Well, that would be the most fuckingly frustrating fuck-fest of my life. My bundle of nerves were so worked over by those luscious lips, tantalising tongue, and long, languid dexterous digits, that even the slightest movement of my legs, sent shock waves of pleasurable pain far beyond what any kegel exercises ever inflicted upon me. All that before and after imploding around the most persistently erect, fat, long and hardest piece of cock-to-rival-all-cocks. And, why was that frustrating, I hear you ask? 'Cause I had to fucking wake up and realize my own fingers were just not going to cut it as a substitute for my now, very atypical, lustful nighttime reverie – the lickable lolly-cock.

I could feel the beads of sweat running through my hair, down towards my small cuddly pillow. Shivering with mild disgust, juxtaposed with smirking smugness at my body's salty response to strenuous stimuli, my fingers and toes curled and clenched my now very rumpled bed linen. Mmmm … Kitten purring after a creamy feast.

Fuck it! In desperate need of a shower before getting ready for work, my jelly legs fought to stiffen enough to climb out of bed. Thing about getting out of bed is, there are these massive rectangular cottony things that love a game of bondage. Thank god face-planting wooden floors is so much better than tiles.

It's a good thing that I listened to the girly crap Alice and Rose droned on with; like which tampon brand was the best, or, don't wear spots, stripes and checks at the same time because, well, even I knew that was just so fashion-faux-par-wrong. Because of their ramblings, I'd stocked a couple packets of panty liners under my bathroom sink, just in case. For what, I had no idea - until this morning. By the time I'd showered and dressed, my panties were filled with an alarming amount of sticky juices that I was sure to end up walking around as if my jeans had been triple-starched at the drycleaners. After changing my panties – twice, all the while cursing the lickable lolly-cock - I donned a panty liner, packed a couple more in my scuffed leather satchel backpack, along with an extra pair of panties – just in case.

Work was … interesting. Sure, I love books. I love sex – well I hope I will. That in itself should be a great indicator of how much I would love working at Bourgeons de Rose. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, teeming with all types of erotica … and, no, I am not going to mention them. Perv! But the little scaredy-cat in me couldn't help but feel a tad bit hesitant to provide the fat, greasy-haired, lip-sucking, junk-scratching man with a critique on 'My Octopus loves my Vag'. Yeah, I still shudder just thinking about it … On a positive note, at least I had oodles of educational material – if not masturbating aids by the truck load.

Finished for the day I pack up, muffling a hurried goodbye to the boss. Note to self: buy extra hand sanitizer to use after each encounter with that creepy dude wearing pull-up pants from Target. No surprises for guessing where his hand spent most of the day … eew. Surprisingly, he was the ideal distraction from lickable lolly-cock; there had been no need to change panty liners, or panties for that matter.

Then there was the drive home. I was in the zone – zippy little Mazda 2 Genki 5 speed manual. My little gold honey pot drives like a dream, not to sporty but enough for around town. Hate the clutch; never stalled a car so much in my life! Home was a fifty-kilometer drive east of the city. Snort! Some stupid person decided to call this hellhole in the middle of nowhere a city. The drive usually takes twenty-five to thirty minutes, but I had no such luck this afternoon – bloody road resurfacing. Delays up to twenty minutes. Nothing to do, but sit back and listen to some music.

The hypnotic pulsing of Bilingual by Jose Nunez throbbed through my speakers, inducing images of lolly-cock's cock teasing me, cherry red and delectable …

"Hey!" no … there is a 'do not disturb' sign posted on my daydream, so fuck off.

Tap. Tap. Tap. "Hey! Lady! Get a fucking move on!"

Popeye is not a noun, but a verb and right in that moment, my eyes excelled in the motion. Swiveling my head ninety degrees to my right like a Meer cat on speed, I was just about to tell the guy to take his hand off his cock when I was met with his cock – a red and yellow glowing cock pointed right at my face! Shit! The smarmy bastard knew what was going through my head cause he fucking stroked the base of his glow stick smirking his face off!

Blustering to correct my posture, I flipped the douche the bird and drove off in the direction indicated by his glowing red and yellow light stick. If I hadn't been so fucking flustered imagining lickable lolly-cock's cock doing wonderful things to my insides, then the close encounter with the glow stick might have been a hell of a lot more funny – to me.

The rest of the week went by pretty much non-descript. Creepy dude boss remained creepy, but he was happy with the extra sales – seems having my sweet little self behind the counter had become a bit of a draw card for the pervs unable to get any. No, just because I've never had any, doesn't mean I'm a perv, too. I'm different, 'cause I don't need seedy to get off, unlike most of the men coming into, or should I say patronizing, the bookstore. I did have my sticky situation down pat, no longer needing to bring extra panty liners or panties to work – amazing what the patrons at work can do. Maybe I could write a sex help book for men … I would call it 'How to lose an erection in under two seconds flat. Guaranteed to work - every time'.

