Hot Chocolate

Hot Chocolate - Fictionpad


 I do not own any publicly recognized part or character from the LORD OF THE RINGS or any other book or movie referenced here.  No copyright infringement is intended.  It was written purely for pixie giggles and to make me smile.


 Written as a gift for my invaluable friend and beta, Lorrie.  Enjoy!


I am sitting in a bar, and I have no idea why.  Actually, that is a lie.  I know exactly why I am sitting in a bar.  I am sitting here because I am on vacation and because I chose to come here tonight . . . it is my chance at freedom . . . my tiny little piece of heaven I have managed to snatch from my mundane existence to slip away from my boring job I have been slaving away at for over twenty years, and the boring second husband who finds me interesting but not interesting enough to sleep with, and the friends who laugh and come over but always say the same thing and make me yawn.  No, this is my chance and I have taken it.  I am here in a bar at the beach where not one single person knows me, and I am going to see what the night brings.

The nights brings many things.  It brings bright lights that hurt my eyes when I go to the bathroom, and music so loud my ears ring after a time, and cigarette smoke that burns my eyes, but I do not leave.  I stay at the bar.  I am sitting on a fairly comfortable black leather stool with my hands loosely clasped in front of me, making idle conversation with the bar tender.  He is nice . . . far too young, but cute and sociable.  He asks me where I’m from.  I lie.  He asks me why I’m here tonight.  I lie again.  He knows it and smiles.

Men try to approach me . . . older men, younger men.  There are a great variety here, in all shapes and sizes and heights . . . it is obvious some have money . . . it is obvious others do not.  They are all horny – and alone.  The first several who slide onto the stool next to mine are simple creatures, men on vacation escaping their wives to come south and play golf because it is fall and the weather is nice and they enjoy trying to put a little white ball into a small hole cruelly cut into a perfect piece of green grass.  I am not impressed.

“My Mercedes is right out front, if you need a lift home,” he says simply, handing me a beer.  I do not drink beer, and it is a light beer at that.  Am I fat?  Do I look fat in this new outfit I bought just to wear here tonight?  I am not fat, and I slide the beer aside pointedly.  I look at him.  He looks back.  He is not unattractive, but I prefer blond hair and brown eyes.  His eyes are green; his hair is nearly black.  My half-hearted smile tells him he is wasting his time, and he casually slips away to disappear into the crowd.

I wonder why I came here tonight.

Hours pass, during which at least ten more men repeat man number one’s atrocious failure at female seduction.  I am beginning to wonder if every man at this damn Carolina beach drives a Mercedes or a BMW, and why they insist on telling me that is what they drive.  Do I look as if I cannot drive myself?  I can drive myself.  I drive trucks for a living, and my personal truck is parked right out front.  I find myself wondering if I will be driving back to the house in it alone.  I appreciate my friend offering me the use of her beach house here to relax for a few days—she is a sweet one that girl!  Too bad she couldn’t come with me tonight, but tomorrow morning she will be back from her trip and no doubt we will sit on her balcony, watching the ocean while smoking cigarettes and making crude jokes about the bananas we are tormenting with our tongues as we compare notes on the latest sex toys we intend to buy because we cannot find a man to do these things to us instead.  I giggle to myself and finish my whiskey.  It’s time to get going, but just as I slip from my stool he is there.

He.  I have no other word to describe this creature other than he.  He is magnificent, and I wonder how it is that I have been in this bar for hours and have not seen this man . . . and this is a man.  Not a boy.  Not a pitiful golfer come to vacation, and most certainly not one of those horny kids that has been getting bleary-eyed and staggering past all evening.  No, this is a man.  A real, live breathing man; and he is magnificent.

He hands me a drink.  It is not a beer, and it is certainly not another offending light beer.  It is a drink.  The very same drink that I have been consuming all evening that now has me a bit lightheaded as I carefully grab hold of my stool because my knees suddenly feel weak.  He leans closer, and the faintest scent of clean air and thick forest trees wafts against my nose as he smiles at me with gentle rosy lips and perfect teeth.  “I did not realize when the sun disappeared this evening that it landed in your eyes,” he murmurs softly, even as a strong hand with calloused fingers helps me as I slide back onto my stool.

