Gimme That Red Rocket

  • 8 months ago
  • 16 min read
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The notorious east coast gangster Big Sally gave himself a hard look in the mirror. Yeah, he still had it. His scowl game was on point, but it was far less threatening with his scruffy beard than his signature goatee and slicked back hairdo. Right now, he had a mop instead of that.

His witness protection handler insisted. As far as Big Sally was concerned, his handler sucked and witness protection sucked. He had to admit that disappearing was far better than the alternative; he would have taken a bullet for his old boss. The coup had never sat right with him, though, and he sure as shit wasn’t willing to get locked up for the new big cheese. When the FBI came and offered him their deal, he didn’t think twice about taking it.

Disappearing into witsec was not what the movies and TV made it out to be. It wasn’t an adventure, it was death by obscurity. He was once feared across New York State.

Big Sally gave himself another hard look in the mirror. His name had always been (kind of) ironic. He didn’t break six feet and had an entirely average build. The only real difference to him was his hair, but he wasn’t going to admit that to himself. He had to compensate.

He donned his company mandated uniform, a blue and white baseball cap with “RED ROCKET CREAM” across its front.

Time to do this shit.

Witsec had made him an ice cream man in California. It was going to be the end of him.


“Geeeeet your cream here,” Sal --or rather Bob, his new identity-- lazily called over his truck’s cheery instrumental jingle. The tune was seared into his brain. Even when he wasn’t in his truck, he was just a moment away from hearing it. The street he was currently parked on was one of the worst on his route; the kids were obnoxious as all hell and the mothers were either hags or Karens. “Get your ice cold cream here. One buck, two buck, everything is under four bucks.”

And the company’s name was so fucking stupid. Someone else had the copyright for ‘Red Rocket Ice Cream’. That was bad on its own; ‘Red Rocket Cream’ was on a whole other level, yet no one seemed to realize what kind of euphemism you could make out of it. The owner was a boomer. Bob had only met him once. He was pretty sure he didn’t even have a computer, let alone the internet.

But whatever.

He focused on not glowering at the kids as they formed a messy line and began to dole out his icy treats in exchange for pocket change, couch change and the occasional dollar bill. It all went in a waiting jar, which he soon had to empty for one woman. Who the fuck buys a $2.50 ice cream from a guy in a truck with a $50 bill?

He didn’t even manage to sell a single one of the company’s signature cream-filled Red Rockets, which wasn’t actually surprising. They were stupid messy.

Fucking witsec. He used to run whole neighborhoods. Whatever. Twenty minutes later, his second last customer left. After getting rid of this last kid, he had two more neighborhoods to hit before calling it a day. “What can I get for you, kid?” he asked as he dropped some loose change into the jar and glanced out the truck’s window.

Well, shit. Bob’s brows swept up high on his forehead. The young ‘kid’ grinning up at him wasn’t much taller than the kids he had been serving; the only reason he hadn’t noticed her sooner was because the last snot-nosed brat was just tall enough that she naturally hid in his shadow. Despite her youthful face, she was undeniably a woman with her plump round tits, her cleavage on proud display through the round neckline of her hot pink tank top.

They definitely caught his eye more than her face. Her sexy body captured his focus.

Fucking wonder they even fit in that thing, he thought to himself, and with good reason. It was clearly several sizes too small for her, its hem hiked high enough by the sheer size of her breasts that it put her well-defined abs and toned stomach out there for the world to see. The glint of the steel piercing that filled her navel just drew Bob’s eye lower. Similar to her top, her jean shorts were probably two or three sizes removed from her actual size, hugging her hips ridiculously tight and sitting low enough on them that he could see the start of her pelvis.

Half an inch lower and he was sure he’d see her snatch, because there was no goddamn way she was going anything but commando under those bottoms. He wasn’t able to see her ass, but he could imagine her fighting desperately to squeeze it into those shorts. Her thighs were toned like her belly; this gym rat didn’t skip leg day and glancing back up her body, he didn’t see a hint of tan lines on her sun-kissed skin. On that peek back up, he finally noticed her left wrist, or rather the cast covering it, covered in signatures.

“Mister ice cream man, hell-oooo,” she cooed again, singsong. Oh shit, she’s talking. He finally glanced up at her face. She was a hot little thing, with big dark eyes and darker hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her bangs obscuring her brow. Though her beaming grin was cheerful, Bob picked up on the knowing look in her eyes, the proud way she arched her back and pushed her chest out to make her tits all the easier to ogle.

Back in New York, he was all too acquainted with her type: a good girl that desperately wanted to do something bad, whether or not she knew it.. New York City tended to chew them up and spit them out if they didn’t learn to adapt. They were trouble, a good way to get caught up in drama when it turned out their dad was a cop, or they were cousins with a rival gang. After his first, Big Sal learned to avoid them.

But he wasn’t Big Sal anymore. He was Bob the ice cream man, and Bob the ice cream man lived in suburban Cali, not New York City. Bob put on Big Sal’s sleaziest grin, gave a pointed look at the tits being plainly showed off to him, and finally spoke as the big-tittied little gym

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Written by niteynyx
Hochgeladen November 26, 2020
Notes An ex-con in the witness protection program gets lucky while working as an ice cream man. Anonymous commission.
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