Christmas Tree Hunting

"Bathroom?"

"Down the hall and to the right," she answered. She held her breath and watched him saunter down the hall, concentrating on the swing of his bulbous butt cheeks and the tattoo along his upper back.

The sound of the shower gave her visions of water everywhere on the bathroom floor and a sodden towel tossed into the corner, but she didn't care. Her mind was already racing on a scheme to keep him there for the night. A big intake of breath hit her again from his return saunter, body proud and beautiful, cock swinging low, gold necklace swaying slightly on his beefy chest, Chinese ideograph moving with the flexing of his pecs, and a look of full cockiness in his eyes and posture. Not an ounce of self-consciousness in his nakedness. But why would he be embarrassed about his body? He was a milk-chocolate god. And he could fuck with the best of them, even when giving it only half of his attention.

It would all have been glory except that he was grasping things in his hands. In one hand he carried his socks, which didn't give her pause. But the leather jacket he was holding in the other hand did. He'd found and liberated the hostage.

In contrast, Angela's self-consciousness of her aging body was revealed in that she had readjusted her clothing while Reggie was showering and even put her stiletto heels back on.

"Gotta fuckin' go," Reggie said in an "already someplace else" voice as he approached from down the hall. "Gotta haul ass to make the next game with the guys." He immediately started pulling on his clothes.

No overnight then, but Angela didn't care. Such youthful matter-of-factness amused her and was why she liked to play cougar on occasion.

But not always. She liked them older too—and more grateful.

"Are you working at the lot tomorrow evening?" she asked Reggie as she walked him to the door.

"No, ma'am."

"Your boss I saw there tonight. Is he working tomorrow?"

"Stuart? Yes, ma'am. He's there every night of the sale. Ends next Tuesday."

Stuart. The other, older hunk's name is Stuart. Angela filed that away in her mind. "Uh, you got a card or anything for your plumbing business?"

"Not yet, ma'am, but, here, I can write my telephone number down. Won't be in legal business before next summer. But I sure could do your plumbing now, if we kept it on the down low. I've just about qualified on everything. You could call me anytime you needed it done."

"Anytime I wanted my plumbing done?"

"Yes, ma'am." And then to show that the double entendre hadn't escaped him, "I liked the steak . . . and all. You need done again, just call. You got a honey of a body, ma'am. Didn't seem hardly old at all."

With a lot of help from the dim lighting in the room, buddy, Angela thought, none too sweetly. It was the best she was going to get in the way of a review, but it was enough for Angela. She stood in the doorway in the cold—and in the almost altogether and screw Mrs.-peeking-through-her-curtains-across-the-street Cranston—and gave him a big grin as he strode with jaunty step to his car. He turned at the car and called out, "Yes, ma'am, any time you need plumbing work done, just call. I'll do you right."

Maybe righter when there's no football game on, she mused. But she was still smiling when she shut the door. She stopped smiling when she saw the size of the tree. Why in the hell had she bought one so large? It was going to be a devil to get down the basement steps. But, after shedding those stilettos again, somehow she managed, stacking it up with the four trees she'd already had men bring home for her this week.

Stuart. His name is Stuart, she was thinking, as she mounted the basement stairs. Tomorrow night for sure. And it was a good thing she didn't have to find a new lot to go to. She was running out of Christmas tree lots to go to way before she was in the mood to run out of randy men.

From the way Stuart had come on to her at the lot this evening, she probably wouldn't even have to thaw another steak. And thank god there was no game on the TV tomorrow night.