Little Grindhouse
Authored by \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
Authored by \r\n\t\t\t\t\t
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My name is Levi Covitz – Dr. Levi Covitz – and I recount this tale well after its passing. I can still scarcely believe that such an event would happen to a man like myself, especially at the time when it did. It seems unreal, looking back upon it, but then I suppose even I must believe that anything is possible, and anything that could be thought to happen surely would have happened at one point, or will happen at another.
This is a story about how a Dutch coffeeshop saved my marriage.
At the time where this tale takes place, I was a middle-aged man of thirty-six. I married my high school sweetheart, Marie, during my time in university where I studied to get my PhD and specialize in infectious diseases. When I graduated, I worked for a time in my mid-twenties as a humble doctor working walk-in for my local hospital, until I was hired on as a specialized diagnostician at a new hospital in North America. I took my life and my wife and moved promptly to begin my new career treating the more puzzling cases of sickness that would find themselves in the hospital’s care. To say that it was fulfilling work would be understating the satisfaction I derived from the job. I’d saved my share of lives in the five years I had been in the practice.
My wife, however, took some umbrage with the direction our lives were taking. She fancied herself a volunteer worker – always busy organizing fund raisers for the community and things of that nature. I had always believed that it was good, honest work; work she needed, as my own career kept me away from home longer than I would have cared to confess. This wore on our love life. Nights where she and I would bed together were interrupted by pages from the office. Several dates and even an anniversary or two had to be rescheduled. When your work could mean the literal life or death of another person, making time for your wife becomes a difficult prospect. Sufficed to say, she was unimpressed. We had reached our thirties and she had a plan to begin a family, but we’d made no strides toward that end.
It certainly wasn’t that I wanted to leave my wife – far from it! She’s so beautiful, so wondrous. As in any good marriage, she fulfills my life, and has become a part of me I could never let go. As an Afghan Hound, she bore such luxurious golden-brown fur that shined like fresh caramel… her long, flowing hair is always soft, and her narrow eyes are deep and knowing. Slender, but curvaceous, I’d never found a woman with quite the combination of grace and beauty as her. How she ended up with me is a mystery in and of itself, but I never wanted to take it for granted. My work simply kept me busy, and I couldn’t bend on such matters.
She became increasingly agitated and began to nit-pick the trivial things I would do when she thought I instead should have been spending that time to give her the attention she so rightly deserved. I often disagreed with this assessment – my work was too important – and we would fight. It became a regular occurrence, so agitating and distracting. She didn’t understand that my intent was never to ignore her, but of course she insisted I was doing just that. Little I could say would convince her, and I could do even less. Any effort toward that end and the next thing you know I’d be in my car and off to the office again.
There came a time where I was to attend a workshop conference quite some ways away from home, leaving my wife alone for the weekend. She wasn’t pleased with the development, questioning whether it was necessary for me to go at all. It wasn’t mandatory, but I wanted to go, and so I went.
I paid for it. Not only did the hotel overbook my reservation, leaving me without a place to stay, my wife went on the attack. She made her displeasure known, claiming I valued my work more than I valued her. She told me things such as how she planned to spend the entire weekend with a young man named Jeffry, since he was willing to spend the time instead of me. The implications were obvious, and I found her lack of simply telling me she was threatening me with cheating as an insult to my intelligence. I dismissed her, as I had more pressing and immediate matters to worry about as I found myself in the city at sunset with nowhere to go and a suitcase in tow.
I called ahead to ask for vacancies at a nearby hotel, which had none. I meandered almost aimlessly, my growing frustrations causing me to not think straight. I had colleagues I could have called, arrangements I may have been able to make, but with everything that had gone on with my wife, I suppose I was stubbornly insisting on my own independence. I was storming my way through the inner city, the sort of area where the homes were refurbished buildings from the old days, some still very distinctly Victorian styled. It was out front of one such building where I was stopped by a young voice.
“Hallo Meneer!” They said. At first pitch, I turned to see who was speaking to me and passed right over their head. I had to look down to see the young boy who had called out to be, accompanied by what looked to be his twin sister.
“Hello,” I said, trying not to sound too terribly irate, “Were you speaking to me?”
“Yes, hallo!” The boy smiled.
I could tell by his accent that he wasn’t native – in fact he sounded quite European, around the Germanic area or something of the like. It was a Dutch accent, though I couldn’t quite place it after a simple few words. He was very youthful – couldn’t have been more than twelve by my estimates, very small, very slender, young face, big blue eyes and wore his long, powder white hair back in a ponytail with a tie at the back of his head, but the sheer volume of his hair wouldn’t be denied. He had a red streak painted over it, as I suppose kids these days might, that followed the wave of bangs that obscured his right eye somewhat. His fur was a velvet sort of red, like that of the snack cake of the same name. His ears were round, if slightly oblong, and sizable. It was evident right away that he was a mouse.
His clothing was shameless, if I had to give it a word. His pastel blue turtleneck sweater seemed to be cropped just short of his naval, exposing a little of his white belly. Beneath that he wore some impressive-looking boots with Velcro straps, and some of the tightest cycling shorts I’d ever seen.