The man is not drinking, nor does he ask my name.  He simply slips effortless onto the stool next to mine, studying me with those eyes.  They are warm and brown, like thick hot chocolate, and with every thorough look he passes over me I can feel them.  They drip over my body like tendrils of warm decadence, seeping down the curve of my spine and splattering across my thighs.  His hair is long and blond, like brilliant streaks of sunlight where it is casually thrown across broad shoulders that bulge with muscles under the perfect black dress shirt he is wearing.  It is tucked into immaculate black dress pants, and I find that he reminds me very much of a Greek God because personally I’ve never seen any mortal man that looks as good as this one does.  I begin to wonder just how drunk I am.

When my drink is finished, he does not say a word.  He simply guides me off the stool and steers me toward the door with that massive arm now casually placed at the small of my back.  I go willingly.  I say nothing.  I am happy to be with this man, because he is still magnificent.  We go into the parking lot, and he casually guides me toward the left.  His smile broadens as he opens the door of a gleaming new Jaguar and politely assists me inside, leaning over to whisper in my ear.  “It is not a Mercedes or a BMW.”  He passes me a wink from an eye that twinkles with mischief as the door closes, and I wonder how in hell he knew I was thinking that earlier.  I begin to worry that perhaps I am far drunker than I thought.

Soon enough—or actually too soon for my muddled mind—I hear a car door close again and suddenly I am inside the interior of this small sports car with this magnificent man, and I do not even know his name.  He winks at me again, and we drive away.  Time passes but I am not even aware of it, nor can I decipher the soothing music that is filling the interior of this car.  The words are foreign and beautiful; the music floats around my head and makes me feel far drunker than the brown liquor I have consumed.  The smell of the leather seats is now mingling with the heavy scent of pine and soft dirt after a gentle rain and I feel as if I am being bewitched, yet I do not care.  This man with his hot chocolate eyes is magnificent, and I decide he can do whatever he wants to me . . . and I will enjoy it.

Sinking back into the warm grey leather, I watch him as he drives.  The reflection of the dash lights plays across perfect features, illuminating high cheekbones and a strong nose.  I wonder how old he is.  He says nothing, just smiles as if he is reading my thoughts and flips on the blinker.  The sound of pavement beneath new tires gives way to the gentle crunch of beach sand and broken oyster shells as he pulls the car to the secluded end of the island I am staying on.  I find myself wondering how he knows of this place, because my friend told me no one comes here when she gave me the grand tour of this tiny community.  We stood in this very spot and we laughed and smiled, making dirty jokes of how wonderful it would be to lay beneath the stars and be ravaged by some strange man in this desolate place on the hood of a car.  His smile broadens.

My shoes are gone when he helps me out of the car.  I do not remember taking them off, yet I can feel the heat of the sun lingering on the sand that squishes between my toes as I walk.  My hand is nestled inside his, and I find myself wondering where the odd rough spots on his hands came from.  His shirt is now untucked and unbuttoned, yet I do not remember that either, and I find myself staring at him as the gentle ocean air wraps itself around us, loving arms of nature teasing at the long pieces of his blond hair to send them skittering across his face.  I reach up and brush them away and suddenly my fingers are on his lips, caressing them wantonly until they part and he begins to suckle at my fingertips, teasing them with his tongue.

The heavy lids of my eyes creep down and before I realize what is happening, that tongue is no longer brushing against my fingers it is testing my bottom lip seeing if I will relent and allow it inside, and I do.  I also allow his fingers to join into this increasingly brazen display of need as he lifts me up and gently sets me atop the trunk of his Jaguar which he backed into this parking space when I was staring out the sunroof at the stars . . . and suddenly the stars are back, brilliant spots of light dancing against the red of my eyelids as his tongue languishes over mine, taking complete control of every nerve in my body it seems as he drinks from my lips and tastes my breath.  The kiss lasts forever, and I fear I will smother before my own gasp breaks it, a startled hissed intake of salty air snatched deep into my lungs by the feeling of hot fingers tracing up my thigh.

Calloused fingertips that at first seemed rough are now sinfully soft, grazing against my skin, plucking tiny peaks of goosebumps from every inch of my flesh as they trace increasingly higher.  They do not stop to linger in any one spot until they finally come to rest at the junction of my thighs, which are thick and pressed together, both in nervousness and embarrassment.  I’ve always thought my thighs were too fat, yet I wore a miniskirt tonight and I did not know why I chose it, but suddenly I am thrilled with my choice.

