to buy me breakfast,” Paul added.
***
Mrs. Harkins was the first customer on Thursday. She had run out of crossword puzzle books again.
“Hello there, Mom!” Harkins got a kick out of referring that way to a woman young enough to be her granddaughter. “You always look so fresh and perky behind that counter, first thing in the morning.”
Monica stifled a titter. Oh yes, she was fresh and perky this morning.
She was also nude from the waist down.
The checkout counter at Mom & Pop’s had been built to resemble a self-contained outdoor newsstand—leaving the cashier snugly enclosed, with little of her visible. Paul had been extremely pleased to determine that Monica could go bottomless while staffing the register, without being detected.
A subtle creaking attracted Mom’s attention. She looked to her left, where—out of sight of the public—a narrow door at the back of her booth led through the main store wall to a utility room. Paul materialized, a silencing finger at his lips. He dropped to his hands and knees and crept behind her.
He licked her right ankle.
“When are the others due?” asked Mrs. Harkins, from across the small shop.
“Others?” replied Monica absently, with 95 percent of her brainpower focused on the teeth that were nibbling their way up her trembling calf.
“The rest of the crosswords, dear. Usually you have all four magazines by this time of the week.”
“I’ll call the distributor,” Mom promised. She felt a kiss behind her knee, where Paul could infallibly locate her tingliest nerve endings. “Later,” she squeaked to Harkins.
She tried to compose herself. “If you stop back tomorrow, I should have more information.” She felt drops of arousal easing their way out of her folds, as Paul progressed up her thigh. Her inner thigh.
“Unless I’m just missing them,” chuckled Harkins. “Maybe you should come over here and take a gander.”
Paul’s mouth had struck buttock. “Oh! No, Mrs. Harkins. I trust you.”
“Okay,” said the customer, pleased by Mom’s evident confidence in her. She approached Monica’s station with the sole item her crossword quest had yielded. “Can you take a check today?”
Monica laughed.
Not because checks were funny.
Monica laughed because Paul’s tongue was tickling the lips of her cunt.
“I know,” said Harkins, misinterpreting. “It seems silly for such a tiny amount. But I accidentally left home without any cash.”
Clarabelle Harkins had smooth, flowery handwriting—the type that requires some time to execute, time that’s repaid in elegance. Monica Trent watched the graceful script vibrate and diffuse before her eyes, as Pop’s diligence raised a massive orgasm within her.
Finally, the check was in the register; the crossword book was in the customer’s purse; and said customer was out the door, leaving the store empty except for its owners.
Without further ado, Paul plunged his tongue into Monica as deeply as he could—while sticking a finger tip in her asshole, and firmly cupping her mound with his other hand.
Mom screamed so loudly as to temporarily silence the birds outside the plate glass window, and her boiling liquid seasoned Pop’s chin.
And half a block down the impossibly cute sidewalk, Mrs. Harkins told herself what a shame it was that Mom and Pop couldn’t get together.
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Copyright December 2009, Jeremy Edwards
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.