“What’s on your mind, Abby?” I asked, citing the question she said George asked, word for word.
She looked up. A guilty grin was plastered on her face. “Nothing.”
“You were doing that hair thing,” I said. “So, you were thinking about something.”
“Are we being truthful?” she asked mockingly.
I shrugged. “Let’s try it for a while.”
Her mouth twisted into a smirk. “I was thinking about what you said earlier.”
I raised my brows in interest. “Which part?”
“About the pie,” she deadpanned. “I think I’m ready to give it a try.”
It wasn’t what I was hoping for. Seeing her devour a pie would be entertaining. Watching her writhe in sexual bliss while I shoved her full of cock would be better. I reached for my wallet, hoping the blood would drain from my stiff dick before I stood.
“Fine,” I whined. “Pie it is.”
She gave a coy smile and turned to the side. “I was thinking about the sex, silly.”
Now, instead of me torturing her, she was tormenting me. “What about it?” I asked, shoving the heel of my palm against my stiff dick.
“It’s been a long time for me,” she admitted. “Thinking about it is nice.”
Thinking about it was nice. Doing it would be better. Much better. I wondered if she was as deep in thought as I was.
“Is your pussy wet?” I asked.
Her face blushed instantly. She choked on her attempt to respond. After taking a drink of water, she recovered enough to speak.
“What?” she asked.
“You heard me.” I gestured to her lap with a nod of my head. “Your pussy. Is. It. Wet?”
She swallowed heavily. Her head nodded ever so slightly.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I slid to the edge of the booth, so she could see my lap. With my eyes locked on her, I nodded toward my stiff dick. “I could hammer nails with this thing.”
Without argument or hesitation, she took a lingering look.
“So, I’ll ask again,” I said. “What’s it going to be? Pie or this?”
“That is tempting.” She shifted her eyes from my cock to my face. “But I’m going to have to stick with the pie. At least for now.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was trying to coerce a died-in-the-wool prick tease to give me some pussy. “We’re both adults,” I fumed. “You’ve got a wet pussy, and I’m rocking some serious wood. Explain to me why you want to eat fucking pie.”
“I just want to get to know you a little more before we take it to the next level,” she said. “So, for now, it’s going to have to be pie.”
“Fine,” I huffed. I pulled out my wallet and flipped through the bills. “You want to follow me to my place?”
“Do you have a pecan pie?”
Being turned down for sex would normally be my signal to pay the bill and leave. With Abby, however, I had no intention of walking away. My cock wanted to fuck her, but my brain wasn’t opposed to getting to know her better. I decided to merge the two and agree to watch her eat a pie, but only after she rode on the back of my bike. Nothing stimulated sexual desire more than a ride on a Harley.
“No, but you’re going to ride on the back of my bike to get the pie. You’ve got your rules, and I’ve got mine. You can leave your car at my place.”
“You can follow me to my place,” she said. “I’ll gladly park my car and get on that bike again.”
Her tone let me know I was headed in the right direction. I tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table and stood, hoping her pie-eating efforts fell within the getting to know me slot.
If not, the agony associated with my brain tumor wasn’t going to be limited to headaches.
89
Abby
I was in desperate need of some dick, and had been for a long, long time. I wanted Porter to be the guy to take me out of my sexless slump, but I needed to make sure I was stepping out of the single life for all the right reasons. Sexually frustrated to the point of a meltdown, I exercised restraint and settled for devouring a pecan pie.
It seemed like a responsible decision.
We decided to ride to Julian, California. My first ride with Porter was an awakening, of sorts. The ride to Julian Pie Company was different. After the sexual innuendos, blowjob banter, and the glimpse of Porter’s massive manhood, I was a horny mess.
When I got on the motorcycle, I was already soaking wet. One hour into the ride, the motorcycle’s vibration had me on the verge of an orgasm. I spent the next thirty minutes with my eyes cinched closed, my mind adrift, and my soaking wet pussy at the mercy of an eight-hundred-pound vibrator. During that half-hour ride, my sexual tension increased to an all-time high.