He says nothing.  The presence of his other hand against my now trembling leg and a gentle nudge from strong hips against my kneecaps, and suddenly my thighs are parting in invitation.  It is an invitation he accepts, but ever so politely.  The first hand remains stationary as the second one reminisces its journey, creeping up the inside of my leg to join its companion, and time stands still as it also comes to rest at the junction of my thighs, ten fingers now clasped against me.  The only thing standing between the pleasure I somehow know they can bring and the center of my body is the wisp of guilt that threatens to rear its ugly little head and the scrap of cobalt satin I call underwear.

My eyes come up to meet his and I feel like icecream—vanilla soft serve swirled in a cheap plastic cup as hot chocolate is being poured onto it, causing it to melt into a little puddle that lingers around the edges and clings to the rim.  I suddenly feel as if my very flesh is the tasty treat being handed through the window at the drive through, and he is reaching for a spoon and preparing to take a bite.  He touches me, but it is not what I expect.  I expected him to take his thumbs and slide them beneath the elastic gathers that ring my thighs and tease them through the carefully clipped hairs that cover my most intimate place because it is what a man would normally do in this situation, but he does nothing of the sort.

Instead, they remain perfectly still as his tongue returns to plunder my mouth yet again, the gentle thrust of it rocking against my teeth in rhythm to the waves that lay just beyond those dunes.  It is intoxicating, and I can hear my heart beating in my ears as suddenly I find myself looking at the stars again.  I do not know how I came to be laying on the trunk of this car, but I am.  I am there on my back with my head against the smooth glass of a rear windshield staring at a full moon and thousands of scintillating little dots of light against a perfect black cloak of velvet, and there is warm metal touching my naked behind.  My fat thighs no longer touch because my legs are spread, and my brain rumbles as my heart begins to race and I realize perhaps I have had far more to drink than I realize because my clothes have now disappeared, and there is nothing between me and the magnificent man but salt air and regret.

My tongue darts across my lips and moisture floods my mouth as I watch.  His lips are just abandoning my breast, leaving my nipples straining toward the sky, pleading for him to bite them again, but he does not.  Instead he does exactly what he does in my dreams, lowering his head and allowing his long blond hair to skim across my stomach before he finally touches me the way I have been praying he would.  The calloused fingers hold me down even as I strain to meet him.  My legs are now tucked under his arms, held apart by the width of his chest, and suddenly his tongue is inside me.  My mind blanks into an explosion of fireworks as his lips meet my lips, suckling and nibbling at my folds as he explores every inch of them, licking me very much like the melted icecream I am imagining I have become as he slowly and methodically pleases me.

He fucks me with his tongue, drinking the wet heat of my flesh as if I am delicious, then settling himself at my nub to flick it relentlessly until I squirm and pant for breath but he does not stop.  He holds me there because he knows I want this, and he gives it to me.  I am now the thick white residue at the bottom of the sundae container clinging to the spoon as those calloused fingers slide inside, the bright red cherry he has saved for last as that mouth covers me, hot and wet as it savors my flesh.  At some point I scream and wrench at the silky hair I have somehow come to clench in my hands, but even as the orgasm takes me, he does not stop.  He simply looks up at me with those eyes and I feel myself sinking into the depths of a living breathing cup of coffee, perfectly flavored with two sugars and one cream.

My fingers find the ridge at the edge of the trunk that helps to make this car so attractive when he pulls me closer, and I cling to it, staring at him drunkenly and suddenly we are one.  It is like nothing I have ever felt before as he fills me.  My body is boneless and floating as he begins to thrust, the gentle tickle of his balls as they brush the curve of my ass the only thing proving this is real even though I would swear it is a perfect dream.

He is thorough and slow, taking his time because somehow he knows that this is what I need.  I hear the waves pounding against the sand.  I see the moon as it shines far above me.  I feel the warmth of the metal and the silkiness of the glass—and I feel him.  I feel more than I have ever felt before as he takes those massive arms and plucks me from the trunk of that car like a shell off the sand, crushing me tight against his chest like a treasured discovery as he rides me hard, melting our bodies together as he thrusts into me again and again and again.

