3. Those long hoses
Chapter 3
Those long hoses
In the garage, Megan’s fingers located the light switch as the connecting door clicked behind her. Limiting her selections to sentimental Christmas decorations and one or two necessary tools shouldn’t be difficult, as long as she kept telling herself that her home had no extra space. She flipped one set of overheads back off, which hopefully would keep the temperature down for long enough that her burning cheeks could return to a standard ninety-eight degrees. She had no time to entertain thoughts about the man who was probably in the kitchen, bending to open cupboards. Wrapping his hands around the curved sides of mixing bowls. Stretching to the top shelf. Nope, no thoughts. None at all.
She let out a deep breath and focused on the rows of shelves and the work in front of her. Her mother’s label system guided Megan quickly through ten lidded plastic tubs, although unfortunately, it left enough of her brain unoccupied that she could, if she strained, hear Nico and Tyler’s muffled banter. Thudding footsteps on the stairs made her wonder about large, tanned hands cradling box corners, biceps popped into distinct relief.
She used the back of her wrist to scrape sweat-stuck tendrils of hair from her forehead. She could try online dating again.
Even the stray thought triggered warnings in her chest. Nope, nope-ity nope, absolutely not.
The eleventh bin contained extension cords, timers, and holiday lights, but she owned all the outdoor decorations she wanted. She hated hanging them in the dark rain of November, although if there was a man in her life, maybe he’d want to hang more lights than she owned. Holiday decorations sometimes made her think of an elaborate male plumage ritual, but that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate a well-hung display.
Nico was probably well hung.
Stop right there.
She snapped the lid back on the bin. Maybe there were new or different dating websites that she hadn’t yet tried. She could sign up—
No. No online dating. Not even for help installing Christmas lights.
When she returned to Seattle, she’d beg her friend Aleesha to remind her exactly why she’d deleted the match sites. Living in adjacent town houses with daughters the same age, they’d become even closer during the pandemic, when they’d removed the fence that separated their tiny front patios to create one legit-sized front yard. Aleesha cared about decorations a lot more than Megan did.
Sorting the garage. There’s so much yard decor.
Want more Xmas lights? Inflatables?
Aleesha
Heck yeah.
There’s a huge Grinch. Sure?
Aleesha
I'll take it all.
Okay.
No idea where they were going to put this stuff, but at least it wouldn’t need bookshelf space. As she attached a sticky note with her name to the bins, a male voice on the other side of the house rumbled indistinctly. He’s not coming to the garage, so stay focused.
Her phone vibrated again. In the hierarchy of distractions, at least texting with Aleesha could happen while also checking box contents.
Aleesha
Crazy hot here. Like Texas. Ugh, my hair is wrecked. How’s Eugene?
Same, no A/C.
When she’d bought her town house three years ago, she hadn’t anticipated that the changing climate would make her so grateful for the measly window air conditioners that came with it.
The real sizzle is the movers.
Her friend sent a picture of a mostly forgotten actress putting her finger on her chin like she was asking a question.
Total setup. Son of my mom’s friend. Hot, Greek, and about 27 years old.
Aleesha
That woman defies description.
She does.
Aleesha
I aspire.
I don’t.
Maybe that second part was a bit of a lie, but Megan had no idea how she could ever be as outrageous or as focused or as partnered as her own mother and still be the mom Callie needed. Her own mother had nailed it, but she felt like she was tapping on a wall with a knuckle, looking for a stud, and completely unable to hear the difference between drywall and support.
Remind me why we’re not doing online dating?
She’d reached the last section of steel shelves. The top rack had a single green plastic tub labeled “Costumes, 1995-2005,” which would be fun to sort with Callie.
Aleesha
Remember the guy who mooed when you put cream in your coffee?
World’s worst meet-up with a vegan.
Aleesha
And this one: [puppy emoji, kissy face]
HIM! I had wiped that from my memory. [barfing emoji]
After an okay-enough dinner—she would probably have gone to another one—the dude had put his whole mouth over her nose and licked her nostrils, then laughed and called it a puppy kiss. A puppy kiss.
Thanks. I’m back on track. No online dating.
Aleesha
The tattooed armpits demonstration while we drank coffee?
Your date, not mine.
Aleesha
I know, just putting it there in case you need more fortitude.
I really need to do these boxes.
Aleesha
I hope that’s a euphemism for messing with the mover? He's not an online date.
Aleesha
He comes pre-approved.
