Page 8 of Punishing Penelope
The nights are long, the days are warm, and summer seems eternal. There’s work, and there’s play, and I know we’ll never part. The seven of us will always stay friends, the bonds forged these last years too strong to ever break.
“You know how we’re all gonna die.”
Penelope and I are perched on the backrest of a park bench in Lincoln in downtown LA. It’s Saturday afternoon, and I got off work a little while ago, getting the surprise of my life when she paced the sidewalk outside the back door to the restaurant, waiting for me.
“Die?” The subject of death wasn’t even close to where I had my mind. I’ve tried hard not to think about putting my hand on her thigh and stroking up the inside toward that place where her legs meet, where I imagine hot, slick folds and her moans as I rub her clit...
No, I’ve never been with anyone, haven’t actually touched that mysterious thing called pussy, haven’t had sex. I imagine she has, but I don’t mind. I have years of thorough studies of the female anatomy, so I’m sure I’ll find my way.
Right. Die.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you ever think about how it’s all not worth it?”
“All?”
“What’s with the monosyllabic answers?”
I force my mind out of the gutter to focus on her question instead.
“What’s with the deep thoughts?”
“I can think.”
“About death?”
“Or life. And death.”
“The inevitable end to all our misery. What about it?”
“But that’s it! The misery. What do you work for? Like, you spend your whole summer in a hotter than hell old kitchen, with people you don’t like and entitled asshole customers who literally look for crap to complain about. And for what?”
“I’m saving up for a car.”
She throws out her arms, gesturing to the never-ending stream of sweaty joggers. “And them. Like… why? Live a little. Be free, ye all miserable dorks!” She shouts the last words so loud, several people jerk and look in our direction.
Ye all? She’s so cute, I have no urge to correct her.
“What would you do if you knew you’d die tomorrow?”
I swallow. I know exactly what I’d do. Then I do it. I put my hand on her thigh, my heart beating wildly, my mouth dry. She’s as warm and smooth as I imagined.
She doesn't pull away, doesn't even flinch. I shuffle closer until our hips touch, moving my hand an inch, and let it rest on the inside of her thigh. An ache spreads in my lower gut, and I grow, my cock straining against my jeans.
“I know what I’d do,” she whispers and leans in, putting her lips against mine, just brushing, not pressing.
I clench her thigh, move my hand a little upward and grip her flesh, her electric hot skin scorching my palm.
“And what’s that?” I whisper back.
“Kiss Peter Hale.”
So, I kiss her. I thought teeth would collide, that there’d be too much or too little tongue, and I wouldn’t know what to do, but it’s perfection.
I also thought my mind would kinda explode, and I’d lose it, but I’m pretty much here, enjoying every second.
“Penelope Wilder,” I mumble against her lips as I stroke her thigh higher, higher. “If I only had one more day to live, I’d spend it with only you.”