Selena Kitt

Tickled Pink

Cold Day In Hell

The wind chill factor, that's what they said on the radio-made you feel like it was well below zero, even when the thermometer read somewhere in the teens. It didn't seem so bad when Matt and I were snuggled up in bed and I hit the snooze on the radio alarm for the third time. So class was a mile walk-I'd just bundle up.

"I'm going to get it running today, I promise," he told me when he kissed me goodbye and sent me on my way. Lucky bastard didn't have any Friday classes.

"Yeah right." I rolled my eyes. Of course, I didn't believe him for a minute. We'd been married six months, and for five of those, our little brown Dodge Dart hadn't even started, let alone run! "It will be a cold day in hell…"

"Maybe today’s cold enough?" He grinned and I flipped him off on the way out the door.

It didn't matter so much when the weather was nice, but now that it was cold, I hated walking everywhere. By the time I got to my poetry class, I couldn't feel my fingers, even through two pairs of gloves. My nose and cheeks were so red, and I sniffled so much, the guy next to me kept handing me Kleenex and asking if I had a cold. My teeth chattered through my reading of Alfred Prufrock, and the professor made me stop and told me to go out in the hall to buy a coffee from the machine.

I was just desperate enough to do it, too. That coffee was like sludge, but it was so hot I could use it just to warm my hands if I wanted to. It really helped, and by the end of class, I could actually feel my toes wiggling in my boots again. I packed everything up as slowly as I could, drinking the last of my coffee before pulling my gloves back on.

"Hey, Sara, do you want a ride?"

It was the guy who sat next to me. I could never remember his name, although he clearly knew mine. James? John? At that point, I didn't care-the prospect of a warm car was more temptation than I could resist!

"Yes!" I exclaimed, beaming at him. "I'd love one!"

He talked the whole way back, but I didn't care. I just kept directing him where to turn and cranking up the heat. It was like a furnace blowing over my cheeks, making them tingle, and I was in heaven. When he pulled up to the house, I sat there, shocked, seeing Matt's legs sticking out from under the car.

He’s actually working on it!

"Thanks for the ride," I said to John (James? Damn!), giving him a big smile before climbing out of his truck.

I approached Matt, hearing him swearing softly under the car. Something fell and tinked on the cement. He clearly didn't know I was there, and he cocked one knee up, letting it fall to the side as he whistled some tune. All of a sudden, I had an idea.

"Shhhh, don't say anything," I whispered as I squatted between his legs, glancing around. We were pretty well protected by the side of the house, although someone could see us from the road if they were looking.

I pulled one of my gloves off with my teeth, grasping his zipper and easing it down. It was so cold he was actually wearing long underwear-and I didn't even know he owned any! Quickly, I reached in and found his cock, pulling it free and squeezing it toward hard in my hand.

"You're such a good boy," I murmured, glancing toward the road to see if anyone was approaching. "Coming out here in this awful cold to fix the car… let's warm you up a little."

He made some noise and shifted his weight, but my hand was wrapped tight, working up and down his shaft, making him stand up straight. It didn't take long, really. I pumped him hard and fast, feeling his hips bucking up against me. He was a throbbing tower of heat in my fist, much warmer than a cup of coffee, the friction heating both my hands and his cock. I worked him up and down, my eyes still on the road to make sure no one was watching.

When I heard him groan, I glanced back, and then saw the first hot spurt of cum shooting over my fist. I grabbed him in my other hand, squeezing his cock in my glove, letting him spill over onto the material, cleaning the head with it before tucking him back in and zipping him up.

"Don't stop working," I murmured, putting my bare hand against the crotch of his jeans. "If you get it fixed, I've got an even better reward. I'll be waiting inside with a nice warm pussy for you to fuck, baby."

I gave him a good squeeze and, grinning, headed into the house. I was peeling off my layers and fantasizing about making us hot chocolate and tomato soup when Matt came into the kitchen from the living room, seeing me standing by the side door.

"I'm sorry, baby, you look like you're freezing." He came up and gave me a kiss on my cold, flushed cheek. "But the good news is, I met a mechanic today who said he'd come look at the car, so you won't have to walk anymore."

I blushed red, staring at him, my mouth working but no sound coming out.

"Mechanic?" I finally choked out, glancing over my shoulder when I heard the side door open.

"Found your problem!" The mechanic was a balding guy with a ponytail, and he was grinning right at me. "Now, little lady, how's about that reward?"

Candy Hearts

You crack open a fortune cookie and find: "Help me, I'm stuck in a fortune cookie factory!" Everybody laughs…but do you see people up in arms about it, anyone picketing for the ethical treatment of fortune-cookie workers? Some poor guy makes his one break for it, sends up a desperate flare, casts his little message in a bottle, and we all laugh.

