Page 25 of Ghost

“You tortured me by making me agree to do this,” he said. “I don’t give a single solitary fuck how horny you got on the ride up here. It’s my turn to torture you. We’re eating fucking pie.”

He took a few long strides toward the entrance. “C’mon.”

Eating an entire pie sounded like a great idea when we talked about it in the sushi restaurant. Now it seemed a complete waste of an afternoon. Nonetheless, I followed Porter up the sidewalk, second-guessing my denial of his offer to have sex the entire way. My dripping wet pussy agreed.

Once inside the nostalgic establishment, I was met by an old-school glass pie display case that was filled with various pies. My mouth watered at the sight of the flaky crust and the aroma of the fresh pies. As I ogled the pies, Porter stepped to the counter.

“I’d like one slice of the boysenberry apple crumb, and an entire pecan pie, please,” Porter said.

“A slice of boysenberry apple, and a whole pecan pie?” the lady asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Any toppings?” she asked, pointing to a sign that was suspended over her head.

I glanced at the sign. There were two ice cream options – vanilla and cinnamon, caramel sauce, cinnamon sauce, whipped cream, and cheddar cheese.

“Cinnamon ice cream on top of the boysenberry, please,” Porter responded without looking at the sign. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want anything on your pie?”

Still struggling to rid myself of lingering sexual thoughts, I simply shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“You don’t want the pecan pie boxed?” the lady asked.

Porter smiled. “No, ma’am. She’s going to eat it.”

Her eyes went wide. “She can’t eat an entire pecan pie. That’s impossible.”

“According to her, she can eat it,” Porter assured her. “We’ve got a bet.”

She was a middle-aged woman that looked like she belonged in a nineteen sixties television sitcom. Her short graying hair was fixed in a series of close curls, and she wore an apron that was dusted with flour. Halfway up the bridge of her nose, a pair of glasses rested.

She peered over the tops of the lenses and fixed her eyes on me. “Sweetheart, you’re going to get sick if you eat an entire pie.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“Have you done this before?” she asked.

“I ate seven hotdogs once,” I admitted. “Not on a bet. Just because.”

“That’s a far cry from eating one of our pecan pies. I wish you the best of luck.” She offered a reassuring smile. “Anything to drink?”

I stepped to Porter’s side. “Milk, please.”

He draped his arm over my back and squeezed my shoulder, pulling me into him as he did so. It was a simple gesture and I doubted he meant anything by it. My heart – and my slowly recovering lady bits – seemed to think otherwise.

I looked at him with the intention of asking – playfully – what the hell he was doing. Instead, a face-splitting smile formed. He squeezed my shoulder with his massive hand and grinned in return.

Lost in blissful thoughts of the moment we shared, I walked at Porter’s side as he carried the pies, admiring him along the way. Once outside, he gestured toward an empty table with a nod. “How’s that one?”

Patrons of various ages were scattered about the seating area. I was going to become a spectacle while I ate the pie, and there was nothing I could do about it. Even so, I agreed to sit in the seat he recommended.

“It’s fine,” I said.

Porter seemed, at least during our pie-eating adventure, to be kind, playful, and extremely polite. Those qualities, when combined with his intimidating looks and massive size, garnered my interest. All of it.

I wanted to get back on the orgasm machine. Or go order another pie and have him put his arm around me. We could ride around the countryside, stopping every fifteen miles or so for him to lick the seat free of my juices.

I could simply bring up the topic of sex and see if it aroused him as much as it did in the sushi restaurant, stealing glances under the table at his crotch as we talked. I had no interest, however, in the pie that sat between us.