Admittedly, it seemed necessary. It was perhaps the only kind of fabric that might adequately and comfortably contain the young mouse. He was hypermorphic, or in other words, tremendously gifted in the genital area. Where he was every bit the young lad, the juxtaposition of the staggering size of his testicles and penis was made especially blatant by his apparent lack of shame in tight clothing. I’d seen plenty of the “hyper-endowed” in my years as a practicing doctor, and even ones as young as he were nothing I hadn’t seen before. He was not even the higher-end of the sizes I had seen. His testicles rounded out the package just above his knees and his obvious… length, seemed to be fitting, if not a little stubby.
“Are you traveling?” The girl with him asked me, gesturing to my suitcase which I had been wheeling behind me.
I answered with a nod and a simple, “Yes.”
The girl must have been his sister, because their facial resemblance was uncanny. Her hair was enormously voluminous and long and curly, poofing out from behind her head in ways even my Jewish curls failed to. It was almost like a black cape, decorated with a sort of white swirl blended into her dark hair. It flowed all the way down to her hips, which were beyond generous. Her upper half was normal, average, slender, small chest; her hips however spanned enormously wide, rivaling if not passing her own shoulders. In her matching black shorts, she appeared as being very athletic. Her legs, hips, and dare I say buttocks were thickened to a sort of perfection in their obscenity. She wore pink runners with white laces and soles on her small feet and a small tank top in a creamy yellow over her small chest. If she had the same fur as her brother, they apparently bore a white underbelly from their chests and down to their thighs.
Their tails, which I expected to be long, fleshy, wiry sorts, were short and covered in the same red fur as their bodies. I had thought they were simply mice at first, but looking closer the differences became more apparent. They appeared to have membranous wings under their arms, though not terribly developed. I suspected that they could not fly with them, and by appearances I would have thought they would never fly at all. Still, it was enough to determine for sure that they were bat-like as well. Even their fur seemed more… fuzzy than the sleek look of their rodent kin.
“Do you have a place to stay?” The boy asked.
“You could stay here!” The girl said.
The two of them stepped aside and performed something of an excited and grandiose gesture toward the building behind them, prompting me to inspect it. It was a three-story Victorian townhouse, built of brick and mortar. Stone steps lead into an alcove entryway with two doors. A home-made sign above one, painted in psychedelic rainbow, denoted the building as “The Grindhouse.” Smaller letters beneath read, “Dutch Coffeeshop.” One large window served as a looking glass into the establishment. A couple were seated near the window, sipping coffee beverages and enjoying themselves. I was momentarily distracted by thoughts of my wife. I couldn’t remember the last time she and I had gone on a vacation.
I noticed, then, the sign in the window hidden almost by the Rastafarian flag also pasted against the glass – big black letters on white Bristol board. It said, “Rooms available.”
“Oh!” It took me a moment to fully understand what the kids were proposing. I got suddenly very confused. “Why would you suggest that?”
“It’s our family’s business!” The girl got energetic. She bunched up her fists and shook her hips, bobbing to a tempo in her own imagination. “We have rooms for travelers to stay the night in. If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, stay here!”
“We make breakfast!” The boy added.
“Well, we don’t make breakfast, but our parents do!” The girl corrected.
The boy blushed. “Well… yes.”
It made sense now. These kids must have been drumming up business for their mom and dad. I smiled at the sentiment. It seemed so sweet. “Well,” I said, “I am in fact without anywhere to stay… I suppose this is better than nothing.”
“Hoera!” The kids jumped for joy, and the boy immediately grabbed my hand and started dragging me into the building. I had almost no choice but to stumble up the stairs after them and enter the building.
I was immediately reminded what a coffee shop from Amsterdam was upon stepping inside. When the outside air wafted away after closing the creaky wooden door behind us, I could smell it. The dank smell of hash lingered in the air. While not overpowering, it was omnipresent, and mixed with the scent of coffee beans and sweets. I will confess to being no stranger to marijuana in my youth, though it had been years since I so much as caught a whiff of the skunky smell. My lips reflexively curled up as my nose picked up on it. The kids seemed to mind very little, which made sense given what I knew. They lead me around a large wooden divider, not so tall that I couldn’t see over it, displaying to me a cozy, glowing place of relaxation.
By the window, where the couple were seated, were round wood tables and arm chairs that looked deep and comfortable, brown in colour. Spaced out over the brown, cream, and orange patterned carpet were several more circular wooden tables, all surrounded by trios of small cream-brown chairs that stood on stool legs. The lights above hung down on wires and their shades were narrow and rectangular. They bathed the entire place in a dimmed, orange glow akin to sunset. Rounding the divider, the kids walked me past a duo of four-person booths to arrive at what appeared to be a coffee bar. There were numerous appliances for coffee making. Coffee beans were on clear display in glass chambers like taffy candies, labeled for customers to see. Columbian, Guatemala, Sumatra, Kenya… there was a surprising array of worldly flavours to choose from.