But I tell ya, I know how he feels. I've been pouring pink syrup into a machine for six months now, day after day, and I can't take it anymore. I can sympathize with the guy. There’s nothing more monotonous than working in a food factory. Nothing interesting ever happens. Well, at least most of the time. I have no doubt the people who made the fortune cookies were driving the people who wrote the fortunes just batshit, and the guy cracked and went all Norma Rae on them. (No bad fortune cookie pun intended, I swear it.)

I ask you, what is so entertaining about some poor man's mental anguish?

That dumb-ass "Unwrapped" show on the Food Network came out to film here around Halloween. They've been airing that episode all week, so lucky me, I get to pick up take-out Chinese food on the way home from work and settle in for a little vegging action in front of the TV, and what do I see? My ass bent over tipping syrup into the hopper. Deja-fucking-vu.

If they weren't so small, I'd figure out a way to print a whole truckload of them that read:

Help Me, I'm Stuck in a Candy Heart Making Factory!

So all week long, no one can shut up about it, because I'm the only guy you can see in this little two-minute segment on their nauseating Valentine's Day show-aside from our manager, Sid Vicious. (Ok, so that's just my little pet name for him-but the punk rocker and our fat-ass manager with his big purple Barney ties and pink shirts, I kid you not, have not just a first name in common but a temperament, too. Except I think Vicious was more polite.)

All I hear all week is: "Ooooo Gus is famous now!" and "Hey, candy man, come give me some sugar!" (I admit it, that last line might have been hot, if it were coming from Maureen, Sid's brand new little secretarial acquisition, instead a seven-foot, three-hundred-pound man with a tattoo of a barcode on his forearm who wears Ozzfest t-shirts to work. What can I say? Mr. Big just isn't my type!) Woo-hoo, I'm a freakin'

celebrity, now, right?

So, Valentine's Day comes around, and I can't wait for the fucker to be over with.

That's all I'm thinking as I'm standing there at the hopper, pouring the fourth batch of the day, when she comes up behind me and says there's a problem with the machine down in Text. That's what we call the part of the factory where they have the stampers that put all the messages on the little hearts. Shit like: Kiss Me. Be Mine. They're updating them for the millennium now, Sid announced it this season. We've added Hot Stuf and Cool to the "conversation hearts" shtick.

Now, how is it my business what happens down in Text? I show up and pour syrup. That's my job. That's what I do. But she's standing there in this pink skirt barely covering her ass and a white blouse tied up at her waist, and I can see this girl's got a navel ring, for God's sake, how is anyone supposed to get candy made around here?

So, before I know it, I'm off like some cotton-candy covered knight in a white apron to see if I can fix her problem.

The problem is clear as soon as I get down there. No one's on the floor in Text!

Two people stand on the line and are supposed to go through the candy hearts as they come out the end. Quality control they call 'em. Well, I don't know about that, considering so damned many are stamped cockeyed or with the words half cut off, but I guess it makes sense, in the scheme of things, now that I know what "quality control"

was doing.

As we're standing there, the machine is going bonkers, spewing out candy hearts with no messages or bizarre letter combinations: MsC Me and KsOl LF. The hearts are shooting out of the machine and bouncing off the belt into the floor. One of them hits poor Maureen in the face. Lucky thing she was wearing her little rimless glasses!

So I'm off to figure this one out. Something is clearly jammed somewhere. I pop the emergency "off" switch. That's for when someone gets their hand caught in the machine or something. It alerts the boss in his office, so I'm expecting him to waddle in at any moment as I'm looking over the machine.

Maureen taps my shoulder, and I glance in the direction she's pointing with her little chewed-up pen tip. There, I kid you not, are our two quality control agents behind one of the ovens, working up a sweat. I don't remember her name, although I'm not likely to forget what she looked like bent over with her red skirt up and Mr. Big's cock ramming into her like a piston!

The sound of the conveyer is normally so loud we're all supposed to wear earplugs, although no one does, and now that it's off, I can hear every word they're saying. He's grabbing her hips and fucking her for all he's worth, and she's gripping a piping pole and moaning like all get out.

"Fuck me, fuck me, yeah!" She's practically screaming it, and my face fills with blood as I'm watching, although I think my cock's taken most of the supply. It's straining my zipper and I've never been so glad for my girlie little apron.

I've never seen anything like this, even in porn. They're just going at it like two bunnies, and neither of them has noticed the machines are off, or that we're standing there.

"Come on, take it, you dirty little whore!" he yells and, I kid you not, slaps her ass like he's riding some wild pony.

I'm expecting her to turn around and slug him, but no, she arches her back and goes up on her tiptoes and says, "Yeah, baby, shove that big cock into your little fuckslut!"

Jesus Christ! Does this girl kiss her mother with that mouth? I notice the front of her blouse is open and her tits are swinging free with every pop from Mr. Big.

I look back at Maureen and she's turning as pink as her skirt, looking like she wants to crawl under the belt and hide. I clear my throat, hoping to get their attention, but it's no use.

