Gimme That Red Rocket
- 8 months ago
- 16 min read
- 370 Aufrufe
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.
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 rat giggled to herself, a little red flush on her neck and cheeks. “Sorry, sweet thing. My name’s Bob.” She probably already knew that, considering he had a name tag on his shirt, but introductions spurred themselves. “What can I do for you?”
The ‘sweet thing’ licked her lips slowly enough that Bob knew she was well aware how good they would look wrapped around a cock. “I’m Camila. Camila Rodríguez! Can I try a Red Rocket?” she asked, batting her eyelashes in a way that probably got men her age to fall over themselves to do as she asked.
“Sure thing, Camila. You prefer Cam or Cammy?” Bob asked as he turned to open the freezer and take out the treat in question. He glanced at its wrapper, showing a blissful woman straddling a --you guessed it, red rocket-- as it blasted through space. What a stupid brand. “Haven’t seen you around here. Just move in?” He passed it down to her.
“Nope! Just got back from vacay in Cape Cod,” she replied as she took the wrapped ice cream. “You can call me Cammy.” She held her Red Rocket by the still-wrapped stick, smiling dumbly at it for a few seconds before glancing up at Bob with a bright idea in her eyes. “Can you open this for me?” she asked, lifting her cast. “I have to wear this for another week.”
“Sure thing,” Bob drawled, though instead of reaching to take the rocket back, he stepped out of the truck and moved around to join her. He took it from her hand, taking note of her pink-painted nails as he unwrapped it for her. When he went to give it back to her though, she shook her head and grinned anew.
“These are supposed to be messy, right? Can you help me eat it too? I don’t want to get my hands sticky,” she explained, batting her eyelashes again. It definitely didn’t work on Bob, but he wanted to see where this went.
“You got it. Red Rocket is all about customer service,” he told her with a crude, suggestive bounce of his brows that made Cammy giggle. He held it up to her kissable lips and idly mentioned, “Best if you start licking it instead of sucking it.”
“Oh,” Cammy said with wide eyes. “Okay. I’ll do that! Thank you sososo much for the tip.” She leaned back just an inch to look at her popsicle and then gave a soft, delighted coo as she looked back up and met Bob’s eye. “It’s so much bigger than I thought it would be,” she gushed to him.
“Girlie, you got no idea,” Bob drawled back.
Cammy giggled again, before leaning down and giving a long lick along the side of the rocket, wrapping her long tongue around it when she reached its tip. Bob, for his part, was glad to see that she approached the lewd act with zero hesitation, laving her tongue over it in exaggerated fashion.
“Tip your head back a bit,” he suggested to her, and when she did so he tilted it just so and slid its saliva-coated length easily past her lips. He smirked lazily when she gave a low, humming moan around it and then tilted it to the side of her mouth, sliding it back and forth. Each time he pushed it into her mouth, he pressed it against the side of her mouth just enough to bulge it out.
Cammy lifted her hand to curl her slender fingers around Bob’s wrist, not to stop him but just to hold on to him while he practically fucked her mouth with the popsicle. In the middle of the neighborhood, in broad daylight.
It occurred to Bob that he was probably going to be late to his next neighborhood, but this was the first interesting thing to happen to him on the job, and he wasn’t about to cut it short. The sweet cream filling in the rocket began to spill out as the popsicle shrank, some dripping from her lips. More yet trickled straight off the popsicle and into her waiting cleavage, leaving it messy and white. The heat made it dry quickly, leaving her sticky with Bob’s cum.
Not cum, his cream. His rocket’s cream. He definitely wasn’t being seduced by a twenty year old girl. He turned forty three last month, a grown man immune to such childish tricks. Bob was in control here.
Bob was of course lying to himself and Cammy had him wrapped around her finger. Or around her tongue, as it were. When the rocket was all gone, she took the stick in her teeth and took a step back, grinning at him. “Thanks for the sample, Bob. I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?” she asked, before turning with a swish of her ponytail and walking off.
Seeing her walk away confirmed Bob’s suspicions that she had to squeeze her ass into those shorts. “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” he said as he watched her swaying hips walk away from him.
Only when she went back into her house did he realize what she had done. Red Rocket didn’t do samples, but fuck it. He’d pay it himself. Three bucks was more than worth that.
Something about Cammy seemed familiar. He couldn’t immediately place why though and pushed it from his mind.
Bob and Cammy became good friends over the next week; he shifted his schedule around so her neighborhood became his last stop, and she was his last customer every day, insofar as ‘cute bitch sucking off popsicles to get them for free’ could be called a customer. He fed her a different kind each day and she made sure to make a sticky mess all over herself for him to leer at.
Bob loved it, but it was also driving him nuts. Or maybe it would be better to say it was driving his nuts blue. He hadn’t been with a woman since going into witsec, and Camila always skipped off right after finishing her frozen treat, leaving the former criminal standing around with an obvious boner tenting his pants. On the seventh day, he resolved to draw his line in the sand.