I see what you did there.
Aleesha
Hey sexy mama! Keep me updated. I love cheap thrills!
Aleesha
It’s Saturday and it won’t be long (I mean I hope it is LONG) but you don’t need dollar bills to have fun tonight because YOUR MOTHER is number one.
[stop sign emoji]
Aleesha
Bitch, please. We don't want you to be stingy with your love.
Stop with the lyrics. I’m begging you. Stop.
Aleesha
And I say, let it begin. Go be indecent!
FU. The mixing lyrics kills me, you know that. And FU.
[waving hand emoji]
Aleesha
[cardboard box emoji, disco man, eggplant, praying hands]
[middle finger emoji]
It was time to put the phone on the workbench and get back to work with all the energy from texting Aleesha.
The middle shelf was empty, but the bottom rack held three blue-and-white boxes, the type with a separate lid that her father called bankers boxes. Faded stickers marked “Beatrice” identified them as containing things that had belonged to her mother’s late sister, the infamous Aunt Bea. Ten years older than Megan’s mother, she’d left Megan’s grandparents’ Eastern Oregon wheat farm at age eighteen. Family lore claimed Bea had gone to town to buy church shoes, but instead purchased a one-way bus ticket to Sodom, or maybe Gomorrah, or possibly New York City, depending on who was telling the story. Megan’s mother had left the farm the slower way, via college, but Aunt Bea had never been slow about anything. She’d started as a Kelly Girl, which she’d proudly told Megan at least twenty times was a classier term than temp, married her way into becoming a society columnist, and then divorced her way into roles as an extra on early Law and Order episodes. Megan remembered hearing Aunt Bea had even had a career in magazine publishing in the eighties and nineties.
Cancer was a bitch. Aunt Bea should have been taking road trips with Megan’s mom, retired versions of Thelma and Louise—okay, not quite, that didn’t end well—instead of being reduced to memories in cardboard containers.
She squeezed her eyelids closed, knowing it wasn’t dust that made them hot and scratchy. Why hadn’t her mother taken these boxes?
A few deep breaths later, she felt capable of looking inside and slung the oof -inducing weight of the first box to the workbench. Instead of photos or clothing, she found dozens of magazines. The top one, dubiously titled Hot Shortz Magazine , showcased a female cover model whose long, frizzy hair angled out from a vertical pouf of bangs to form the sides of a triangle. Megan recognized a classic 1980s style, even though back then, she’d still been reading Dr. Seuss. Text splashed across the fuchsia background teased articles featuring lost bathing suits and flashing the mailman, and a long-ago someone had circled a headline about working late.
She plunged both hands deep into the box, searching for a scrapbook or photo album, but found only more copies of Hot Shortz . The stories about her Aunt Bea, who’d had a big-boned Scandinavian build, didn’t include working as a model, so why would her mother have written Bea’s name on a box with dozens of cheesy old magazines? Megan doubted these would be in demand at the library book sale, so she should assign the contents to be recycled.
Instead, she sent a photo of a cover to Aleesha.
So many of these. Pure vintage.
Aleesha
Crazy sauce.
She waited out the little dots.
Aleesha
On bus to rally now. Too crowded to text.
She replied with a fist emoji. By coming to Eugene to help her parents, she was missing a march Aleesha had helped to organize in support of women’s health and bodily autonomy. As if their and their daughters’ rights should even be a fucking debate.
She pushed clingy wisps of hair off her forehead. The magazines must have meaning; otherwise, her mother, a woman so ruthlessly organized that every reusable food container had a lid, wouldn’t have kept them for thirty years.
With the garage basically finished, five minutes of reading wouldn’t disrupt her schedule, so she chose the second one from the stack. A hand-drawn star marked a headline that shouted, “The Fireman Who Rang My Alarm , ” copy that she couldn’t imagine anyone, even in 1986, writing while sober. She rested an arm on the tool bench and stretched her left leg behind her to work her hamstring.
About ten pages in, she found the story. Someone—presumably Aunt Bea—had scrawled, “Kathy, a little present for you and the new guy!” across the page featuring the purported fireman. He was dark-haired and shirtless, both arms raised to clasp his hands behind his head. Wide black suspenders skimmed the outer edges of his flat tan nipples and emphasized the chest hair that swirled across his pecs. It was a lot of hair, dark like she assumed Nico’s would be, and it spun to the center of his chest, where it became a thick stream heading toward his stomach, then surrounded his navel. Not only did eighties models sport more natural thatch, they hadn’t been as deliberately bulked and defined as modern shirtless dudes.