He slaps her ass in rhythm as he fucks her, and she grinds back on him and screams, "Make me come, baby, fuck me harder!" and I'm pretty sure this whole damned thing is gonna get broken up in less than a minute by Sid Vicious.

I don't wanna be caught standing here watching, so I turn back to the machine, looking for what might be the problem. I'm sure I won't find anything. I mean, I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but at least it looks like I'm doing something.

I hear Sid. He bellows at Maureen, and her cheeks have now surpassed the color of her skirt and have moved into deep shades of red. She looks over her shoulder and sees him coming, then she looks at the couple still fucking their brains out in the corner, and then she looks up at me as I'm leaning over the conveyer belt, like I've got some magic wand I can pull out of my ass or something.

I shrug at her, showing my hands in white flag surrender, and turn back to the machine like the coward I am. I hear Mr. Big growl, "Yeah baby, I'm gonna come in your little fuck box! Are you ready for Daddy's hot cum!?" She's just screaming now. I can tell you for certain there weren't any intelligible words coming from the woman, unless she was speaking alien.

"Jesus Christ in a sidecar! What in the sam hell is going on down here?" Sid is panting and red-faced, looking like a Weeble in pants.

That's when I find it. There's a lacy red bra stuck in the machine.

I pull it out like King Arthur at the stone, turning around and waving it in triumph.

"Here's our problem!"

Maureen stares at it and then looks at Sid, and then back to Mr. Big and red skirt.

Sid's just noticed them and I think they've finally noticed us, at least that's what I gather from the way they're scrambling to untangle themselves and pull their clothes back on.

Red skirt sees me holding her bra up and she rushes forward, reaching over the belt to snatch it out of my hands. I shrug, turning toward Sid and Maureen. He's

sputtering, she's biting her lip, and I just stand there and shove my hands in my pockets and try not to look like I'm sneaking peeks over at red skirt's tits while she's turning around to put her bra back on.

"You two, in my office!" Sid finally explodes, his face like a grape. For a minute, I think he means me and Maureen, but he's waving his arms at Mr. Big and the "fuckslut,"

who turn tail and skulk off in that direction.

"You, get back to the hopper!" he yells, poking his finger into my chest. "And someone turn this machine back on! It's Valentine's Day! We're making candy here!"

So I get back to my post, where I've got to scrap the whole damned fourth batch due to my trip down to Text, and I don't see anyone again until I'm punching out for the day. The time clock's in the office, and I see Maureen sitting at her computer, chewing on her pen. I wave a little and she smiles and waves back, and we say goodnight, but she's flushed and there's no blood in my head because it's all rushing below my belt again.

Maybe being trapped in a candy-heart making factory ain't such a bad thing after all.

Especially on Valentine's Day.

Sleep Study

I never would have known I even I snored, let alone had some sort of sleep apnea issue, if Trish hadn't started sleeping over so often. Really, I didn't mind. The sex was pretty good, thanks to Viagra, and she didn't have too many annoying habits, aside from the yoga thing at six in the morning and the sound of crunching Grape-Nuts across the breakfast table. I guess I had to make concessions. Trish said it kept her at her fighting weight, which was altogether too accurate. Redheads. They were always spitfires.

Trish was the reason I was sitting in a pair of gray shorts on a cold metal table in a dimly lit room with a nurse kneeling in front of me. Really, I had a lot to thank her for, I reasoned, watching the blonde's head tilt back and forth as she attached little sticky circles all over my body. She was a tall, cool drink of water, that one, just a young thing, in her late twenties at the most-just the barest hint of crow's feet when she smiled, and what a smile!

"Okay, Mr. Harris," she murmured, fixing one of the sticky circles to my thigh. "I think that just about does it. Now we have to hook you all up."

"You can call me Charlie." I watched her pull several leads over that were attached to some sort of machine. "Is this gonna hurt?"

"No." She smiled, snapping wires onto the metal connectors plastered over my chest.

"Well, Charlie, I'll be honest with you… it might hurt a little when we take these off you."

"I bet." I watched her kneel again between my legs as she started threading leads through my shorts. "Especially in those… ah… sensitive areas…"

"Yes." She smiled, her pale cheeks flushing prettily. That did it. I was a goner.

"So are you married, Ms. Anne Miller?" I asked, reading her name tag. "Any kids?"

"Yes," she replied, her full breasts brushing my thigh as she leaned around to untangle a wire. "I'm married, but no kids."

I nodded, looking down the curve of her hip as the top to her scrubs pulled up a little, revealing a band of flesh at her waist. Damned scrubs-why didn't nurses dress like stewardesses anymore? Oh right, flight attendants. Times change, I guess. Not always for the better. Still, in spite of the shapeless scrubs, her body filled them out nicely in all the right places. And no kids! No stretch marks, no flabby tummy. My mind wandered to all the wrong places.

"I've got three," I told her. She looked up at me and gave me that polite 'Is that so?' smile people always use during small talk. "I think I've got a daughter about your age. She's twenty-three."