Your phone vibrates. It’s a text. “Can you talk right now?” You look over at your fiance; she’s enraptured with Netflix and hasn’t noticed you or your phone. You tell her you’re going to take the dog for a walk and she nods absentmindedly. You get the dog leashed and step out into the warm, humid evening air. It’s late summer in the south, and the cicadas are still buzzing lazily. A block away from the house you dial and listen to the phone ring. When Sam picks up you can tell she’s been crying. You soothe, and listen, and agree. You’re both in graduate school, and she’s been struggling in the program. After a failed qualifying exam, they’ve been pushing her to retake it before she feels ready. You’re the only one she’s told about this, and you can’t help but feel a warm flush at the thought that she’s confiding in you. You tell her she’s going to be alright, but it’s not working this time.
“Can you come over?” She asks, sniffing back tears.
“Ok.” You reply.
Back home, you put on a new shirt and look in the fridge.
“We’re out of milk, babe,” you tell your fiance. She looks up from the TV.
“I’m going to the store to get some more, and some eggs, maybe some other stuff.” She gets up, kisses you goodbye.
You pull the car out of the garage and head west, away from the grocery store. You remember the first time you met Sam, more than a year ago. You were a prospective student visiting for the weekend. It was a blur of meetings, presentations, and dinners. But you remember the bob of short bleach blonde hair on a small figure that moved with the grace of a former ballet dancer. She had petite features and a reserved smile, and you thought she looked like a pastel Krysten Ritter. She blushed and looked away when you complimented her red dress outside the restaurant during the department dinner. You couldn’t keep your eyes off how the fabric stretched across her breasts or the slit in the dress that revealed her pale, toned dancer’s thighs. You were studying similar topics, and you clumsily, eagerly tried to talk her into working on a project with you. You were awkward and nervous, but you could tell that she liked you when she sent you a book over the summer with carefully written notes on the margins of each page.
You’re crossing the bridge to the west side now, the sun dipping low over the city skyline. You have a pit of nervous energy in your stomach, the same feeling you get every time you see her. After you and your fiance moved to the city to start school, you quickly became close. She sat next to you in class every week, and you both started arriving earlier and earlier to talk and laugh before class started. You wedged in close together in the seats of the tiny meeting room, and she’d squeeze your leg and roll her eyes silently during bad presentations. A few days before the world shut down for coronavirus, you finally managed to make plans with her outside of school. Your fiance was away for the week visiting family, and Sam had driven across the bridge to go for a long walk in the park with you. On the way home she confessed to you that she was finally ready to start dating again after swearing it off for nearly a year. You put your hands on her arms and looked into her face and told her she was beautiful, a catch, and these men would be lucky to have her. She laughed and blushed and pulled away from you, but when she looked back over her shoulder at you from behind day-blue eyes with that shy smile brightening her face, you knew she’d believed you. Back at her car she hugged you tightly. It was a hot day, and you could feel the sweat on her skin under your hands, smell the spicy sharpness of shampoo in her hair. She cupped your chin in her small hands and tilted your head down to hers and said “Let’s hang out again this week.” And then she was gone, swallowed up by a city-wide quarantine.
You’d only texted sporadically since. You’re pulling into the parking lot next to her building now. You text her, and she buzzes you in. You knock, the door opens, and there she is: short bleach blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, face ruddy from crying, pastel crocheted cardigan buttoned loosely over her breasts, pale skin of her waist poking out over short, tight running shorts, long, strong legs ending in bare feet.
The door closes and she’s hugging you, face pressed into your chest, and you can smell the same spicy sharp shampoo in her hair. She pulls back slightly, looks at you, says “I didn’t know who else to call.”
You smile, “I’m here now.” And then suddenly she’s kissing you, her wet lips on yours, her fingers interlaced with your hair. You push into the apartment and pick her up onto the kitchen counter. She’s kissing you hard, and you run your hands down her body, feeling the tight, soft strength of it. You move your hands up under her sweater, and there’s nothing there but the warm curves of her large breasts. You cup them in your hands, run your thumb gently over her nipples, and she moans softly into your mouth. She pulls you closer between her spread legs, pressing her pelvis into your hardening dick. Her pussy is radiating warmth you can feel through your jeans. Her cardigan is unbuttoned now and she shrugs it off, and you start kissing down her neck and chest. She pushes your head into her breasts, and you take her left nipple into your mouth, teasing and licking it with your tongue. She arches her back and moans again, a little louder this time.
