Christmas Tree Hunting

Angela pulled up in the bumpy area of ground in the temporary Christmas tree sales lot that had been designated for parking. She turned the motor off, rolled down her window, and panned the area of the tree stands, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the semidark. Strands of dim lightbulbs ran in a grid pattern over the lot, held up by leaning two-by-fours, so she didn't have to wait long.

The sounds of an irritated voice dressing someone down arrested her attention. About midway down one of the rows she could see, a tall, strongly built white man was waving a finger at a younger black man. Both of them looked pretty good to Angela, but the black guy looked more intriguing. And he was quite a bit younger than the guy who was giving him a talking to.

". . . do NOT want to get another call like that, Reggie," Angela could hear the older man say. "Half way home, he said, when the tree came off the car roof on the freeway."

"Yes, sir. I'll make sure they're tied on good from now on," the black guy responded. He seemed to be genuinely remorseful, and he certainly was cowed by the older man, Angela thought. He was quite a hunk to be intimidated, though. A wrestler maybe? Or a football player. Whatever, he must be into bodybuilding. The older man was quite muscular too, his sweat shirt cut off to show his bulging biceps. Showing off? Angela wondered. It was pretty cold out here this evening to be dressed down like that. Well, he had a right to be proud of his guns.

Angela waited for the performance to end and the two men to separate off into different rows of trees before she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, got out of the car, and smoothed down her overcoat. She'd spent quite some time getting the look she wanted. Getting the look she wanted was getting more and more difficult with the passage of time. At least the dim lighting the strings of bulbs over the tree provided helped her cause.

"Excuse me, ma'am, can I help you find a tree? We'll be closing in twenty minutes."

Angela looked around to find that the older man, probably the manager of the stand, had found her as, her stiletto heels clicking in the thin layer of gravel on the paths, she walked down the row of trees where she'd last seen the young black guy—Reggie, she'd heard him called.

The big bruiser of guy was practically leering at her—giving her a good up and down undressing look. She could see that she wouldn't have a bit of trouble landing him. But he was just like any man she could—and did—pick up down at the neighborhood tavern. Not as old as she was, of course, and in better shape than most in the tavern, but certainly not what she was shopping for this evening.

But don't be too revealing about that, she told herself. She was shopping for a Christmas tree this evening.

"Uh, I'm just looking around. If you close before I find something, I can come back tomorrow afternoon maybe. I'll be fine just looking around on my own."

The man looked a bit disappointed. "Well, you need any help, I'm your man." He said it in such a way that he could be her man for more than just buying a Christmas tree.

"I'm sure you are," she said sweetly, forgetting for a second that she was shopping for something else. Many had been the time that this muscle man would have hit the spot with her. At her age, forty in a guy could seem like the new twenty. Not this time, though. She'd already given thought to what she was in the mood for.

Her slip of the tongue had brought a flash of "maybe" to the guy's eyes, and he took a step toward her, but she stepped back, signaling he was to come no closer, and then moved over, on clicking heels, to the next row through a gap in the tree stands. She had to repeat that maneuver a couple of times before she moved into the row where the young black guy—Reggie—was standing, holding a tree up, and looking at it speculatively, like maybe he'd buy it himself.

"Yes, that's just the one. Yes, please hold it while I look at it from the other side." Angela turned on her sparkling smile that she knew men appreciated and walked to where Reggie was standing. She brushed by him, supposedly to see the tree he was holding from another angle, and, in doing so, lightly touched his upper arm. She left her hand there as she moved around him and was rewarded, she thought, with a slight shudder from the young man.

"Yes, that will do nicely," she said. "But you're about to close, aren't you?"

"No problem, lady." He named a price and she nodded her head like it was the best bargain she'd encountered all week. "I'll ring you up and then I can put it—"

"On the top of my car, yes. But, oh dear," this given as an afterthought as she put on her "weak little me" expression, "Someone has to take it off the car at the other end, don't they? And take it into the house, and get it into a stand. Silly me. I hadn't thought of that. Maybe a much smaller tree?" She looked at him expectantly.

"We do have some nice three- and four-footers one row over," he offered.