She’d bet twenty bucks that Nico’s chest would look like this if he took off that geology shirt. The thought made her mouth go dry—she needed water—and she yanked her attention away from the picture to focus on the article.
A Request from Barbra in Chicago
Dear Editor,
I’m writing to Hot Shortz to share what happened when I went to a department store searching for a black lace brassiere for my birthday. The lingerie department offered two regular-sized dressing rooms and a larger one for brides. Because the smaller two were occupied, I took the big one, which turned out to be an excellent idea.
I put my purse on a built-in corner bench, but left both small chairs empty. As I unbuttoned my top, the women from the other rooms exited, talking to each other, and I was alone. In the mirrors, I could see myself from every angle. Normally, I don’t stare at my body, but on the day in question, I had worn my brand-new Jordache jeans. My regular bra was so dull, the elastic band nearly yellow, that I never wanted to put it back on. I leaned forward to let my breasts swing into the cups of one of the new bras, straightened, and then plumped myself into the correct shape.
Occasionally, I’m embarrassed about the abundance of my breasts and jealous of flatter women. Plunging necklines hang so well on them, and they can wear mesh tops or tuxedo jackets without blouses for that Hollywood-awards-ceremony look. Unfortunately, because I’m more porn star than rock star, the support I need isn’t pretty. This bra was no exception, with a band that dug into my rib cage. However, the hint of nipple bump gave me the idea to pinch myself through the cups. That felt good enough to repeat, and I’ll admit I twisted my nipples too, which isn’t as easy through fabric as it is when I’m in the shower. I’ve never watched closely as I touched myself, so I moved to the mirror and lifted my breasts until my nipples poked out over the tops of the black cups.
I forgot about wanting to be smaller and instead wanted to keep on playing. Because I’ve been at the pool this summer, my arms are way tanner than the band of skin across my breasts. The contrast between my hands and the pale triangles usually shielded by my bikini top resembled the look of someone else’s hands on me. My nipples darkened and grew longer the more I pinched them, and then I had that feeling where you want to grind your hips, like in a music video. The more I played with my nipples, the more I needed to stuff something firm between my thighs, but the two chairs and four walls gave me nothing to hump.
I wasn’t ready to stop, and I didn’t have to when I squeezed my breasts as high as I could and dipped my chin to watch my mouth move closer to my nipples. I bowed my shoulders and lifted more and discovered that yes, my tongue reached one of my nipples. It was amazing. I could lick it, twirl the dampness with my fingers, and then guide the tip back between my teeth. Closer to the mirror, my breath left foggy ovals on the glass as I watched my fingers stretch my own nipples. Then I rolled those two nubs right up on the flat, cool expanse as firmly as I could. I’d never pressed so hard against a surface that didn’t yield back. Even a man’s chest gives a little when you rub on him, but my body had to surrender to the mirror. Cold glass wasn’t even close to what I wanted. I could see myself, I could touch myself, but I craved more. I craved a man who would see me, touch me.
Readers, have you ever performed for your own reflection? I had the idea to lift one foot onto an empty chair. Raising my leg, which naturally spread my thighs far apart, made me feel sexy. I watched the way my jeans tightened across the inner thighs, I watched my hands cupping my breasts, and I definitely watched my tongue stretch to lick my own tit. Anyone who is jealous of the fashions smaller-chested women wear, try that!
Then a loud clang-clang-clang startled me. I thought somebody was watching and ringing the bell as a warning to behave, but then I recognized it was a fire alarm. The noise was so blaring, I wondered if I should put on my shirt and leave. Then a voice announced through a crackly intercom that there was nothing to worry about; this was only a test.
I pictured firemen. They have such strong thighs from climbing ladders and carrying those long hoses. And don’t firehouses always have weight equipment so the men can spend a lot of time pumping iron? Not to mention, they have the most delicious mustaches, just like Mr. Magnum, P.I.
Firemen stayed on my mind while I tried the second bra, which was too tight across my back. Such a relief to quickly unsnap the clasp and let my tits pop free. I had to tweak my ladies to give them a reward for enduring that binding, but by this point, playing with my nipples wasn’t enough. You know that spot between the legs of your jeans where the stitching doubles the denim into a stiff ridge? That feels nice pushed hard against the top of your pussy.
