Love For Sale! Short Sex Fiction Erotica
Joe Brewster
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Joe Brewster/Transgressive Fiction
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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oooOOOooo
Joe passed that same ‘Yard Sale’ sign every summer day for the last 10 years; same sale, different summer.
Yard sales were a common sight in the neighborhood but no one else ran one all summer long. The city had ordinances to prevent that.
Not that he ever stopped. He never checked it out. He wasn’t a big fan of that sort of thing. Flea Markets, Estate Sales, Vintage Stores— all of that stuff bored him silly – but today, for some reason, Joe stopped. He checked it out.
He didn’t have much else to do. Not since Betty died. She was the one that loved these sales. She tried her best to get Joe interested but Joe wouldn't budge. Betty went solo to scour the neighborhood for bargains and treasures.
If it bothered her Betty never let on. Betty never complained.
The sale was in the yard of a modest ranch style home. Folding tables were set-up in the driveway and neatly piled with clothes and books and toys and all sorts of oddball things.
One of the first things Joe saw was a vintage drinking straw dispenser filled with old drinking straws. They were made of paper.
Joe had forgotten about that. How, when he was a kid, all straws were made of paper.
If you didn’t drink your drink fast enough the straw got waterlogged and soggy until it unraveled and fell apart.
On some of his first dates with Betty they’d sit at the grill counter and share one Coke™ with two straws; trying to save a little change to put in the jukebox. Betty thought that was so romantic. Her friends called it a cheap date and laughed at Joe. Betty paid no mind.
The two of them made that one Coke™ last all night it seemed. Their straws became soaked until they were mushy and useless.
Joe chuckled out loud at the memory.
A lady, the only other person browsing, looked over at him. She appeared to be about the same age as Joe.
Joe told her, “I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid,” holding up the dispenser full of straws, “they used to fall apart so easy. The ones we have now are indestructible.” He laughed again.
“These kids today,” the Lady said, “don’t know how good they have it. My kids and grandkids have no idea of the stuff we grew up with. How hard it was. They don’t care.”
“Maybe so, but-” Joe started but she cut him off. She was angry and ready to rant.
“All they care about is their FP3 players and Me-Phones and Blueberries,” she grumbled. “They have no idea of what we had to put up with. They don’t care about any of what we had to go through.”
“Why should they?” Joe asked. He was peeved at the twit for snapping him out of his nostalgic moment. He was all set to share memories of 'back in the day', but this broad was bent on complaining. Joe wouldn't put up with it. “When we were kids our parents complained to us about TV or transistor radios or about us not having to walk ten miles each way to school every morning. Uphill both ways.”
She just stared at Joe.
“Kids today have it a lot harder than we ever did even if they do have fancier gadgets,” Joe told her. “I don’t envy them anything. And I sure as hell don’t expect them to worry about what we went through. They have enough crap to deal with.”
The Lady dropped what she had in her hand and brushed past Joe stomping off to her car.
Joe heard a female voice say, “Guess the old Bat doesn’t like being contradicted.” It came from the dark space inside the open garage.
Joe couldn’t see in there, blinded by the slanting sunlight.
A young blonde walked out and straightened up the table the Lady had just pawed over.
Her slim, tight, and tanned body couldn’t have been much more than 20 years old.
She wore a white wife-beater tank top and a frilly yellow terrycloth miniskirt and pink flip-flops.
Her full round breasts were firm enough to get away with going bra-less if she didn’t mind her nipples showing through. She didn’t mind. And Joe didn’t either.
“I didn’t see you in there,” Joe said.
“I run this sale for my Mother,” she said as she finished tidying the table.
She looked up and saw Joe just staring at her. At her tits, that is. She let him get a good look, looking back at Joe, not saying anything.
“Uh, I’m Joe,” Joe said and stopped. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He just stared. He couldn’t take his eyes off her chest.
“I’m Brooke,” she said. “And these are my tits.”
At first Joe tried to be cute and say “Hello, Brooke’s tits” but he didn’t have it in him. He felt like an Old Fart loser.
“I’m sorry,” Joe finally stammered.
“Don’t be. Old guys have been staring at my tits since I was in grade school. What do I care? The only time it pisses me off is when they think they can treat me like a piece of meat.
“You don’t think you can treat me like a piece of meat, do you?” she asked with a tilt of her head and an arched eyebrow.