You pull back and tug your shirt off. The two of you look at each other in the still in-between. She’s flush and breathing heavily, and with her eyes still on you, she pulls her shorts down slowly and kicks them off.
You say, “I’ve wanted to make you cum since the day I met you.”
Her breath catches. “Please.”
Then you’re back on her, the two of you kissing wildly. You can feel the hot, wet slickness of her pussy against your bare stomach. You pull her ass forward so she’s just on the ledge of the counter and sink to your knees. You start kissing slowly on the inside of her left thigh, her fingers curled into your hair. You keep going down, down, down, until your lips touch her soft, swollen mound. You can smell her then, sweet and fragrant. Her pussy is a red dollop in a sea of pale white skin, begging for your tongue. With your nose in a small tuft of blonde pubic hair, you start with the tip of your tongue at the entrance to her vagina and lick up a long, flat, wet stroke to her erect clit. She shudders, moans long and slow. Your left hand is gripping her thigh, and you can feel her legs shake with each flick of your tongue.
Her hand presses into the back of your head as you continue long, slow strokes. She’s moaning louder now, moving her hips into your face with each lick, her feet crossed behind your back. You reach your right hand up and cup her breast, tweaking her nipple between your thumb and forefinger.
“Yes!” She squeals. She moans your name. Your dick is so hard it could bust through the fabric of your jeans. You purse your lips over the hood of her clit, and swirl your tongue over it gently, rhythmically. She bucks wildly into your mouth and screams, her fingernails digging into your scalp.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” She pleads. You don’t stop, licking her clit more assertively, a faster rhythm now.
“Don’t… don’t…” The words are cut off by moans. She’s pressing your face into her so hard you can’t breathe now, but you don’t care. You can feel her pussy tensing and shuddering under your tongue.
“Omigodomigodomigod, I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” She yells your name over and over again, like a command, a supplication, and liturgy of her orgasm. She’s locked her legs around your back, both her hands gripping your head, as she arches backwards onto the countertop as she cums on your face. You can feel her dripping down through the stubble on your chin.
You look up and see her eyes shut tight, her shoulders relaxing and unknotting. You lick her clit gingerly again, and she pulls back, too sensitive. You straighten up, unclasping her feet from behind your back. Standing over her, you wipe her cum off your face with the back of your hand. She opens her eyes and reaches over her head to grab a dish towel off the rack. She hands it to you to clean up.
She scoots off the countertop and steps towards you, putting her hand on your chest. She looks down at your hard dick stretching your jeans.
“Do we have time for you?” She asks.
You shake your head no. “She’ll be wondering where I am.”
She runs her hand down your stomach, under the waist of your jeans, fingers through your pubic hair, and grips your dick hard with her small hand.
“Next time.” She smiles.
Fuck, you think. You grab a handful of her ass and pull her into you, kissing her hard with your chin still wet from her pussy. She’s giving you short, little strokes under your jeans.
But you pull back. “Are you sure?” She asks.
“No.” You smile. You pick up your shirt and put it back on. She’s holding her cardigan shyly over her bare breasts. “But I’ve got to go back before I’m late, she’ll be worried.”
She nods, leans in and kisses you. You put your hand on the door knob.
“Wait,” you say, turning around. “Do you have any milk in the fridge? I was supposed to get some.”
She laughs and looks at you strangely, and then walks to the refrigerator door, her pussy still dripping onto the tile. She reaches in, comes up with an unopened carton of milk, and hands it to you.
“I hope 2% is OK.”
You grin, and leave.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/mf54dv/going_to_the_grocery_store_for_milk_mf
Sure hope there’s more stories to come! Great writing and build up!!
I like how you told this…. felt like it was me the whole time.