I don't know how it started, but I know why it will end.
I was closing up, and it was late and I was hot. So the first thing I did was change out of my uniform and into something a little less suffocating, because the CrashDown uniform is still sticky and made of an uncomfortable material - I don't know what, I'm not a seamstress - and I changed out of it also because that pale green makes me look sickly and does nothing for my complexion.
Not that I was expecting anybody.
I imagined that she had soft lips. Soft, slippery lips, and a squishy tongue that tasted...I've thought long and hard about what she (her mouth) tastes like. Many hours have been frittered away - well, I don't think the time was frittered or wasted. I think the hours were well spent in lectures, at the CrashDown, in my room, in the shower with my hand between my legs, imagining what she tastes like. I've always assumed that she tasted different to Michael because she's a girl (as many she's are), and so logically must taste different to a guy (as I know that Michael is). There are other reasons, but they all ended in the same result...
I would never taste her.
She tastes like honey. Of all the things she could taste like, I never imagined she would taste like honey. Cinnamon, maybe. Strawberries. Or pears. Fruit of some description, almost certainly.
Just because I wasn't expecting anybody, doesn't mean nobody came.
I kissed her after checking the doors. Glass though they are, and therefore transparent, the doors are there for a reason. When she appeared, I knew that I didn't want any disturbances or distractions, and doors are there to keep people and distractions out. So we were locked into an empty CrashDown with its convenient flat surfaces, the Parkers were out of town for the weekend, I was sweating and hot and wearing a tight shirt and tiny cutoffs, and the woman I fantasised over had just come to me in a low cut top and stared at my breasts. It seemed like fate, so I acted on my impulses.
Because she tasted like honey, I thought it only appropriate to check if she tasted like honey all over. I pulled her down behind the counter, trying not to remember as I did that that place was what I'd always thought of as the space belonging to Michael and I, and beneath my hands I made her more naked than I have ever made Michael. And I gazed at her body, and took in the breathtaking sight beneath me.
And of course my eyes wandered to her pussy - her very pretty pussy. I'm hormonal and alive and haven't had sex in a while now - of course I was going to look! I doubt if any living creature could have kept their gaze away. If the Pope had had her panting, slightly flushed and naked beneath him, he too would have desired what I desired.
So I tasted her. I lowered my mouth to where she was wettest, and I lapped at her juices. And to my disappointment, she didn't taste like honey at all.
So I pulled back from her, and she groaned at the loss of contact. That groan nearly undid me and sent me hurtling back to continue tasting her, regardless of her taste, but I was strong. I reached up and blindly found the honey jar I knew was on the countertop, ready for the morning crowd. I dropped the honey onto her curls, and she moaned as the cold liquid coated her wet folds. I know that I was grinning as I leaned forward to taste her again, and I savored her honeyed taste.
I don't know how Liz ended up at the CrashDown after-hours, writhing beneath me as I ate from her honey flavoured cunt, when she should have been at home with Alex who has been her husband for near on two years. I don't know how I ended up fantasising for months about having her fuck my face as I fucked hers, and finally having it come true between a plate of kielbasa and the deep fryer. I don't know what circumstances collided to allow me to discover that Liz's soft and welcoming mouth tastes like honey.
But I do know that it can never happen again, because one day Michael will come back and I fear that if I have Liz again, I'll decide that she's better than any Czechoslovakian lover.