In my daydream, Porter’s face was buried between my legs. He ate me while I ate slice after slice of pie. I was truly in heaven – both in my dream, and in reality.
The last fifteen minutes of the trip were in stop and go traffic, during which time I couldn’t find my happy place. Frustrated, I opened my eyes and tried to regain my composure.
Much to my surprise, we’d arrived in the small town. I fidgeted in my seat. Nothing seemed to relieve the tension that had built within me. I was soaking wet and my pussy was begging for attention.
“What the fuck are you doing back there?” Porter snarled.
“Trying to get comfortable,” I whined.
“With you thrashing around like that, it’s not easy to keep this son-of-a-bitch on the road,” he growled. “We’ll be there in five minutes. Sit. Still.”
I lifted my weight from the seat, stuffed my dress under my thighs, and sat down. “Sorry,” I huffed.
For the first time since we’d exited the highway, I surveyed my surroundings. Short of the cars that lined the narrow streets, the town looked like something from the turn of the nineteenth century.
Wooden buildings with porches that hung over the entrance, homes that had been converted to craft shops, and residences that doubled as restaurants lined the streets. We came to rest at a pie shop that looked like a century old New England cottage. He turned off the engine and lowered the kickstand.
I was excited to get to know Porter, but I was mentally exhausted. I’d been daydreaming about him eating my pussy for the entire two-hour ride. Sexually frustrated and still soaking wet, I climbed off the motorcycle and brushed the wrinkles from my dress.
He hung his helmet on the handlebars, looked at the pie shop’s small covered patio, and then at me. “You ready?”
Before I could answer, his eyes darted to the motorcycle seat. “What the fuck is that?”
He reached toward the seat.
I shifted my gaze to the area in question. Upon seeing it, embarrassment balled up in my throat. The leather was slathered in what appeared to be proof of my joyous ride. He dragged his finger across the slippery surface, wiping a clean path through the six-inch wide wet spot I’d left there.
A prickly feeling crept up my neck. My face flashed hot. With his focus on his finger, and mine on him, I held my breath as he moved his hand toward his mouth.
Oh. My God. Please. Lick it. I’m begging you.
With my mouth agape and my mind in the gutter, I followed the movement of his hand as it moved closer and closer to his face. He straightened his finger. His lips parted. The instant the tip of his tongue touched the juice covered digit, my legs went weak.
His eyes thinned. He licked it again and then looked at me. “Enjoy the ride?”
I nodded. A full-on blush enveloped me. Instead of playing the embarrassed innocent, I decided to simply own it.
“I had a good time,” I said, cocking my hip as I spoke. “Is that a crime?”
“I’ll tell you what the crime is.” He wiped the palm of his hand over the remnants of my sexual daydream-infused ride. “Letting this go to waste.”
Just when I thought my degree of sexual agony couldn’t worsen, it did. In an overly dramatic fashion, he licked his hand clean. As
if it were a daily occurrence, he then turned toward the sidewalk that led to the pie shop.
“You ready to eat that pie?” he asked.
“I’m ready for you to eat my pie,” I responded, saying what was on my mind before I could get my brain to stop my mouth from spewing out the words.
“You tortured me by making me agree to do this,” he said. “I don’t give a single solitary fuck how horny you got on the ride up here. It’s my turn to torture you. We’re eating fucking pie.”
He took a few long strides toward the entrance. “C’mon.”
Eating an entire pie sounded like a great idea when we talked about it in the sushi restaurant. Now it seemed a complete waste of an afternoon. Nonetheless, I followed Porter up the sidewalk, second-guessing my denial of his offer to have sex the entire way. My dripping wet pussy agreed.
