Beefy Buns

I went to Beth Johnson, the chief cook, who occasionally acted as a shift manager. "Something's come up," I said, thinking of my recent erection. "Can you handle the late shift?" I knew Beth could use the overtime; like most of my employees, she's chronically short of money.

"Sure, Brad."

"Thanks."

Fifteen minutes after she'd left, Mona was talking to me on her cell phone.

"I'm on my way," I told her, breathless with excitement. I'd verified her address in the employee files before leaving Beefy Buns in Beth's capable hands so I could put myself in Mona's even more capable hands and, I hoped, her expert mouth and adept ass.

She giggled. "I didn't expect you to come over quite so soon."

"Oh. If it's too soon, I can--"

"No, no, it's fine. Do you need directions?"

"North on Tenth Street to Sycamore, left on Sycamore to Elm, and right on Elm to your apartment, right?"

"It sounds like you've been here before."

"Just the neighborhood."

"You were stalking me?"

"Never. I just wanted to see where my dream girl lives." She wasn't recording my call, I hoped. She seemed genuinely interested in me, maybe because she saw that, her cock and balls notwithstanding, I was genuinely interested in her. Of course, it was possible, too, that she was still building a sexual harassment case against me, most recently as a stalker.

"Talk to you later," she said, disconnecting.

I glanced into the bright heavens. Let her like me, rather than her setting me up, I pleaded to the universe.

The sky, cloudless and azure, was non-committal.

Mona's apartment wasn't in the best part of town. Situated on the ground floor, in a line of identical units that, with three other rows, formed a square, consisting of two stories fronted by either a sidewalk or a balcony walkway, her residence, like all the others, faced a littered, weed-choked lawn in which a small swimming pool accompanied by a dilapidated building containing toilets and showers was the focal point.