Nine-to-Five Fantasies

by Alison Tyler

  But he reaches out with a napkin to wipe it off. He can’t take his eyes off me. I lean in toward the window but it’s a little awkward.

  “Come around,” he says, and he nods to the door at the back of the van.

  I bite my lip. I’m going in the ice-cream van. He opens the door to the candy-colored fantasy world within.

  I am inside the ice-cream van, and he is so close to me in this tiny space. He wipes the sprinkles from my nose, and then we stand slightly apart. Not looking at each other. Not knowing what to say.

  “Ah, so this is the ice-cream machine,” I say, because saying anything, no matter how banal and lame is better than standing around in silence. I absently play with the handle.

  “Be careful,” he says, “it’s a bit trigger-happy.” He sweeps a lock of hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. As he moves, the van rocks slightly.

  He is really fucking close to me now, so close he brushes against me. Almost close enough for me to feel the beating of his heart. What do I do? Should I leave? Should I stay? Should I throw my arms around him and shamelessly begin?

  He inspects me with a scrunched-up face. Then he puts his finger in the sprinkles container and wipes some on my nose. He steps back, sucking on his sprinkle finger, and leans his head to the side in appraisal.

  “Sprinkles suit you.”

  His smile is goofy, and I can’t help but smile back. Then he leans over and licks the sprinkles off my nose.

  He is slightly shorter than me but that is not a problem when we kiss. I stroke his hair, and it feels so soft. His kiss is gentle and sweet and that bottom lip is like a life raft to stop me drowning. I press harder against him, but he doesn’t respond. He continues with his sweet, gentle kisses as though he has his own pace, which won’t be hurried.

  “Do you like that, Sprinkle Girl?” he whispers.

  “Sprinkle Girl?”

  “My name for you is Sprinkle Girl.”

  I laugh. “Okay, Ice-Cream Boy.” I laugh some more. Sprinkle Girl and Ice-Cream Boy: we sound like a cartoon crime-fighting duo.

  “Is that funny, Sprinkle Girl?” he asks, then bites on my earlobe.

  I press against his body, which is as hard and lean as I imagined, and nuzzle into his lime- and coconut-scented hair. He bites harder, enough to make me yelp in pain.

  “You taste good, Sprinkle Girl,” he says, and his voice is breathy and hoarse.

  He sucks on his finger again and then dips it in the sprinkles. I hope that he isn’t intending on using those leftover sprinkles on some kid’s ice cream tomorrow. Then he paints a line of sprinkles down my chest and I stop thinking as he licks them off.

  When he kisses me again, it’s firm and rough, not gentle like before. I am pressed up against the counter. I wrap my fingers in his hair. He’s got an air of sweetness like the sugary ice cream has permeated his skin, and his mouth tastes of rainbow sprinkles.

  He lifts me up onto the counter. I’d have thought I’d be too heavy for him to lift, he is such a scant boy, but he lifts me as though I weigh nothing at all and I realize those aren’t just air muscles.

  When he removes my shoes and rubs my feet, I lean back against the window, reveling in the bliss, but the glass rattles behind me and I shoot forward. Ice-Cream Boy grasps my ankle and tickles his fingers along the arch until I wonder how I ever enjoyed being with anybody else.

  His hands move up my legs, stroking and circling and tickling. I balance wonkily on the edge of the counter but the feeling of his hands on my knees and his mouth against my skin makes me tingle with the anticipation of what is to come. He reaches up under my skirt, his head resting between my knees, and soon his hands work their way around to my inner thighs.

  “You are so soft here, Sprinkle Girl,” he tells me, and he reaches over for more sprinkles.

  As he presses the sprinkles on my legs, he says, “I knew you’d be here tonight.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s been two weeks. Two weeks is the longest anyone can resist me.” He grins up at me then begins licking the sprinkles from my thighs.

  Ice-Cream Boy is more arrogant than I’d imagined—I laugh but I can’t deny his claim.

  As his tongue moves higher up my legs, I sigh and relax, and the glass rattles again. Bam, like it’s going to fall right out of the frame. I jolt forward, reaching for something to stabilize myself, something close and solid.