I remember screaming something loud and incomprehensible when I come again.  I remember wet sand on my back and salt water in my mouth, and I remember him teasing my body and throwing me over the edge of pleasure until I lost count and forgot my own name.  I do not remember if he was satisfied, but if the gleaming twinkle in those chocolate eyes was any indication then I would like to think that he was.  It is the same twinkle that is dancing through my mind when I wake up the next morning after my friend comes and pokes me as I lay in bed.  I wonder just how drunk I got the night before because she is staring at me with a very smug look as the bright sun of a Carolina afternoon pours through the windows behind her.  She says nothing, just smiles when my eyes open and slips from the room.

I am wearing a man’s black dress shirt that I have never seen before when I climb out of bed, and I hike up the hem of it to peer at my crotch.  The cobalt blue satin panties from the night before are indeed there, wedged firmly between my thick thighs, and I wonder how that came to be.  There is sand in my navel and as I flick out the tiny grains I try to count how many drinks I sucked down at that bar.  The windows are open, and I walk to the far side of the room to stare down, surprised to see my truck in the driveway.  I do not know how my truck got there, and I do not remember getting in the bed.  I wonder if I have stolen a man’s shirt from my friend’s closet in my drunken stupor and passed out during the night.

This thought perplexes me as I brush my teeth and comb my hair, and I sheepishly come out of the room to find my friend sitting at the kitchen island, watching me with that sneaky southern smile as she reads the paper.  There is a fresh bunch of bananas laying on the counter, and a tiny monkey doll sitting beside a glass of orange juice and a pair of Tylenol that she somehow knows I need today.  I swallow them and poke the monkey.  Her smile broadens.  “How was it?” she asks.  There is a peculiar gleam in her eyes and I frown, uncertain at this particular moment what “it” is exactly.

I shrug and drink the juice.  She lays down the paper and begin to giggle.  My head hurts and I glare at her.  She laughs in my face, and gives me a knowing look.  “They’re sneaky bastards,” she says, tilting her head in the direction of the table behind me.

Confused, I turn to look at the kitchen table and I cannot believe what I find.  I get up and walk across the room, suddenly realizing that there is still sand stuck between my toes and that my ass is sore from being pounded into the trunk of a Jaguar the night before.  My fingers shake as they touch the heavy piece of parchment paper laying on the cool ceramic tile, and I poke the single red rose in disbelief just to see if it is real.  It is real, and I lift it to my nose and suck in the unbelievable scent of rain mixed with fresh soil and pine needles that clings to it.  A small sand dollar is laying there as well, and I pick up the paper and stare at it, positive that my eyes are playing tricks on me; then I flip it over, revealing dark letters written by a man’s hand—a real, magnificent man’s hand—his hand.

Oltho vae . . . sweetest dreams until we meet again, FIN 

Fin?  I stare at the paper and my mouth falls open.  My friend laughs at me.  I wonder where the liquor cabinet is as I stagger back to the bar, easing my bruised ass onto the bar stool where I begin to clean the sand from between my toes.  I say nothing for the longest time, and my friend leaves me to my silence until I take one of the bananas and begin to peel it, gently sliding down each section of peel before lifting it to my lips.  I begin to laugh uncontrollably when the soft flesh of the fruit touches my bruised mouth, and my friend joins in, throwing the monkey at me as I begin to chew.  Soon there are tears running down our faces, and I have no idea what has happened to me, but she does.

She says nothing when I shake my head and greedily take my note and leave to take a shower, but she knows and she does me a favor.  Going to the cabinet, she takes out a pretty little glass jar and sits it on the counter and very carefully puts the little sand dollar inside, sliding it over and sitting it beside another jar that looks suspiciously the same . . . only there is one difference.  That jar is almost full of little shells.  Not sand dollars mind you, but little scalloped shells in delicate purple and pink colors with pretty rippled edges.  She smiles as she looks at them, thinking of the dreamy green eyes she hopes to find herself being caressed by later tonight and returns to the paper.

My friend knows that I will be more than ready to go back to that bar tonight, and she knows that I will never want to leave this place again.  She also knows that she would not sell this beach house nestled on the tip of this strange little island for all the money in the world, because this is the one place in the world where dreams actually do come true.

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