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By Cervo
Spring Breezes
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Fucking Money
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By Nick Nicholson
Light
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Spring Breezes
© 2000 by Cervo



After finishing my undergraduate education in literature, philosophy and the fine arts, I was confronted with the need to eat. As no one required the services of a part-time dramatist and bon vivant, I worked off and on as a day laborer in non-union factories in the working-class slums of Boston. I also unloaded freight cars and beer trucks. It was not a romantic life and most of all, being Winter, it was miserably cold and damp. Spring was more than just an inspiration for poetry. I watched the faces of the guys who would have this life forever. Here is a little of the world they shared in places like Revere in those days.

Sal slammed the window between his office and the machine shop so that the lower sash came down like a guillotine. Why the thing didn't break when he did stuff like that was anyone's guess. The single guys took bets on when it would shatter. The married ones could not afford it. He had almost gotten Froguzzi's fingers this time. Next time he would be quicker like when he had whomped it down on Pickle's fingertips the day before.

The hot, chocolatey burn in his guts from his heavy lunch of pasta laced with hot peppers made him fart loudly. He was pissed. Froguzzi was one thing, but that little shit, Pickle McGore, had taken a sick day. Maybe the little shitlette was sick today from all the fumes he had sucked in cleaning the truck tanks yesterday, but Sal still wanted to punish the fuck some more. Well he would be back tomorrow.

Sal was tough. His belly rumbled and he farted thickly again. His left eye teared and he grunted at the fact that it was three hours until he could go home to his wife, take off his pants and fart in peace for the rest of the evening.

Sal was really pissed because he realized that it was April already. The warm weather would spell the end of the heating oil shortage. What the fuck was the point of getting out of bed in the morning, if people had all the heating oil they needed?

Across town, Pickle McGorey was undoing the barlock on his steering wheel. The bandages on his fingers made it hard to get the lock off. A loaded dumpster from the fish market down the street had been parked in front of his house almost blocking in his dun-colored Buick. He had taken a sick day and that meant no pay for the day, but what the fuck. He was sick all right. That dumpster was about to be the death of his whole miserable family as his wife's mother, Lizbeth, had told him this morning.

"We're all gonna die of the stink of them fish!" she yelled as she ricocheted a near-empty aluminum can of Old Milwaukee off the side of his bean and into the Safeway bag by the sink. That had completed her breakfast. Fortunately, his cap was on as it always was so no more harm was done than usual. The spot where it hit was itching him under his hat.

With a jet of grey fumes and a series of uneven pops the Buick came to a semblance of life. Pickle backed into his neighbor's Grand Torino with the custom neon grill. A crunching noise told him he was as far back as he could go. Then he cranked the Buick out of the parking space and headed for Irby's Package Store four blocks away to pick up two cases of beer. That would get them all to Friday when he got paid again.

Once back he humped the beer to the back porch and put two six packs in the fridge next to the two-quart jar of Miracle Whip. That might come in handy later. Then he opened the freezer and got out the two Jet Ski plastic mugs he kept in there for when he and Bethanne wanted a couple of frosty ones. He filled the two mugs and headed for the bedroom with the rest of the six-pack under his arm. He could come back for the two-quart jar.

She lay in the afternoon half-light from the bedroom window. Her hair, washed only yesterday morning, splayed across his pillow next to her own. Napping in her slip, she had the quiet look of a young girl accentuated by the sandy color of her eyebrows and lashes. He tossed the beer cans on the floor on her side of the bed and leaned down to kiss her ear.

She woke and said, "Shit. It's stuffy in here, Pickle." He opened the sash just a little of the way and the smell of rotting fish lightly touched the room accented by diesel fumes. Then he knelt by the side of the bed after pulling his shorts to his knees. Lifting the coverlet he slipped his head, still wearing his cap of course, between her thighs and commenced to nuzzle the curly down at her crotch.

Bethanne giggled a little and leaned over the side of the bed.

"Still got your pickle I see" she said and smiled the sleepy smile of happy anticipation. She eased her gloriously pink bottom down the mattress and opened her thighs to his face which came busily to rest at the point where her cunt lips were just opening in readiness for him. Her scent filled his nose cutting out the smell from the window entirely.

They were so practiced at this recreation that in a brief time she came against his lips with a series of short breathy moans. Plowing his face into her cunt, his long tongue searched deeper. Once she had bucked herself against him again and moaned a bit louder, he would know she was ready for him to raise the Great Gherkin and insert it in her for a rousing crescendo to the afternoon.

Then they would crack a beer, giggle together, and consider whether it would be fun to use the Miracle Whip or take a nap. The deep, clean pussy smell all over his face mixed with an overtone in the breeze from outside to remind him that it would soon be Spring.

Copyright by 2000, Cervo . All rights reserved. Not to be distributed, reproduced, or transmitted in any manner without the express written permission from the author.

Enjoy this story? We encourage you to send comments to Cervo

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