"Well, I suppose. But I do so love this tree. I wonder what I could do." Again she smiled expectantly at the young man. "If I could just get someone to help me at the other end. You are about to close, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't live far from here. It might even be on your way home. I'd be happy to pay extra, say $25, if you'd follow me home and bring it in and put it in a stand for me."

"I don't know . . ."

"Oh, you're right. That would be worth $30, wouldn't it?"

Apparently it would, as ten minutes later Reggie was tying the tree down on the roof of his car. She reasoned that since he was coming anyway and his car was a lot older than hers that the tree would be less likely to scratch his car. That it would be more likely to scratch any car it was strapped to didn't seem to make much sense didn't seem to dawn on Reggie. In addition to that, Angela could clearly see that she would have to tell him how better he could tie the tree down too—so it wouldn't go careening off the top of the car on the freeway. (She didn't live quite as close as she'd let on.)

But she hadn't singled Reggie out for his brains.

* * * *

"That looks just perfect, Reggie. Thanks a bunch. It'll look great decorated and in lower light." Although the tree wasn't decorated yet, she'd been itching to dim the lights in the room ever since they'd entered and did so now. The lighting was all important. "Bet you haven't had your dinner yet, and I've delayed that for you, haven't I? I feel awful about that."

"That's all right, Mrs. Walker. I was glad to do it."

The process of getting the tree, about twice as wide as it had appeared in the lot, into Angela's living room had result in the two knowing each other's names—and Angela to do a bit more knowing touching of Reggie as she "helped" maneuver the tree into place.

"You know what? It was a harder job for you than I'd thought it would be, and you must be starved. And I just remembered that I have a much larger steak thawed than I can eat myself. But then maybe you don't like steak."

"Who the fuck . . . um, sorry . . . who don't like steak?" Reggie exclaimed.

"Then you'll stay and let me fix you a nice steak?"

"Um, I was going to watch the Ravens and Saints football game with friends. I'm late now."

"You're already late? Oh, my, that's my fault, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, I didn't mean—"

"That game will start in about ten minutes, won't it? How long a drive is it to your friend's place from here."

"Uh, probably twenty minutes, easy."

"You'll miss a lot of the game then, won't you? Why don't you just watch the game here on my TV? Steak on a tray in front of the TV, right here."

"Uh, I don't—"

"And beer. I've got plenty of beer. Bud OK with you?"

She clicked on the TV as Reggie was ruminating over that. The game was about to start, and he turned his attention to the TV set.

"But look, we're still in our coats. Here, give me your jacket. I'll hang it up with my coat." She was shucking her overcoat and Reggie glanced away from the TV set at her and then his eyes fairly bugged out of his head. She was wearing a filmy black little thing under her coat. It was probably two sizes smaller than she should be wearing, and she now had rolled out her best weapons—she was busty and curvy. Nothing in the lighting could ruin busty and curvy. And those black stiletto-heeled shoes with the strap across the ankle really set the tone.

"I don't know," he said in a tight little voice, hopefully feeling a tightness elsewhere, but she wasn't there to listen to him. She'd disappeared down a hall with his leather jacket, and there was little chance he'd be getting that back in the near future. Angela wasn't above taking hostages.

"There then, you just relax and watch the game, while I rustle up those steaks," she said when she returned from the bowels of the bedroom area.

He'd finished off his steak and was into his second beer half way through the first quarter of the game. He was sitting on the couch, facing the TV set. Angela swept away the TV tray. He'd been so concentrated on the steak, beer, and game that he hadn't noticed that Angela hadn't fixed anything for herself other than a tall glass of red wine.

When she returned from the kitchen, she handed him another beer and stood behind him at the couch. She dared putting her hands lightly on his shoulders when play resumed after a commercial, and he didn't seem to notice that.

At the next commercial, she said. "You seem to like football a lot. I bet you're a football player too. You're quite a chunk and a half. In a good way, of course."

"Uh huh. Played it in high school. The trade school I'm going to doesn't have football, of course, but I play in a pickup league still."

"And you must work out a lot too."

"Yes, ma'am. Four days a week."

She could tell that he was happy that she noticed he had a good body. Boy, did he have a good body, she thought. And boy was she in the mood for milk chocolate.

"Trade school, you say? What are you training to do?"

"Plumber. Next spring I'll have my license."