  What my hand has clenched around is the handle of the machine and, before I realize it, I’ve knocked that lever down. The soft serve oozes out, squishes through my hands and splats around the van—big globs of white cream—on the roof, on the wall, on the front of his T-shirt.

  We both giggle loudly then fall silent. He shakes his head to flick the drops of ice cream from it and we stare at each other, then he grabs my hand and sucks the ice cream from my fingers. The way he licks is like a cat, tongue darting in and out of his mouth.

  He peels off my top and rubs ice cream over my breasts. The cold sensation against my hot skin is magical—my skin is goose-bumped from the cold and from desire—but soon the ice cream melts in sticky rivulets that run down my belly. He laps them up, moving quickly up to my breasts. He covers my sticky ice-cream breasts in sprinkles, and I wait for him to lick the confectionary off.

  Instead he reaches for his phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a photo.” He winks.

  The hell he is. Next I thing I know that will be on Twitter and going viral. I’m not having the world looking at my ice-cream-sprinkled boobs.

  He snaps.

  “Give me that. Delete that photo now!”

  I jump off the bench and try to snatch the phone out of his hand. He laughs and raises his hand above his head so I can’t reach it. As I jump, the van wobbles. I squeal, and while he is distracted, I poke him in the stomach so that he drops the phone. I grab it and look at the photo. It’s not bad and you can’t see my face. He can keep it.

  Before I can say anything though, he pushes me against the wall of the van, holding my wrists. He takes the phone back then finally gets around to sucking my rainbow-candy nipples. And he is strong. Too strong for me to resist.

  He licks my breasts clean while I arch my body toward him. I want him sucking harder, rougher, but his touch is teasing. I start to realize that Ice-Cream Boy, for all his prettiness and charm, is not to be taken lightly.

  “So sweet,” he murmurs as his lips move from left to right. “Luscious.”

  He bites on my nipple, hard and sharp nips, and I grab him by the waist, my thumb probing the curve where his hip bone rises from his jeans. It’s not just the ice cream that is sticky and wet but all of me, especially when he pulls down my panties and works his long, ice-cream-cold fingers between my legs. And all the while, he watches my face with a cheeky grin.

  “Are you melting, Sprinkle Girl?” he teases.

  How do I respond? Yes, I’m melting. I want to bite him, to sink my teeth into his neck. I want to lick and suck and taste him but he holds me back. It is him working me, and all I can do is thrash and moan. I am indeed melting.

  The lights of the van flicker on and off; I want to close my eyes but he won’t let me, tells me to open them, to watch him, to watch his face. So I watch his face, I watch every bit of lust and arrogance flicker across it.

  When he stops, I whimper. He strips off his T-shirt and peels off his jeans so that he stands before me with just a medallion on a chain around his neck and chunky rings on his fingers. He juts out his left hip and displays himself for my admiration. I have never had a man display himself like that for me before. Everything about him is long and lean except his thick, hard cock. Everything about him pleases me.

  Soon he has me back up on the counter with my legs spread wide and the stainless steel edge cutting into my thighs. I wonder if this is hygienic. After all, it’s a food preparation area. But I don’t think too much or protest because I want him inside me.

  He slides h
is cock into me and it fits just right, as though out of all the cocks in the world, this one has been custom-made just for me.

  He brings his face close to mine now and stands, not moving. It is such exquisite agony. I hold my breath and my fingers grip tight to the edge of the bench. I don’t want to be the first to move.

  But I can’t control my twitching hips and I can’t control the moans and I can’t control my need to touch him.

  I reach out and stroke his face, the skin soft and smooth. That’s enough of a sign for him. He pounds me hard and each thrust makes the van rock and the cones and cups and plastic straws from the upper shelves rain down on us, tumbling onto the floor. I laugh because it’s so crazy and dazzling and he’s so very pretty even with his face twisted up while fucking me.

  “Mmm…you feel nice, Sprinkle Girl.”

  I lean back against the window with its rattles that grow in intensity, but I am safe with Ice-Cream Boy. He reaches for handfuls of soft serve to spread across my body, smearing the cold, creamy mess on my skin. He rubs and licks and squeezes my nipples while fucking me but, with each thrust, he looks into my eyes as though challenging me to believe that anyone could be this good.

