The signs were written in chalk: tomatoes, swiss chard, basil, fresh corn. You drove past, and then stopped, pulled over, and pulled my sweater roughly toward you, your beard rubbing my face raw as you kissed my ear, then bit it, not quite gently, just the way I like it.
“You are such a slut.”
My panties were wet already, even before you started this, but in reality it was the fresh produce that had caught your attention. You let go of my top, and shifted the car into reverse, screeching the tires as you u-turned quickly from the side of the road, and worked up the dust and gravel turning into the neighborhood stand.
The peaches, watermelons, corn were stacked in baskets. You loaded them into yours, and walked on to the grain-fed beef–packaged and waiting for you in the freezer.
“We’ll have a feast, hon’,” you said, pulling my hand close as you headed to the cash register.
I looked at you, that leather hat pulled low on your head, the shadow of your beard on your dark, tanned skin, summer, you pulled your wallet from the back pocket of your jeans and handed two twenties to the teenage girl at the counter. School starts next week, she told you, blushing at the white of your teeth, the dimple in your cheeks when you smiled at her, then once more at me.
You kicked a pebble from the doorway, then lost it with the others in the path, dust around your feet as we walked through the dry parking lot, your car dusty, too, seats warm now in the sun, your hand behind my headrest as you back up , leaning toward the center, toward me, as I grab your hand then, and kiss it, lick it, your smile, your laugh as you pull your arm back to shift into first, second, third, then grab my knee, squeeze quickly before grabbing the steering wheel once more, bounty in the back, the wine, bread, cheese, apples, your beach towel, speedo, taut ass beneath it. Soon your legs are stretched long on the sand, a weekday, hooky.
I should never be here with you, like this, like this afternoon when you have pulled me from those unimportant things, those never mind things, those Friday tired things that I would not have done anyhow, anyway. You pull me close once more, run your hands down my back, down my backside, and reach beneath my skirt to pull my panties off, toss my bikini bottom to me.
“Make yourself decent!” you growl, then laugh as you roll back and I pull the swimsuit up beneath my skirt, then remove the skirt, and look around as I figure out the top. The beach is deserted now, after Labor Day, the lifeguard stand empty, canoes turned upside-down farther down. No one is here, water warm, your soft lips next to mine, hard cock pressing against my hip.
You loosen your grip, and I break free. “Catch me,” I shout. You might.
I look back, and you have turned onto your belly, laid your head down, a moment, two, then you jump up, run to the water, and I run farther, then dive beneath the surface, your hand grabbing my ankle in no time. You are faster, pull my foot, skin on your skin, your kisses hard, then soft, then biting.
Your teeth sink into my neck, belly tight as my heart quickens, relax, my limbs limp, cunt wet as you slowly let me go, rush of pain, want, your cock even harder now when I dig my nails into your back. Your fingers pull the side of my swimsuit, then reach beneath. Yes, I am wet. Yes, I want you, want you here.
The car is hot, now, surely, vegetables baking in the back seat, sand in the seats now as you drive quickly back to a quiet place, a new place, a shady place, a roadside, a back seat, my mouth, my hair, my swimsuit tossed to the ground, yours, no room, no matter. You pierce my cunt, so long, so needed, corn ripe, peaches oozing as you step on the one that fell from the bag. Your sweat is pungent now, arouses me as I push you up, back, sit on you, bounce harder as you cry out, pull me closer, shout once more, twice, rush of warmth, dripping, I cry, I want, have, stop, cannot bear your fingers now squeezing my nipples, not more, not now, not yet.
So calm now, so sweet to lie back, tan lines, no lines, no cares, to bite into a peach and see you lean into your hands, rub your eyes. Once more, I say, I would, want, will wait.
Chard,beside the grill, steak, rioja, garden hose, grow up, on second thought, don’t.