Lauren Lubas


“Come on baby, oh, come on,” a deeper grunt of need emerged with every attempt. “I just need a little, baby, come on. Open up for Daddy.” The heroic struggle continued with no response. “OOO, you’re so tight, baby;” repetitive actions: grip, squeeze, twist, release staccato breath with voice. “Come on, I know you’re wet; I can see it; just give me a taste,” still nothing. “Oh, you got me workin’ hard now.” His breath quickened as he palmed (and the palming quickly turned to a firm grip on) the white curves. “You know how I like it. Come on, baby, just loosen up a little, and I can take it from there.” Frustrated, he slapped the left side; “I didn’t want to do that,” he raised a threatening hand, “but I’ll do it again if I have to.”

She leaned against his shoulder and whispered seductively in his ear: “you’re s’ppose ta twist it counterclockwise baby.”


Momentarily shocked at the realization that another human being was in the room, he twisted the cap counterclockwise, amazed at how easily the jug opened. He released a sigh of relief, shame and embarrassment; without turning around: “how long were you standing behind me?”


“Long enough to realize that you never talk to me the way you talk to a gallon of milk.”

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