“No, Hell, no,” Joe told her. “I think you’re wonderful!”
“Yeah?” Brooke mused. “Well, Miss Wonderful is about to pack it in. How about giving her a hand with these tables?”
Brooke and Joe lifted an opposite end of each table, with the items still on them, and carried them into the garage.
Brooke closed the garage door and said, “Come inside.”
She told Joe to have a seat in the living room and went off to get a couple beers from the kitchen.
“That Lady you told off is just like my Mom,” Brooke said as she handed Joe a beer. “She thinks kids today have it made. I mean I’m 23. A grown woman. But she treats me like I’m still a kid.”
Brooke kicked off her flip-flops and sprawled in a recliner right across from where Joe sat on the couch. She looked so beautiful. But more than that, Brooke had a way about her that made Joe feel good all over just being in the same room with her, casually passing the time.
She took a long sip of beer and then went on talking.
“She thinks I have it easy because I still live at home and don’t work a crappy 9 to 5 office job. It fucking sucks living here but right now I’ve got no choice until my art pays off. Besides I pull in a bundle of money for my mom with this yard sale thing.
“I put out a Tip Jar for the old guys – my regulars – that just stop by to chat. Why be coy? They like to look and I don’t mind the attention.
“They are so fucking happy that a hot chick like me is nice to them and doesn’t mind them staring. Hanging out here with me is better than blowing their money at a topless bar. Even with my shirt on it beats the hell out of having to drag their ass to some sleazy dump of a strip club. I could fill a wash tub with the money they stuff in that jar every week.
“Of course I split it with my Mom. Still she complains. I guess she thinks I ought to work in a cubicle where the only way to get anywhere is to go down on the boss. Heck, I like being nice and showing off my body--- I'd do it for free if I didn't need the money, forget about a Tip Jar--- but no way am I whoring myself out doing office work. If I was stuck in a fucking box, doing the 9 to 5 grind, I’d be gnarly as that witch you just told off.”
“Your Mom’s probably all right,” Joe told her, “That’s what parents do. Get on their kid’s cases.” He felt like he had to say something. “They can’t help it,” he added.
“I know,” Brooke sighed. “Still, I wish someone would talk to her the way you talked to that biddy. Straighten her out a little bit. That was nice what you did. Sticking up for the younger generation. No one ever does that. Most Boomers don’t seem to appreciate what we're up against. You’re a good guy.”
Brooke took another sip of beer then said quickly, “Shit! I almost forgot!”
She stood up and pulled off her top. Setting her fabulous rack free for Joe to ogle in all its glory.
Joe couldn’t believe his awesome luck! Brooke kicked ass!
“This is for being a nice guy,” she said as she plopped down again. “I figure you've earned it. I know how much it means to guys like you just to look. I might as well give you an eyeful.”
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Joe could hardly breathe from the excitement.
“Hell, I flash them for the city inspector and I don’t even like him,” she said. “I usually just change shirts in front of him. Play it off like I was about to do it anyway. So he gets a free peep. Keeps him happy. He lets us slide on code violations.
“It’s no sweat off my back,” Brooke shrugged, then corrected herself, “I mean tits.”
Joe was too enthralled to laugh.
“Most of my friends think it’s skeevy of me to let guys stare. Even when I keep my shirt on. Gimme a break! They’re a bunch of hypocrites. Most of them go out in public showing more skin than me. Most of them would roll around in dogshit if some guy paid them enough.
“I do it cuz I like it. Is that so hard to understand? Guys, especially old guys like you – what? You’re in your 50s or something? - appreciate my body like I’m some kind of Sex-Goddess movie star. Why not show it off?” Brooke said all this in such a relaxed manner that it seemed like the sanest thing in the world. Joe couldn’t argue.
“You really are a remarkable young woman,” Joe told her. Hoping he didn’t sound too lame. He still couldn’t help staring.
He was in awe. Brooke had a healthy opinion of her own sexuality but didn’t make a big deal out of it. She was easy to be with on every level despite her age. Brooke reminded him of how he and Betty used to be.
This was just the kind of shared moment he cherished most about being married to Betty. And it was what he missed most about not having her around.
Those random moments they shared coming home after a hard day at their crappy 9 to 5 office jobs - that most days ran till 6 or later.
Whoever got home first fixed dinner. But sometimes no one got home first. Then they'd both collapse in the living room together.