Friday night meant ladies' night and that meant Alice, Rose and I hitting the one and only licensed coffee club in our little town. None of us liked the thump, thump, thump of nightclubs, but we weren't that far over the fucking hill to socialise in pretentious coffee clubs serving deluxe hamburgers covered in cum-flavoured sprouts. Not that I knew what cum tasted like – Rose told me. This little licensed coffee club served the best double-shot espresso; the best chaser to a couple of fingers of Chivas Regal Lochan Ora whiskey liqueur. Lip smackin' good! I was dressed to kill. Actually, my attire screamed 'Fuck Off', loud and clear. I hated being propostioned by drunk dicks so I made myself as unapproachable of possible without looking like a skank ho, or as someone said to me once: Tunnel gutted mole, TGM for short. I always aimed for comfort and nothing did it for me more than wearing my favourite old pair of CK jeans – linen and cotton blend, none of that elastin crap for me. Of course I added an old faded green t-shirt I bought from my all-time bestie bookstore in Portland, just to piss Alice off. Yeah, T-shirt and jeans sound pretty ordinary, but, to complete the 'Fuck Off' look, I donned my old black leather hooded zippered jacket, and the most comfiest, worn-in, scruffy, black leather, mid-thigh, steel-capped, Dr Marten's lace-up boots I owned. I felt like me – fucking comfortably in style. Just to throw the drunks off even more, I made sure the eye makeup emphasized my blue-grey eyes. Oh, let's not forget the hair – dark brown and fly-away fuzziness! Alice hated the look, Rose just didn't care. Middle finger salute, my lovelies, 'cause here I come!

"Jesus, Bella! You look like a half and half romper stomper come uni student nerd come JBF with your hair like that! I don't want to be seen anywhere near you." Alice was being true to herself, she detested bad fashion-sense, something I reveled in.

"Fuck off, Al. It's me, alright? I don't need to look like a hooker."

"Bitch, I do not look like a hooker!"

"Bella, give Alice a break. Just 'cause she's so short she needs five inch heels to look at our tits!" Rose could talk. Just one of her tits would make me look so out of proportion I'm sure I would end up face first on the floor from overbalancing.

"Hmph." Poor Alice, she wasn't cutting a break from Rose and I tonight. "Let me remind you that I take pride in how I look. Just because you're a fuckin' amazon, Rose, doesn't mean I am vertically challenged."

"Please. Are we still that behind the times that you have to cling on to and quote PC bullshit to me? Not my fucking fault you spend your time envying my bellybutton."

Huffing back onto the stool, Alice kicked me under the tall round beer table. Remnants of our dinner, chicken and bbq sauce thin crust pizza, littered the large terracotta serving plate. After eating greasy food, Rose was starting to look just as messy as the Tequila Sunrises she had been ploughing through – her makeup needed touching up.

"Hey, Rose? Why don't you take Alice to the bathroom with you."

"You're right, Bella. Come on Rose, your face is melting off."

"You calling me a witch, Alice?"

"Fuck off, Rose. No. I'm just telling you that your makeup needs a touch up. Come on." I watched Alice escort a rather plastered Rose to the toilets out back, chuckling at how easy it was for those two to be close friends. For all the bitching they give each other, I wouldn't give any outsider a hope in Hades of ever coming between them.

The coffee club was filling up fast. Most people stayed for a good couple of hours, kicking back and enjoying the warm atmosphere. It was a place you could talk without yelling, and dance, real slow, whilst the world disappeared around you. If only lickable lolly-cock were here. I'd so love to press my body up against his heat …

The night was pretty damned perfect – warm, a slight sea breeze chilling the air just enough, and the sky so full of flickering stars. Deciding I needed some fresh sea air, I slid off my rickety wooden stool, smack into a warm, firm mass of muscle.

"Umph. Fuck, sorry about that." Oh, Christ. Don't look, seriously. I really don't need the embarrassing "Oh, hey. My fault. Can I buy you a drink?" scenario.

"You can speak." My hand fucking twitched toward my hooch. My body knew the sound of that voice before my fucking brain registered it had never heard such liquid sex in its entire life.

"Oh." Fucking coherency of a goldfish. Concentrating on keeping my lusting fingers from self-groping, I peeked a squiz at the lusciously lickable lolly-cock before me.

"Or not …" His right hand, palm up, hung in the space between us. Before I realized what I was doing, the fingers of my left hand barely skimmed the tips of his. Fuck me! Stormy seas had nothing on the colour of his eyes!