Once inside the nostalgic establishment, I was met by an old-school glass pie display case that was filled with various pies. My mouth watered at the sight of the flaky crust and the aroma of the fresh pies. As I ogled the pies, Porter stepped to the counter.
“I’d like one slice of the boysenberry apple crumb, and an entire pecan pie, please,” Porter said.
“A slice of boysenberry apple, and a whole pecan pie?” the lady asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Any toppings?” she asked, pointing to a sign that was suspended over her head.
I glanced at the sign. There were two ice cream options – vanilla and cinnamon, caramel sauce, cinnamon sauce, whipped cream, and cheddar cheese.
“Cinnamon ice cream on top of the boysenberry, please,” Porter responded without looking at the sign. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want anything on your pie?”
Still struggling to rid myself of lingering sexual thoughts, I simply shook my head. “No, thank you.”
“You don’t want the pecan pie boxed?” the lady asked.
Porter smiled. “No, ma’am. She’s going to eat it.”
Her eyes went wide. “She can’t eat an entire pecan pie. That’s impossible.”
“According to her, she can eat it,” Porter assured her. “We’ve got a bet.”
She was a middle-aged woman that looked like she belonged in a nineteen sixties television sitcom. Her short graying hair was fixed in a series of close curls, and she wore an apron that was dusted with flour. Halfway up the bridge of her nose, a pair of glasses rested.
She peered over the tops of the lenses and fixed her eyes on me. “Sweetheart, you’re going to get sick if you eat an entire pie.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“Have you done this before?” she asked.
“I ate seven hotdogs once,” I admitted. “Not on a bet. Just because.”
“That’s a far cry from eating one of our pecan pies. I wish you the best of luck.” She offered a reassuring smile. “Anything to drink?”
I stepped to Porter’s side. “Milk, please.”
He draped his arm over my back and squeezed my shoulder, pulling me into him as he did so. It was a simple gesture and I doubted he meant anything by it. My heart – and my slowly recovering lady bits – seemed to think otherwise.
I looked at him with the intention of asking – playfully – what the hell he was doing. Instead, a face-splitting smile formed. He squeezed my shoulder with his massive hand and grinned in return.
Lost in blissful thoughts of the moment we shared, I walked at Porter’s side as he carried the pies, admiring him along the way. Once outside, he gestured toward an empty table with a nod. “How’s that one?”
Patrons of various ages were scattered about the seating area. I was going to become a spectacle while I ate the pie, and there was nothing I could do about it. Even so, I agreed to sit in the seat he recommended.
“It’s fine,” I said.
Porter seemed, at least during our pie-eating adventure, to be kind, playful, and extremely polite. Those qualities, when combined with his intimidating looks and massive size, garnered my interest. All of it.
I wanted to get back on the orgasm machine. Or go order another pie and have him put his arm around me. We could ride around the countryside, stopping every fifteen miles or so for him to lick the seat free of my juices.
I could simply bring up the topic of sex and see if it aroused him as much as it did in the sushi restaurant, stealing glances under the table at his crotch as we talked. I had no interest, however, in the pie that sat between us.
“I’m pretty full.” I pushed myself away from the table and looked at the pie with disgust. “That sushi is swelling in my belly.”
Acting disinterested in the comment I’d made, Porter cut the tip from his pie. He lifted it to his mouth and paused.
“You said you wanted to get to know me.” He nodded toward the pecan pie. “While we’re eating we can get started on getting to know one another. What do you detest? What aggravates you?”
“Surprises,” I responded without much thought. “I hate surprises.”
He seemed surprised. “Really?”
“Yep. Can’t stand them,” I said through gritted teeth. “They make me itch. I’m itching right now just talking about it. What about you? What do you detest?”
“Liars,” he responded. “Just tell me the truth, no matter what you think I want to hear. If someone out and out lies to me, it’s over.”
“I can’t stand them, either,” I admitted. “Liars suck.”