Joe lying on the couch. Betty sprawled in the recliner just the way Brooke was. One leg thrown over the arm of the chair. Skirt all disheveled.
They never felt more ‘together’ than at those intimate, casual, moments; ordinary but never trivial.
It was at those moments that they had their best sex as far as Joe was concerned.
Without a word he'd go over to where Betty's stocking foot dangled over the armchair and kneel to kiss it. Bottom, top, toes and ankle. Smooching his way up the inside of her leg until he reached the top, then he peeled her out of her pantyhose to go down on her.
And Betty, ever thoughtful, made sure to unbutton her blouse and un-clasp the front of her bra. Joe would look up from between her loving thighs to see those wonderful breasts--- along with Betty's dreamy, satisfied, smile.
In 30 years of marriage he never got tired of going down on her.
Suddenly Brooke jumped up and snapped Joe out of his reverie.
“Come with me,” she said, taking Joe by the hand.
As they headed for her bedroom Joe was beginning to think there really was a God--- and that he really, really liked Joe.
“Check this out,” she said as they entered her bedroom.
One side of the room had her bed and normal bedroom stuff. The other was set up like a studio with an artist’s drafting table and computer hardware.
The walls were filled with her artwork. She had stacks leaning against the wall.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“This is terrific!” Joe said as he held a 1960s style superhero illustration of a Wonder Woman type character.
He looked through a few more stacks of artwork. Unable to contain his enthusiasm, he continued muttering a constant stream of praise and appreciation.
When he looked up at Brooke she glowed at him.
“What?” Joe asked.
“None of my guys ever reacted that way before,” she said. “You get it. You get what I’m about. You’re not just humoring me.”
Joe just stared.
“You know how I know?” she asked rhetorically. “You forgot all about my tits!”
Joe had to laugh. She was right. He was so engrossed in her artwork he completely blanked out.
After 20 years in the advertising business he'd seen all the glib and glossy, hackneyed mainstream crap he could handle. The energy and vitality of Brooke's line was stunning.
“You should sell this stuff,” he said, still browsing through a stack.
“I do, when I can,” Brooke said. “Book covers and stuff. Burlesque show flyers. Posters. Whatever they'll pay me for. ”
Joe saw some erotic hand-drawn illustrations done in vintage Pin-Up style.
“Jeezus!” he shouted. “Holy shit!”
“WHAT? You’ve never seen erotic stuff before?”
“I recognize this work!” Joe stared into Brooke’s eyes as though searching her soul. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened.
“Stop it!” she said. “You’re creeping me out.”
“YOU!”
“Me, what?” Brooke asked.
“You did a picture of my wife! As Bettie Page- !”
“Betty?”
“Decked out in black stockings and stilettos,” Joe went on, “waving a riding crop. And me, with my face buried between her thighs, going down on her!”
“You were married to Betty?”
“Yes,” Joe said.
“Oh my God,” Brooke muttered to herself barely audible.
“She wouldn't say where it came from. And I didn’t care. It was the best present I ever got!”
“Betty used to come around all the time. I didn’t know she was killed until after she was gone.” Brooke had tears in her eyes. "She put more money in my tip jar than most of my guys."
“So you two knew each other?”
“She told me how you took care of her really, really good,” Brooke said.
“You knew her pretty well, then?” Joe asked.
“She said how you went down on her all the time without being asked,” Brooke got a dreamy look in her eye, “and how you never stopped pleasing her. She said how you got her off multiple times, making her cum over and over again with your tongue.
“She demonstrated some of your technique on me,” she paused looking into Joe’s eyes. “Strictly for artistic purposes, you understand. Just so I’d get the gist of what to convey. In the artwork, I mean. Oh, I got the gist all right. Did I ever!
"And then, after I finished it, she went down on me a few times just to celebrate. She wanted me to know how good my art work made you guys feel. God, she made me cum! She went down on me like we were in free-fall. ”
They stood staring at each other. Not saying a word. Brooke smiled slightly. Joe was turned-on beyond anything he’d felt since he’d been with Betty.
Brooke snuggled up to Joe and broke the silence, “How about making a picture together? You and Me?”
“I’m no artist,” Joe told her.
Brooke turned and disappeared into the walk-in closet. Joe could hear her rummaging around.
He barely recognized the woman that walked out a minute later.