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It's so fucking hot outside. Entirely too hot.
Past you decided to agree to a spontaneous beach trip with your friends - one which you were squished in the back of Denki's old car that, funnily enough, doesn't have AC.
You’re wearing your favorite two piece swimsuit: a black one with hearts hanging from the strings, paired with a white cover-up and flip-flops to match. You were silently thanking yourself for changing into your swimsuit before meeting up with them. And, that you doubled up on deodorant. And sunscreen.
You think you look cute, at least. Even if you are practically melting from the heat, as cute as that could be.
However, your beach umbrella and sunhat only does so much for you - shedding every "layer" of clothing you'd had on, which, at some point, actually included your sunglasses. Eventually you'd grown tired of the fold-up fan you'd brought, and the battery powered fan you'd switched to, just fucking died on you. Great.
After desperately searching through your bag for something, anything to drink - you notice that every bottle of water you had, you’d downed already. Which, unfortunately for you, means two things: a.) you’re really, really hot, and b.) you really, really have to pee.
“Fuck,” you mutter, “now I gotta find a bathroom, wherever it is.” Rushing your way past crowds of people to the bathroom, you find one (just in time).
Mission B accomplished, but you’re still hot. And you’d rather poke your eyes out than drink from one of the nearby fountains.
There’s an ice cream truck nearby. Peeking at the sign hanging above the opening, it reads ‘Free Ice Cream’.
Something in you tells you not to be too excited, especially because you don’t see anyone there. But….you’re hot, and if you don’t get something cold soon, you’re quite literally gonna become a puddle. So you shrug.
Free ice cream is free ice cream, after all.
Padding over to the truck, you lightly knock on the window. “Hello? Is anyone in there?”
A few beats pass with no answer, so you knock again. “Hello?”
Again, no answer. You frown; you really, really wanted some ice cream.
As you turn to walk away, the window slides open and a deep voice comes out. “What.”
Turning around, you catch sight of the figure in the window. A man, that looks to be your age, if not a little older than you. Tall, with half lidded blue eyes and scarred skin. Getting closer, you notice he has several piercings—namely, three on his right nostril. He’s wearing a hat that reads Slimey’s Goop - which you realize is the name printed on the side of the truck. And… everywhere else, apparently.
Strangely enough, he doesn’t have a name tag.
You shake your head and then open your mouth to speak, “Is there still free ice cream?”
He stares blankly at you before asking, “What ice cream.”
“The ice cream on your sign,” you point to the sign hanging above your head. “This is an ice cream truck, right?”
He pauses before tossing a brief “No.” and moving to close the window.
“Hey—hey!” you grab the handle of the sliding glass before it shuts, forcing him to stop in his tracks.
“What do you want lady,” The man huffs, annoyed. “There’s no fuckin’ free ice cream here.”
“How the hell don’t you have ice cream when this is an ice cream truck!”
“Lady,” he rolls his eyes, pulling the window open to stare down at you again, “I said we didn’t have free ice cream.”
“But the sign said—“
“It’s not free. You have to pay for it, dumbass. Either come back with some money or don’t, I don’t give a fuck.” He slams the window and disappears off to the side.
“Fine.” You stomp over to your bag and pull your wallet out, checking the sides only to find no bills there. “Okay,” you mumble to yourself, unzipping the coin part and finding that empty too. You could’ve sworn you’d had money on the way over here; you remember having at least a few dollars or even quarters with you. You never leave the house without money, so…why didn’t you have any this time?
Frustrated, you rummage around in your bag to see if anything had fallen out - even dumping everything out onto your towel to pick through it again, to see if you’d missed anything. There’s no fucking way your money disappeared like that. Absolutely none.
You’d try to use a card, but those are gone too. And, the sign says ‘CASH ONLY’ in big, lime green letters. And suddenly, everyone else is out in the water, several feet away from you and out of reach.
If he was nice enough, you wouldn’t have a problem with asking him if you could pretty please have a cone for the heat. But, considering he slammed the window in your face, you take it he’s….not the nice type.
You toy with the idea in your mind for a little while, until you feel like your brain is about to fry in your head from being so hot, then you get up.
Maybe…he’ll be nicer if you smile? Push up your tits a little? Flirt with him a little bit?
It’s worth a shot, you suppose.
Closing your eyes, you raise your fist to knock on the window again. One, two—
“I told you the ice cream’s not free, lady.” The man says again, in that monotone voice.
Taking a deep breath, you open your eyes. “What….what if I paid you another way?”
The man tilts his head, still looking annoyed. “Monopoly money’s not accepted here. Neither are sand dollars or seashells or whatever the fuck.”
“Not—“ you breathe, “not those; another way. Like… a favor?”
His eyes light up for a brief moment. “A favor?”
“A…favor, you know.” He’s silent, amusement lighting up his features. His face remains unchanging, but you know that he knows what you mean.
You’ve…never been so desperate for anything, let alone ice cream for crying out loud, but you feel like you’d do just about anything right now. So, you swallow the lump in your throat and continue.
“Maybe I could….suck you off or something?”