  The air is alive with sugar and sex and pleasure.

  As I come, I twist my fingers in his hair and scream “Ice-Cream Boy, Ice-Cream Boy!” I slide on the counter but his fingers hold me tight and he stays with me until I can stand it no longer and I scream for him to stop.

  When finally he pulls his cock from inside me, globs of white cream spray up just like the soft serve earlier, hitting the walls and hitting my belly where they mix with the ice-cream mess. His grin now is lopsided but with little trace of shame. I am covered in melted, semen-flavored soft serve and it just seems so completely funny that all we can do is laugh.

  When I come to my senses, I want to shower and clean this mess off me. My singlet is buried under a pile of paper cups; the skirt hangs from the freezer. Ice-Cream Boy opens a cupboard and hands me a roll of paper towels but that just makes it worse.

  Before I can run inside to clean myself up, he grabs my wrist.

  “Where are you going, Sprinkle Girl?” he asks. He bites my earlobe again. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  I see the sign on the back of the van door: OFTEN LICKED, NEVER BEATEN.

  Nodding at it, we giggle again.

  So I slide into the passenger seat beside him, and we drive away with the music playing. Ice-Cream Boy and Sprinkle Girl, hungry for more adventures.

  CLOSE SHAVE

  Alison Tyler

  There was no reason on earth for me to enter the barbershop. I’m a girl, after all, and this place was clearly for men only. Not that there was a sign stating the rules—one of those internationally understood outlines adorning bathroom doors. But the attitude was drenched in testosterone. In the window, a cactus grew obscenely out of a ceramic pair of pants—a prickly penis, if you will. Old Playboys died faded deaths on the sun-drenched table. Shiny retro barber chairs stood in a row like good little soldiers.

  But none of that mattered.

  I only wanted him.

  Whenever I closed my eyes, there he was. A relic, like those chairs. Good looking in an old-fashioned way that suited the place. He had black, slicked-back hair. Sailor Jerry tattoos on his forearms. A razor strop hanging from his station. He did men’s cuts and shaves. With a fluffy brush and warm towels. Like in the old days—old days long before he was born.

  I had no reason to enter the barbershop, but I stepped inside when I knew he’d be by himself. I’d walked by the shop often enough to have memorized the hours he worked.

  He glanced around helpfully. Obviously, I’d come into the wrong place. I couldn’t be looking for my boyfriend or husband because there was nobody else there. I couldn’t be looking for a cut, because I was a woman. That’s what his eyes told me in the split second of silence between us. But I took a deep breath and sat in his chair.

  “Ma’am—” he started.

  “Oh no. Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” I said quickly. “I’m not married.”

  “Miss—” he tried next.

  I shook my head. “Miss” was too young. Too girly. And here I was, about to ask for a shave.

  “We’re not one of those…those unisex salons.” There. He’d done his job. He’d warned me off. He waited for me to climb out of his chair, apologize for my error, be on my way.

  “I don’t want unisex,” I said, “but I do want sex.”

  He met my eyes in the mirror. I didn’t look away.

  “I’m here by myself,” he said.

  “I don’t want to fuck the two old guys,” I told him, explaining what I thought was obvious. “I want to fuck you.”

  He had to laugh. “Those old guys are my dad and my uncle.”

  “Then it’s a good thing they’re not here,” I said. “Or maybe I’d get you in trouble.” I eyed the strop. He saw where I was looking.

  “I wouldn’t be the one to get in trouble,” he said. “You’re talking like a girl who needs to be taken out behind the woodshed.”

  Those words let me know I’d chosen correctly. This was the right man. He would give me what I needed. But then he looked at the clock on the wall above the mirrors and said, “You have to go.”

  I didn’t budge. I had saved up all my self-confidence for this moment. I was not leaving without the correct change.

  He licked his lip. He was wavering. I could feel his will begin to shake.

  “I’ve seen you,” he said.

  I nodded. “Twice a day. When I walk that way to work.” I pointed. “And that way home.”

  “You always glance inside.”