He studied me for a moment, cut off a piece of pie, and then paused. “I want to know three things. One, what’s your all-time favorite song, and why. Two, I want to know if you were required to put one saying on your headstone what it would be. And, three, what’s the item on your little list that likely going to be the last one you achieve.”
I loved question-answer games. By asking those three simple questions, Ghost Porter-Porter inched a little closer to my heart. Two of the questions were going to be easy to answer. The third, not so much.
“My favorite song is from a movie,” I said. “At least that’s where I heard it first. Solsbury Hill, by Peter Gabriel. I like it because it’s perfect. It’s written in imperfect time – a seven-four beat – which makes it feel like it’s missing a beat in every measure. It sounds like the song is struggling to continue. It was his first song as a solo artist, and I wonder if he was struggling to continue at that time as well. I find it to be a spiritual song, but it doesn’t feel like he’s shoving spirituality down your throat when you listen to it. I love it. It’s uplifting.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that song.” He sliced the tine of his fork through the ice cream-pie mixture. “I’m not a spiritual person, maybe that’s why.”
“The song has spiritual meaning, but it’s not a spiritual song. I’ll play it for you sometime,” I said. “It’s awesome.”
“Keep going.” He rolled his hand in a circle as if he were bored. “There’s two more.”
His admittance of not being spiritual troubled me. I wondered how he’d ever make it through cancer treatment without having a good relationship with God. I couldn’t comprehend what it would be like, and the more I thought about it, the more bothered about it I became. I decided I’d ask about it later.
At least for the time being, I felt I needed to stick with the questions he’d asked of me. The next one was easy to answer. I’d given it considerable thought, long before meeting Porter. As far as I was concerned, it was the perfect epitaph. “If I had to put a saying on my headstone, it’d say, it’s not that bad.”
“It’s not that bad?” He laughed. “What’s not that bad?”
“Everything,” I said. “Life. Cancer. Whatever troubles you. Death. It’s not that bad. I thought the saying would make people wonder as they looked at my headstone, especially about death. When I was diagnosed, I came to peace with death quickly. I wasn’t afraid to die, and I don’t think other people should be, either. It’s not that bad.”
“I like it. It covers a lot of ground,” he sa
id. “I might paint that shit on the fender of my bike.”
I smiled. “Do it.”
He set his fork down on the side of his plate. After studying me, he drew a slow breath and then looked away. A moment of awkward silence followed. Then, he met my gaze.
“What’s your status?” he asked. “Now? With cancer?”
“It’s gone,” I replied. “I had an odd blood cancer. They cured it with treatment.”
He gave me a look of disbelief. “Why do you go to the meetings?”
“It’s important for survivors to go,” I explained. “It’s the equivalent of a sober man going to an AA meeting. It gives those just stepping in a ray of hope. My experiences help others.”
He nodded. “I see.”
“Can I ask what your diagnosis is?” I asked.
“I’ve got a brain tumor,” he said as if it were no big deal. “Still don’t know much.”
“Treatment is a wonderful thing,” I said.
The look on his face changed from acknowledgement to indifference. His cheeks lost their color.
I reached for his hand. “Remember, it’s not that bad.”
He forced a crooked smile. “Number three?”
He’d eaten half his pie, and I hadn’t so much as touched mine. I gestured toward his plate with a nod. “Let me get caught up, and then I’ll answer.”
With little effort, I gobbled down two pieces of pie. I’d eaten plenty of pecan pie in the past, none of which came close to the quality of what I was eating. I reached for another piece. “How did you find out about this place.”
He pulled the fork past his tightened lips, wiping it clean as he removed it from his mouth. “We ride up here all the time.”
“We?”
“I ride in a motorcycle club. We come up here as a group.” He chuckled. “A couple of the guys really like pie.”
“Are you one of them?” I asked. “The pie lovers?”
“Pies are a lot like women,” he said. “A man can live the rest of his life without one as long as he’s never reminded of their existence. However, once one is placed in front of him there’s not much else that matters.”
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