The third bra was a lace-trimmed front fastener, which I hadn’t intended to select because that style doesn’t give me enough support. Still, I figured I might as well try it. Am I glad I did!
As I hooked the tab between my breasts, I heard voices. Nervous shivers ran up my spine, but I wasn’t sure if that was because I was alone in the dressing rooms or because those voices were masculine, and I was as horny as I’d ever been in my life.
A man called, “Anyone in here?”
“Just me.” My voice sounded husky, like I’d smoked a pack last night.
Even though the fitting area had carpet, I could hear the thud of his tread coming closer. Polished black boots stopped at the bottom of my dressing room door. “Ma’am?” His voice was deep and slow. “No reason to worry. It’s not a fire, only a drill.”
There was a fireman a few feet away. My hands flew to the fabric over my breasts and I twisted my nipples again, almost brutally.
I suppose I failed to contain my moan.
“Ma’am? Everything all right in there?” he asked.
Would he knock if I didn’t answer? No bra could conceal that my nipples were as hard as Madonna’s platinum records. Part of me fluttered because he was a stranger and I was half-dressed, but a larger part of me trembled from the thought looping in my core: fireman .
What should I have done?
Readers, I opened the door as I was, shirtless and with my tippy-pointed breasts tucked behind flimsy black lace.
He was a fine-looking man. His brown hair was wavy, but not curly, like David Hasselhoff in the talking car show. Vroom, vroom , I almost purred, because I’d volunteer to be a Knight Rider if I could sink my hands into his hair. My fireman had a mustache as wide and thick as everything else promised to be, and under it, his lower lip was full and pink. His black jacket dangled open, the yellow horizontal stripes making him appear broader than the dressing room’s doorway. Normally, the way he stared at my chest instead of my face would have annoyed me, because I’m a liberated woman, but I’d been trying on bras long enough that my breasts had become very, very greedy for attention. Then I noticed his hands, so large that his wrists looked like stacked two-by-fours. No question about it, this man’s hands would engulf even my breasts.
After he cleared his throat, he stuttered a few words along the lines of, “Ma’am, do you need…” but a blush overtook him, and he didn’t finish his question.
I blurted something so silly, I can’t believe it came out of my mouth. I said, “I’m stuck.”
The way his lower lip dropped told me that he didn’t understand. If I was in for a penny, I might as well dive for the whole silver Susan B. Anthony dollar. I threw my shoulders back and pointed to the clasp hidden between my breasts and said, “I can’t undo it.”
Of course he asked if he could help, because the fire academy mints exemplary citizens. And of course I said yes, because getting his hands on my body was the perfect birthday present to give myself. I don’t know how a man with fingers that big can undo a tiny bra clasp without ripping the fabric, but he succeeded. The cups sprang apart, and my breasts tumbled free before he could get out of the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he tried.
His hands were strong and calloused, befitting a man who works with heavy equipment. He rubbed his thumbs across my nipples, and someone moaned. Me. I’d spent a lot of time looking in the mirror. I can tell you that normally, my nipples are somewhat apricot-jam colored and as fulsome as the rest of my chest, but for him, those big circles had engorged so totally, he might be risking an eye if he bent down.
I wanted him to bend down so that mustache could tickle my skin.
“Is this better?” He looked into my eyes. His were warm brown under dark eyebrows.
“Ab-so-lute-ly.” I can’t lie when I say being touched by this stranger was the hottest thing that had happened to me in all my twenty-three years. I laid my hands over his, to hold him in place. “You saved me from losing circulation.” I didn’t have to pull him back into the dressing room. All I had to do was shuffle backward, and he came right along. The door swung closed on its own, shutting us in a private box. I watched him watching me, and watched both of us in the mirrors, so many visuals that my head felt wobbly on my neck. “But I think I need more help.”
This time, he understood immediately. My fireman shed his jacket and sat on the empty chair with his legs spread. “We’re there when you need us. Department motto.”
I’ll never forget how time seemed to slow while I checked him out, starting from his work boots, so large that I knew he could break down doors. His wide-apart thighs, covered with black protective pants, filled the dressing room space and his suspenders made his shoulders look like a shelf I could balance against. I felt tiny and feminine. The open collar of his light blue uniform shirt revealed the hollow of his throat, where enough dark hair emerged from the neckline of his white undershirt that I knew he’d be furry in all the best places.
