The Stock Boy

Her left leg began to tremble and then shake as every muscle in her body seemed to harden. I clasped her tight as she began to convulse so hard I was hard-pressed to keep hold of her. Warm fluid began to drip and then run from her pussy down my shaft and off my balls. My balls tightened, and the muscles of my perineum contracted an electric feeling. I could feel the rush of cum streaming up my cock with each pulse as I threw rope after rope of cum deep into her willing pussy. It felt like a river of cum shot up my cock as I ground my dick on her cunt, to her squeals. Finally, gaining some control of my breathing, I looked up and saw my softened cock slip out, and a stream of cum flowed out of her pussy, dripping onto the floor.

Diane collapsed into my arms, her breathing coming back to normal.

"Oh, that was amazing, thank you," she said and pulled me into a kiss.

"Thank you," I replied, cut off as she drew me into another kiss.

She gently pulled my hands from her breasts, noticing the puddle, and giggled, "Clean up on aisle two, stock boy."

We both laughed, although the puddle was good-sized.

"I suppose we need to get you home. We don't want your mother to worry," she said sadly.

I had to agree, but I did grab the mop and gave the evidence of our fucking a quick once over. Unfortunately, the floor was so dirty because Charlie never gave any importance to cleaning that the spot I cleaned stood out like a sore thumb. Well, I wasn't going to spend the time cleaning the entire floor, so I thought, "fuck it," laughing.

"So much cum," she exclaimed as she looked at her pussy still dripping. "My panties are going to be soaked. It's a nice reminder of this evening, though," she chuckled.

We dressed and went to the door hand in hand. I locked up, and still hand in hand on this warm late August night, we walked across the parking lot to the car. As I drove, we held hands. In front of Mrs. Miller's, we sat as we always did. I could see her delicate panties, the wet cum rendering them nearly transparent, and the scent of cum and sex filling the warm late summer night. I didn't want this night to end, but everything must come to an end.

It ended with a passionate deep tongue-filled kiss, a blown kiss as she stood at the car door before closing, and I heard her say, "I'll miss you."

I don't remember the excuse now that I told my mother about being so late. All I remember is she bought it, or at least I think she did.

The next day I was on days for just four hours. It was my last day, and I half thought of saying "fuck it" and staying home. The Protestant work ethic my parents had instilled in me was too strong, and I pulled up my big boy briefs and went to work. Probably a good part of the reason was that Diane usually worked the same day shifts I did, so I expected her to be there. She usually had to come in at eight, and I came in at ten. I got to work, and strangely Diane wasn't upfront, so I went to the break room. The smear on the floor from our activities the previous night was still there and made me smile. Julie, one of the married middle-aged women who made up the majority of the cashiers, was reading a magazine on the couch in the very spot where I had fucked Diane the night before. It, too, caused me to smile.

"Where's Diane?" I asked, "Isn't she on today?"

The woman looked at me and scowled.

"That slut quit. She gave notice a couple of weeks ago," Julie spat out. "Good riddance to bad rubbish," she said as she returned to her magazine.

"Why didn't she tell me that last night?" I thought.

I was confused, but I knew where she lived, so I determined to go and visit her and ask her out right after work. After all, I was going to college, but I was going locally and would be around. She was so fucking hot I had to have more. So in the heat of the usual battle at work, I put it out of my mind.

I had to wait for Charlie to get my last check, and following his custom, he was late. When he arrived, he yelled at me, saying I was a worthless employee and he shouldn't give me anything. Unfortunately for him, the union shop steward was on. Most women at the time were somewhat reserved and timid. Marie was unusual for the times. If you looked in the dictionary under "don't fuck with me," you would find Marie's picture. Charlie had tried for years to get rid of her, but the union protected her, and she loved to put his blood pressure on the moon. After a heated exchange, the furious Charlie threw my check at me, stomping out. Most people, after a confrontation this intense, would have been shaking. Marie was smiling like the Cheshire cat getting congratulations all around.

I walked to my car and drove to Mrs. Miller's, parking out front. Mrs. Miller answered my knock on the door. She was a woman, five feet nothing, with the usual elderly hump on her back, and used a cane. Like all people her age, Mrs. Miller looked tired. She was well-known as a past public librarian who had retired some years before.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Miller. Could I speak to Diane, please," I said, using my most polite tone.

She scowled and said, "Diane isn't here."

"Oh," I said, surprised. "Do you know when she'll be back?"

"Dear boy, she doesn't live here anymore. She moved out this morning."

Stunned, I stood there like a jackass with my mouth open.

Shaking my head, I continued in mounting desperation, "Do you know where she went, a forwarding address?"

"No, dear, all she said was something about California," she said, shrugging.

Gut punched, I managed to nod and say, "Thank you."

Turning, I went to my car and sat for quite a while before I could drive. I never saw or heard from Diane again.

It has been most of a lifetime since then. As they say, a lot of water has gone under the bridge. There was marriage, kids, and now grandkids. There were good times and bad times and unremarkable times that were too mundane to be remembered. All of those people, places, and times that, woven together, make up what we call our lives. Now, in the final chapters of that novel, I often sit alone in the evening, bathed in the flickering firelight of the fireplace. Sometimes, as I take the first sip of my third Scotch, the ice gently tinkling in the glass, something knocks on the door of the cells that hold her memory, and I smile.