  “Always,” I agreed.

  “Come back later. Tonight. Nine o’clock.”

  I slid out of the chair. Then I leaned up on my tiptoes and kissed him. There was that cactus erection in the window, men’s magazines featuring girls who had gotten their implants long before I’d lost my training wheels, and then there were the two of us. He kissed me back, almost in spite of himself, and said, “You have to go.”

  “I’ll see you at nine. For my shave.”

  I winked at him before hurrying from the shop.

  I’d been planning this tryst for months. I’d learned everything I could about Tommy. I knew he wasn’t seeing anyone. My coworker Chelsea was friendly with his sister. She had told me about the women he dated. Those goody-two-shoes types who fit the cookie-cutter mold of what ladies’ magazines tell us of how women are supposed to behave. That wasn’t me. I’d never be one of them. I’d given up trying a long time ago.

  But I knew I was his type. His real type. All I wanted was for him to spread shaving cream all over my pussy and zip away the fur with a razor. I wanted to feel the warm towels after. And then—oh yes—I wanted to feel his tongue.

  Chelsea had told me he only dated girls his family approved of. Chelsea insisted I would never get that nod of approval. I didn’t care about any of that. I only wanted him.

  When I returned at nine, the store was closed. The sign said so, hanging off-kilter in the door. But I didn’t believe the sign. I saw a light on in the back, and I opened the door, the bell overhead jangling to announce my entrance. Tommy walked in from the rear, and he didn’t seem surprised to see me, but he did seem pleased.

  “What did you mean about the shave?”

  On the table was a bottle of wine and two glasses. I hadn’t noticed that before. He lowered the shades and I poured myself some red. The Playboys were gone, too. He’d cleaned up the place for me.

  “I mean,” I said, “a shave.” I sat on the leather couch in front of the coffee table, and I spread my legs.

  “This isn’t happening,” he said.

  I hiked up my skirt. “You do shaves,” I said. “I need a shave.”

  “You need to put some panties on is what you need to do. This isn’t how girls are supposed to behave.”

  “I’m not the kind of girl who behaves,” I said
.

  He seemed torn for a minute. And I was thrilled when he walked to my side and dragged his thumb roughly between my pussy lips. Swollen. Juicy. He licked his thumb and looked at me, and then he said, “This isn’t how things work.”

  “No? Not in the boys’ world? Where the men call the shots?”

  “Not in my world,” he said, defensively. “I’m not used to a woman being in charge.”

  “What are you used to?” I was thinking of the world I’d grown up in: men smoking out on the stoop and the women in the kitchen. Lace doilies on the backs of armchairs. Framed pictures of faraway places that nobody would ever visit on the walls.

  He was the one to surprise me. He sat at my side on the sofa and pulled me over his lap. “I like to take the first step,” he said. “Ask the girl out. Take her on a date. Bring her flowers. See if there’s chemistry.”

  “Clearly, there’s chemistry,” I said to the sofa. “You tasted for yourself.”

  “But you’re so forward,” he said. “That can’t go unpunished. I mean, I don’t even know your name.”

  My pussy clenched. This wasn’t how I’d envisioned the fantasy at all. I’d thought I would shock him, that he would appreciate a girl with a little spunk. But I hadn’t expected this—his hand on my ass, delivering a blistering, over-the-knee spanking within moments of me entering his shop.

  “Every time you walked past,” he said, and he punctuated each word with a slap, “I thought of doing this. Your skirts are too short, do you know that?” He was tanning my hide with his big, strong palm and I couldn’t respond. The way my clit felt bumping against his knee was sublime. But finally I managed, “Too short for what?”

  “Too short for your own good,” he said, and he pushed me from his lap so I was on the floor, looking at him. His erection was outlined beneath his slacks. I started to come forward, so I could undo his fly, release his cock. I wanted to suck him. I could practically feel his cockhead in my mouth. So I was shocked when he pushed me away.

  “You know what you need?”

  “Your cock.”

  He grimaced at me, and I said, “Oh, what? Girls in your world don’t say the word cock? Or maybe they don’t suck it. Wouldn’t want to spoil their lip gloss.”