When I stepped closer, he reached for my hips, guiding me to stand between his legs, and then stroked slowly up my ribs. I didn’t do anything but wait and watch as his big fireman’s hands glided upward to reach my breasts. His size left even my bodacious self looking like nothing but a handful. His parted lips revealed the edges of his teeth, making me imagine how they’d feel when they scraped my bare skin. It should have been impossible, but my breasts seemed to expand toward him. Then he finally, finally , pressed his mouth to my nipple. I had expected rough, befitting a man who battled emergencies, but my fireman was so tender. His soft mustache caressed my skin, his wet tongue flicked at me, and his calloused hands woke every nerve connection in my body.
Even now, writing this days later, my knees are wobbly and my pussy swells with the memory of how he supported me when I swayed. Every tug from his teeth, every pull from his lips, reverberated deep inside me until I felt taller, tighter. I felt like more. And when he blew across my budded nipples, it was like all the air left my own body, and I gasped. He smelled like spices, cedar, smoke, machinery, and man things that made me want to splay my body across the hood of a big red truck while he kept playing with my breasts. I reached for his head, to balance myself as much as to pull him closer.
Between my fingers, his hair was as thick and masculine as every other part of him. I was careful not to pull too much, but I needed something to grip, some way to express all the clenching my body felt like it had to do. So maybe I tugged a little.
He groaned from deep in his chest, a rumble like an engine straining in low gear, and dropped his hands to my waist so he could yank me hard against his face. I luxuriated in the way his afternoon stubble scraped my curves, but then he soothed the abrasions with his silky mustache and wet tongue. Winding my fingers deep into his hair, I pulled him so close, his nose dented my flesh, and he breathed from my skin. I moved his head to scuff his cheek against me, needing more of that abrasion to counter the softness of his lips. When this ended, I wanted visible proof that he and I had been here in this moment.
His hands clasped my hip bones. Then I felt his thumbs stroke up the creases from deep between my inner thighs and arc out toward my hips. I could feel every pressure point, every connection, and what I wanted was to drape myself all over him. Then my fireman—I never did learn his name—became unexpectedly creative and produced a radio. It was nothing but a black box with a stubby antenna, not a metal whip-stick like cars have, but a rubber-coated probe about six inches long that wiggled back and forth when it bumped something solid. You can imagine what that could be used for, can’t you? It was thinner than a you-know-what, completely unintimidating, and his mouth and mustache were all over my skin, so I didn’t think about it the first time he ran the antenna along the center seam of my jeans. But then— then —holy cow, he rubbed it back and forth right next to the stitching that covered my little button, pressing hard through the layers of fabric. Suddenly, my knees were as liquid as the rest of me. I could barely stand.
At least rescue was here. He settled me sideways on his thigh, with one of his hands supporting my back to lift my breasts closer to that soft lip shag. His other hand stayed between my legs, stroking through the denim and making me want to touch him just as intimately. I wanted to give as much as I received, so I twisted on his lap, but his uniform blocked my quest. Sliding the suspenders off his shoulders was easy, and I tore through those shirt buttons faster than a Corvette. His white T-shirt shifted across his chest as my fingers kneaded through the cotton, echoing how he pushed his own big fingers against my jeans. I found the pips of his nipples under the much-washed fabric, but we weren’t close enough yet. I hadn’t reached his skin.
When I thumbed open the snap at his waist, I discovered that underneath, he wore a pair of regular dark blue pants. It’s possible I muttered a profanity upon encountering another barrier between my hands and his body. No more nice girl fumbling around; I braced on the floor, yanked all those shirts out of his waistband, and shoved the top layer off his shoulders and down his arms, while he twisted free. Then it was the undershirt. Struggling against the fabric that separated us, I wanted those clothes off him, but I also wanted to stop and touch him, an impulse that hindered me from reaching my goal.
The dressing room was loud with our breathing. Maybe we should have worried about someone coming in and catching us, but at last, his chest was bare. His curly hair, a lush trail swirling down across his stomach and gathering like a concert crowd at the top of his pants, drew my palms all over his body. The contrast of that wall of muscle covered with that springy hair is what makes everything between a man and a woman so delicious. Skin to skin, finally, I circled my swinging breasts around and against his chest. I swear I could feel every single bit of the hair furring his tight-packed muscles.