You’re so humiliated. He must think you’re pathetic, so desperate for a 50 cent ice cream cone that you’d give head to a man you don’t even know. You’re unable tear your eyes away from the paint peeling off the truck, revealing the ugly brown color underneath the faded….white paint? Though, that doesn’t look like paint.
“You’re not serious.”
“I am,” the words come out shakily. “Very, um, serious.”
He chuckles, a noise that only deepens your shame, but to your surprise, he speaks. “Come up here then.” The window shuts and you hear him shuffle to the back to unlock the door.
You tug your hat down over your eyes and head around to the back, pulling the handle to the door to go inside the truck.
And if you thought the outside of the truck was bad, the inside is worse.
There’s just as much “paint”, if not more peeling off the walls, and it strangely smells stale and…funky? A smell you can’t quite place your finger on, but you know it’s rotten. The place where the ice cream should be is covered, and instead turned into some makeshift storage section - covered in odd, pale stains and green marks. There’s a rolling tray with several lighters strewn across it, and there’s…bullet holes in the wall? One through a poster that you’re sure isn’t meant for kids, covering where another bullet hole was. The floor is covered in some type of grime, and there’s a bottle of lotion with tissues next to it on a “table”, underneath of which has…used tissues.
Just what the hell have you gotten yourself into? At this point, you’re unsure if you even want the ice cream anymore. It’s better than being hot, sure, but…at what cost.
The fold-up chair creaks when the man takes a seat in it, legs spread and gaze focused on you, impatient. “You want your ice cream or what?”
“Um,” You say, mouth suddenly dry, “ye-yeah.”
“Then get down here.”
You stand awkwardly in front of him, shifting your weight from one foot to another when he groans. “On your knees, idiot - don’t tell me you’ve never given head before? And you asked?”
“I have,” you say a little too quickly, “Just…never with a stranger? And in a place like..this?” You wave your hand around, gesturing to the floor.
“What?”
“The floor’s dirty.”
“So?”
“I’m not getting on my knees on this dirty ass floor.”
“Then you’re not getting your ice cream,” He sits back in his chair, crossing his arms. “No head, no ice cream. That was the favor you asked for, correct?”
Oh brother.
“Yeah, but—“
“Then get down.” He states, firm. “If you don’t want to, you can happily get out,” he nods his head towards the door, “you’re free to go, lady. That is, if you don’t want your precious ice cream anymore.”
“Fuck you,” you mumble, shrugging off your cover-up and placing it on the floor, wincing as you sink to your knees on top of it. “You’re fucking sick, you know that?”
He laughs, “Maybe, but I’m not the one sucking dick for ice cream,” he leers down at you, “am I?”
You glare at him and he grins, pleased. “I didn’t think so. Now, go on. It’s not gonna suck itself.” Jackass.
Swallowing, you reach up to the top of his jeans, undoing the top button. Unzipping them slowly, you feel the bulge in his jeans - he’s already hard from this. Curling your fingers underneath the elastic of his boxers, you lightly tug them down his legs, until his cock springs free.
“You’re…” you start, eyes wide. He’s…..bigger than you expected, to say the least. It’s….pretty? A little darker than him and there’s piercings on the underside, silver bars lining the shaft. When you grip it, you’re a little surprised when it jumps, dribbling precum down to your fist.
You’re really in deep now, huh.
“I’m…?” he trails, wanting to tease you, but you ignore him. Pulling away to spit on your palm, you take him again, dragging your hand up his length. You start slowly, gauging him for a reaction.
His brow creases, and you pull away to add more spit, working yourself into a steady rhythm; you run your thumb along the tip. The soft shlick of your hand is the only sound filling the truck, outside of the distant sounds of people playing in the sand.
You’d almost forgotten you were at the beach.
Keeping eye contact with him, you flick your tongue over the tip, relishing his sharp intake of breath. A little victory, you think, as you move to take the entire head in, slowly moving to fit as much as you can in your mouth.
Bobbing your head along the length, you continue like that, and he hisses—“take off this-fuck—this stupid fuckin’ hat.” He tosses it to the side, taking a fistful of your hair and ignoring the squeak you let out in surprise, bucking his hips up into your mouth.
“Just like that—oh,” He groans, tip hitting the back of your throat. Pushing your head up and down his cock while fucking your mouth at the same time, every thrust of his hips is punctuated by a click sound. It’s sloppy, spit dribbling out the corners of your mouth and down his legs, pooling in the space between your tits.
The truck shakes with every push, rocking back and forth even as he speeds up, groaning louder all the while. He’s close to cumming, you can tell by the indescribable curses falling from his mouth. Suddenly he pushes you off, and you cough, trying to catch your breath.
Throwing his head back, he fists his cock his balls draw taut as he cums, white liquid splattering over your tits.
He sinks back down into the chair, panting. “You’re,” he says, “you’re not bad, I guess,”
“Fuck you,” you say between breaths, looking down at the mess on your chest. “Can I have my ice cream now?”
Tugging his boxers up, he reaches behind him and pulls out a empty ice cream cone, and scoops some of his cum into the cone. “There.”
“What the fuck is this?” You half-yell, “we agreed on actual fucking ice cream?”
“Nah,” he zips his pants back up, “that’ll cost you extra.”