Good to know, Angela thought. Good . . . to . . . know. She had been lightly massaging his shoulders. He either didn't notice or didn't mind. She dug in deeper.

"Gee, you're tight. Bet it's hard work at the tree lot. And then probably doing heavy lifting at the school. You need to have these knots worked out. Do you mind?"

The Ravens had the ball on the nine-yard line, third down.

"Uh, no. Feels good."

Fourth down on the one yard line. They were going for it.

"I can get to the muscles better without this sweatshirt on. Let me pull it off."

"Uh, OK."

She barely had it off him when he was leaping up and pumping his fists in the air. "Touchdown, Ravens!"

God, he looked good from the back. Broad shoulders down to a thin waist, bulging shoulder and arm muscles, luscious milk chocolate skin. A tribal tattoo in black ink extending across his upper back from triceps to triceps. A thick gold-chain necklace. Bulbous butt. Not a day over twenty.

When he came back down, she began massaging his bare shoulders. When she'd moved the massaging down to his pecs and had her head down beside his and was sighing lightly, he either didn't notice or didn't care. She ran her fingers delicately across a Chinese ideograph on his left breast that he probably didn't even know the meaning of, and she felt him tremble a bit. But he didn't say anything. Her hand played with the gold chain.

At the next commercial: "Bet you make the girls really wild."

"I do all right."

"Really? You're really a player with the girls?"

"Damn right." Still, she only had half his attention. Each time the commercial changed, Reggie thought they'd be back in the game. And they were into commercials because the Ravens had called time out to ice the Saints' kicker, who was trying for a field goal. Tension time.

"That's what all the guys muscled up like you say," Angela ventured. "Bet you spend all your time toning up that beautiful body of yours, though. Don't even know the girls who want you exist."

"I spike plenty of girls. Women too," Reggie muttered, irritated at the start of another commercial rather than the game. "See." He fished a Magnum condom packet out of his pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table.

He maybe hadn't even realized he'd done that. Just reacting to a challenge like he'd do to the friendly taunt of a buddy if he'd made it to his friend's house to watch the game. The TV was back on the game and he was concentrating on the kick. "Damn," he muttered. The field goal had been good.

Angela was feeling like she'd scored a field goal too. A Magnum condom. Yummy.

As the first half was coming to an end, Angela moved around and sat at the other end of the sofa from Reggie, whose eyes were glued to the tube. The Ravens had fumbled the ball and the Saints were knocking on the door again. She leaned down and unstrapped her stiletto heels and tossed them to the side. She could take clothes off too.

Angela was aching to have him knocking at her door. She didn't sit straight in the sofa; she turned her back to the arm, jutted her chest up and out, and lifted her right foot, bent her leg, and planted the foot behind the sofa cushion. Her tight skirt was riding up on her thighs and she wasn't wearing panties. Spread her knees a bit. Reggie was getting a clear snatch shot—if he'd just run with the ball. Or the balls, she thought, with an inward chuckle. Bet his were the size of tennis balls.

"It's half time," she said in a small Betty Boop voice.

"Yep," he answered, taking a big swig of his fourth beer. "Came at a great time. The Saints ran out of time before running out of field. Ravens will have the ball to open the second half."

"Wonder what we could do while we were waiting for half time to be over." Her voice still had the cooing tone in it.

"Look, Mrs. Walker," Reggie said, turning his face to her. "If you want me to fuck you, just say so. All you have to say is that you want it. I'm good with fucking you."

This was followed by possibly the longest pause in this dance of the night.

"I want you to fuck me, Reggie." She laughed, although she was surprised. She'd lost the baby doll voice. She slipped down to the floor to kneel between his thighs; unzipped him; fished a hard cock out (wondering momentarily just how long this young stud had been hard. How hard had he made her work for what he wanted to give her anyway?); encircled it with both hands, one above the other; and opened her mouth over the purple mushroom cap.

He widened his stance and held her head between his beefy hands, running his fingers into her long, bottle-blonde hair, popping bobby pins and a hairclip out of her hair and causing her hair to cascade down to her shoulders. No reticence, but no passion either. Just a suck is a suck and a fuck is a fuck.

But that was enough for her. She pulled his trousers, briefs, and construction-worker boots off his legs and feet as she sucked his cock.