The only barriers between us now were our pants. Clearly, his cock didn’t want to be confined, because when my hands dropped to his waist, his grunt urged me to go faster. He was sucking my breasts, pulling and licking and nipping and so much sucking, so much rubbing. A man’s hands are big and can claim a woman’s territory, but my hands are small and took too long to open his inner fly. When I finally reached my goal, he was as hard as an axe handle. His cock strained to escape both pairs of pants, showing me more length than my hand could cover. Like my engorged tits, his tip was swollen and fiercely blushing. When I stroked him, drops from the end leaked on my palm, matching the liquid I could feel between my own legs. I used my thumb to spread it, and each time I crossed over the hole on his sensitive tip, he hummed into my breasts.
I’ve always loved the shape of a cock in my hand. The way the skin slides up and down separately from the swollen flesh inside the package. The way small movements make a hard man humble. I stroked his cock, driving myself as much as him, until he gripped my knees and repositioned me straddling one of his thighs. I don’t think I could have spread myself across both his legs, not with my jeans already strained at the seams, but I rode that one thigh while he controlled my hips, moving my pussy up and down his tensed muscle, setting our tempo. I heard myself moan like he did. We were falling deeper into the rhythm, both of us. Every time I slid my fist up and down his cock, his mouth suckled and swirled my nipple. The harder he pulled at me, the tighter I closed my fist and dragged on him. Harder suckle, and a tighter squeeze, our pattern was that simple.
It was all too much, but at the same time, not enough. I was circling close, but not getting where I wanted to go. I must have gasped out my need, because then he lifted me to my feet and tackled my jeans. I’ve always been more Tanya Roberts curves than Michelle Pfeiffer skinny, but at least it wasn’t a jaws-of-life job to get that denim over my ass. I wiggled, and he peeled, and then I was naked, even the damp scrap of my panties dropped with the jeans until I stood nude in front of him. His hand cupped my pussy, and he looked up at my face with his flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked, making my heart jump in my chest because it had been so long since we’d spoken.
Looking down in the gap between his forearms, I saw his cock standing full against his bare stomach. Beads of cum dotted the curling hair. The only word I could say was more.
He slicked one of those big fingers along my opening, slipping right over the wet button.
“Want this?” His voice made me think of drizzled chocolate sauce, liquid and flowing and so full of sweetness that it could make all your clothes too tight from nothing but listening.
I grabbed his shoulders and pushed my hips toward the finger-fuck.
“Or do you want a bigger ride?” He thrust his hips, and that cock rose off his stomach into the air, slick and ready. When he looked into my eyes, I knew it would be the ride of my life.
He hadn’t mentioned the third choice, me sucking him down my throat. That was a mighty temptation too, and the fact that he was so focused on what I wanted that he hadn’t even suggested it made me hunger for him. There I was, facing a dilemma. Standing in front of my fireman while he asked what I wanted, I didn’t know what to choose: drop to my knees and worship the fireman’s pole, straddle him like a stallion, or let his fingers find my treasure? Could I have it all? I wish I’d had someone to ask for advice.
What do you think I should have chosen?
Signed, Barbra in Chicago
Looking at several blank lines after that final question, Megan felt disbelief inflate her lungs and press her ribs higher in her chest.
“Readers,” a large typeface below the gap of white space announced, “return this postcard to receive the ending of your choice! Apply the sticker that represents your preferred ending, and Hot Shortz will send you a free personal copy of the rest of Barbra’s letter. Absolutely free and customized for you!”
Fucking exclamation points.
“No postage necessary if mailed in the United States.”
Her underwear felt nearly as sticky as Barbra in Chicago’s while she flipped pages searching for the rest of the story. Nothing, nothing, nothing, fuck that. She returned to the stupid postcard.
“Apply the sticker that represents your preferred ending.” At the top of the white cardstock insert, three reflective silver stickers—she tilted the magazine and of course they were holograms—showed images of a rearing horse, a hand with a pointing finger, and—it took her a moment to process that the third design, a spiral-decorated circular shape with a stick at the bottom, was a lollipop. A fucking lollipop.
Stickers were for preschool, not for adulting. Sending in a hologram lollipop to get a brief ending about a blowjob might have been brilliant marketing in an era of delayed gratification, but this wasn’t the 1980s, wasn’t even the twentieth century. Pick-the-ending stories had seemed clever when she was nine, but she was thirty-five and busy. Besides, the internet meant nobody had to wait for anything, certainly not smut. She wasn’t going to wait. She reached into the box to grab another magazine.
Two strong raps on the door that connected the garage to the house froze her with her hand buried wrist-deep in slick paper.
“Megan?”