Picnic with the Pussy Willows

Hands of the clock, slow and methodical, ticked the minutes away. Time crawled. My lunch hour loomed closer. Lip caught between my teeth, I ate up the words in front of me. Eager fingers turned the dog-eared pages of the oft-read in front of me. Even more eager fingers snuck under the waistband of my skirt. Pushed my thong aside. Rubbed my clit. I bit back a moan. Hot damn, The Rustler Queen was my favourite book.

“Tracey,” my manager’s nasally whine preceded him down the aisle towards the cash, where I sat waiting for a customer to happen along. For anything to happen at all.

Then the clock tipped over the hour. I hopped off my stool, pulled up my leggings, and grabbed my bag from under the counter. My eyes closed, and I shuddered out a long breath. Oh, my goodness. My thong nestled between my feminine lips. I gave a little wiggle. Man, that felt good.

“No can do, managerino.” Bag flung over my shoulder, I pulled the door open with a wave. “See you in an hour, Clancy.”

I hopped into my mid-sized crossover, picked myself up a shake and fries from the local drive-thru, and headed down to the river. Nicely shaded by huge overgrown willow trees, I parked in the back corner of the lot. Near the entrance to the trail. I trotted around the car to the passenger seat. Shimmied my thong down my legs. Slid my finger over the arousal-soaked silk. Window...