If Cammy wanted a free popsicle, she was going to have to take responsibility for her foul cockteasing actions. When she was free of her cast, she would have to take on Big Sal’s big dick. Or Bob’s dick. Whatever.
The seventh day was the hottest day of the year, and it showed on Camila, her toned body shining with a light sheen of perspiration. She always went for skimpy clothes that were too small for her, but on that day, maybe to celebrate getting out of her cast, she was wearing a bikini that may as well have showed her entire tits but for her nipples. The knowing tease grinned up at Bob as she got up to the counter and leaned up, poking a hand into the truck.
“It’s soooo cool in there,” she panted at Bob. Of course it was, he was the fucking ice cream man. “Can I come in and get a popsicle?” she asked, leaning up on the counter just enough to plant her prodigious rack on them. “Pretty please, Bob? I’m like, about to pass out.”
“Yeah, c’mon around.” Bob couldn’t have been prouder at himself. He had won.
He was also still lying to himself to feel better about the whole witsec thing. As Cammy stepped up into the truck, he closed the counter’s window and flipped his ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’; the red rocket jingle still played in the background because frustrated asshole that he was, he broke his stereo the other day, punching the nearest thing after Cammy left him (or rather his dick) high and dry.
The little tease didn’t waste any time now, though, loosening the drawstrings of her bikini bottom and pulling them right off to reveal the damp, dark lips of her freshly shaved and flushed cunt. It was abundantly clear that all the teasing she dragged Bob through, Camila wanted his cock in her just as much as he wanted to pound her little pussy. She squeezed past him and pulled herself up on the clear glass door of the freezer bolted to the truck’s floor, leaning back on one hand as she spread her knees wide for her. Her other hand and its pink-painted fingers slid down between her thighs, spreading her snatch and holding it lewdly open for him in her wanton pose.
“Come on,” she told him as she bit down on her bottom lip, a heated flush running up her neck and face. “Feed me another red rocket, mister ice cream man. Stuff it right in me and give me all your pent-up cream. Please,” she begged to egg him on.
She didn’t need to tell Bob twice. He was already stepping between her legs and getting his ready cock out of his shorts. The size of it made her eyes widen in genuine surprise. “Oh gosh,” she said as she stared at the real reason they called him Big Sal back in New York City. “That’s… so much bigger than I thought it would be.” Slutty tease that she was, Cammy darted a glance back up at Bob and bit her bottom lip again. “It might not even fit,” she practically purred.
The feel of Bob’s cock rubbing along her ready entrance killed off Cammy’s composure, a low and throaty moan coming out of her throat. In a way, the would-be convict had gotten some measure of control back over the situation. “Told you, girlie,” he jeered at her, reaching up a hand to rip away her bikini top and force her fat tits out of hiding and into the limelight. “You’ve got no idea.” She gasped and then giggled excitedly at his audacity, unaware that he had snapped the bikini’s strings and that her bottoms had been kicked under one of the truck’s seats; when she left, she’d be doing a real walk of shame back home.
Cammy gasped again as Bob slammed himself into her narrow cunt and began to forcefully fuck her, her beautiful breasts bouncing up with each of his vigorous thrusts into her snatch. It wasn’t long before the slut wrapped her legs around his waist and crossed her ankles at the small of his back, flexing both her thighs and her inner muscles to draw him in deep each time. Rather than lean back on her hands, she flung her arms around his neck and clawed desperately at his back.
Bob might have been as randy and easy to manipulate like any man her age, but his experience showed. “Ohhhh, fuck,” she gasped as she drew long pink lines across his skin, mindless and desperate retaliation against the way he claimed her fuckhole for himself. In the heat of the moment, she had no reservations against letting him know it, too. “God, I love your cock. Keep fucking me like that… fuck… fuck!”
Cammy’s toes curled and her legs locked hard around Bob as she began a long, lewd whine, her pussy clenching and spasming around his length as she came hard. Pent up as he was, it was enough to push him over the edge as well. Their simultaneous orgasms were almost as sweet as the cream in the real red rockets, as was the moment they spent panting together. By impulse afterwards, she kissed him as intimately as real lovers.
A sudden knocking on the closed window startled them both, and Bob was quick to slide the naked gym rat off his dick, off the freezer, and out of sight, motioning for her to keep quiet. She gave a dumb smile and nodded her head. As Bob got his dick put away, she started to finger herself, making a show of scooping his cum out of her cunt and licking it off her fingers.
“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Bob muttered to himself, before opening the window. He expected another kid, but it was his witsec handler, Agent Rodríguez, who began to explain that he was just here to check in on Bob while he was in the neighborhood.
Post-nut clarity hit Bob, and he realized why Camila seemed so familiar to him. Rodríguez had a picture of his daughter on his desk.