He let her go for a few minutes—he obviously was enjoying the attention, and his dick was continuing to thicken and lengthen—but after only those few minutes, he reached down and pulled her up by grasping her sides, pushing her back into the sofa arm, lifting her left ankle onto his shoulder, and turning and pushing his knees under her buttocks. As he was doing that, Angela laughed and pulled her dress top down to her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra.

He didn't seem self-conscious at all that all he was wearing were socks and his gold chain. He had no problem displaying his body. Angela had no problem enjoying that he did so.

"They've cut pro football half times down to twelve minutes and we've already used four," he growled, as he slid and slid and slid inside her and almost immediately began to pump hard and fast. Somehow he'd managed to get the condom on, she saw, when, huffing up a storm to take him inside her, she glanced over at the coffee table to see the open packet.

She would have felt the fool at working so hard for it, if he wasn't being so good at giving it to her. Naïve dummy? Yeah, right. In and out; in and out. "Oh, Christ, you big-cocked stud!"

She barely had time to arch her back and pull his face in to give her tits a bit of attention before she felt him shuddering and filling the bulb of the condom.

"Sorry," he said when he pulled away. "Been thinking of doing that since the tree lot."

"That's OK, baby," she whispered. "If you open the drawer under the coffee table, you'll find more rubbers."

He drew her close beside him on the couch, put an arm around her shoulders, his hand grasping a breast, a thumb thrumming an engorged nipple, while he diddled her cunt and finger fucked her with the other hand during the next commercial break. Throwing her head back on top of the sofa back and closing her eyes to concentrate fully on the sensations of what he was doing with his beefy fingers, Angela laid a hand on the one he was cupping her muff with, intending to guide him. But he obviously already knew exactly what to do with those fingers. Shuddering, she saw flashes of light behind her closed eyelids and felt very, very wet.

She was panting and mewing when he fucked her again at the change of the third quarter into the fourth, her belly on the arm of the sofa, and his body folded over her, fucking her from behind. This time he went longer before ejaculating, a good five minutes of playing time into the fourth quarter—fifteen minutes by watch time. But initially the pumping was on a slowdown, as he had his head and much of his attention turned to the game.

The climax—for her—came during a set of commercials while an injured player was being carted off the field and was everything she could have wanted. Attention for her now, picking up the stroke, diving deeper, thrusting harder, doing a corkscrew twist every fifth or sixth plunge, taking her breath away. No novice cocksmen this. Brutally squeezing her breasts. His hot breath on her neck, kissing her there, biting her there as she exploded . . . and then exploded again . . and yet again. Still pounding away, very much into the fuck now, Reggie rocked back on his knees, putting one hand on her belly and fisting her hair and bowing her head back to get stronger traction in his thrusts.

Crying out "Oh, baby; oh, baby; oh, baby," Angela dug her claws into the fabric of the chair arm to hold position, aching for another climax, and screaming an "Oh, fuck, yessss!" when it came. Reggie wasn't done yet, though, and he fucked on.

Commercials over, the pumping slowed down again and he covered her body close from above, as his attention became divided once more, until his flow came with a shared sigh and a falling away from her to a sitting position on the sofa and a reach for the can of beer.

Angela extracted her claws from the sofa arm and turned onto her back in the corner of the sofa, panting and purring. She extended her left leg, moving her foot into Reggie's lap, pushing her toes under his balls and lifting his still half-hard cock. Toying with the shaft with her foot, half hoping for another go at the end of the next quarter. How many quarters did a football game have anyway, she wondered. But Reggie was totally engrossed in the game again, and his cock continued going flaccid.

Angela didn't mind. She had had what she wanted inside her. Mama had had herself a young, hung, black muscle stud fucking her. She had a special affinity for that combination: young . . . hung . . . black . . . muscle . . . stud.

"Touchdown," he cried out, as he stood up from the couch, pushing her foot aside, and saluted the screen with his beer can.

"Absolutely," Angela murmured dreamily, although there was little chance Reggie heard her.

He was up and ready to leave as soon as the game was over, exultant because the Ravens had won. If he was exultant at having gotten laid too—twice, and sucked in the bargain—he didn't mention it.