Baked confections were set on trays on a counter behind the bar, all sorts of cookies, brownies, muffins, even rice squares. They were obviously the source of the deliriously sweet smell in the air, enough to leave a want on one’s tongue. Above the bar was a collection of chalk board menus which covered the expected array of items, ranging from coffee beverages, baked edibles and goods, and then two separate boards entirely for hash, weed, and pre-rolled joints. I was torn looking at the options. They appeared to offer items lacking in any drugs at all, but on the same board where it says that the hot chocolate can have THC in it, I began to question whether this was somewhere kids should even step foot in, let alone be raised by!
The barista behind the counter was a young man, in his twenties at best, very obviously related to the young kids showing me the way to his counter. The red of his fur was a bit lighter than theirs by the looks of it, and his dark hair had the blast-back look, bangs brushed back so that little, if anything obscured his face. He was a thick fellow, to put it politely. His sleeveless shirt bore the weight of his fat torso, his chest kind of flabby, his belly very obviously rounded into a gut. He was a rosy pear of a lad. He leaned over the counter to peer down at the kids and then up at me. “This a customer?” He asked. He seemed a bit unabashed to regard me so casually, or perhaps just awkward.
“He has nowhere to stay and he’s visiting town,” The boy holding my hand said, “Go get mama, Beurre!”
Noticing that he hadn’t released my hand, I tried to shake him loose, but he just wouldn’t take my subtle hinting.
The older one behind the counter, Beurre, just nodded. He turned and lumbered his way into the back, confirming my suspicions about how overweight he was. Even his loose cargo pants couldn’t hide it. When he returned, he was proceeded by a stout woman – their mother, no doubt, as she was a red-furred bat with a white underbelly and a very, shall we say, husky frame. Her hair was stark black and woven into a rather large braid at the back that went so far down behind her that it disappeared past where I could see it past the bar. She was curvaceous, broad-shouldered, and strong-looking, albeit robust and compact. She had bold violet eyes that looked me over time and again. She had in fact been studying me very much since exiting the back room, which by the glimpse of the countertop I could see inside, must have been their bakery.
She leaned on the bar and looked up at me without a hint of question in her eyes. “Hallo darling,” She greeted me, “I hear you’re a guest looking for a room.” Her accent was thicker than her kids’. She was clearly from the Netherlands, this I could tell.
I felt a little nervous under her scrutiny. “Yes, I am.”
She held a hand out to me. “My name is Gabrielle, welcome.”
She held her hand out palm-down, bent at the wrist. I swallowed, but did the polite thing in such a situation. I took her hand and raised it, bending my tall, lanky self down to kiss the back of her hand. She smiled and withdrew, barely batting an eye. “I will give you a room handsome,” She said. She stepped off to fetch what appeared to be a log book, balancing a credit card machine on top. “I would be needing your name, and your credit card – unless you have cash for a deposit and to cover your expenses.”
“I have a card, it’s fine.” I insisted. I was beginning to feel increasingly awkward as things progressed. The entire thing seemed to lack that certain air of professionalism and order you would find in a regular hotel. I gave the woman my name and processed a transaction with her. While I did, I simply could not fail to notice how she pressed the log book against her chest, lifting her breast with it. Clearly, it was unintentional, but she had very large, very round, very attractive breasts. My wife paled in comparison, but then my wife was much taller and slenderer than Gabrielle was. It was also apparent from that close that Gabrielle was not young. She was, in fact, much older than myself. She had the lines of age in her face. However old she was, she looked incredibly… healthy.
I met her eyes once during the exchange and she wore a fanged grin. She chuckled and handed me back my card when she was done taking down my information. She then produced a key and handed it to me. “Your room, Mr. Covitz, is on the second floor. 2C, freshly cleaned.”
“Th-Thank you, very much.” I smiled at her.
“Velvet, Roux, why don’t you show the kind man to his room?” Gabrielle addressed the kids at my side. If I had to guess just by typical naming convention, the young girl must have been Velvet, and the boy must have been Roux. Cheeky naming scheme.
“Oké mama,” Roux said, and he tugged on my hand, “Come! Come!”
The kids took me outside and into the side door next to the entrance of the shop, which lead to a stairway that lead to a collection of rooms upstairs and another stairway that went further up. There were only four rooms to choose from there, and I had the second-furthest from the stairs. Opening the room, it was incredibly basic. A metal-framed single bed was joined with a wardrobe for me to put my things in, as well as a nightstand, a lamp, and a dresser. Nothing else was in the plain room except a light on the ceiling connected to a switch next to the door, which I didn’t need to turn on because a lone window was letting the sunset in.
Roux and Velvet ran into the room, turning to me to once again present the space with a flourish. “Ta-daa!” Velvet cried, “Your room! There’s a bathroom over there.”
She pointed to a small bathroom, with barely a shower stall, a toilet and a sink. It was very cramped. The place was far from luxurious, but then I really didn’t pay much for it. I stepped inside and just set my suitcase by the bed, taking a moment to push on the mattress. I felt springs through it rather clearly. It wasn’t a very good mattress. Maybe if I slept above the covers, that would be enough cushion between my back and the poor-quality, creaky metal. The pillow was passable, however.
Velvet placed her little hand on mine, and in a calm and gentle way she fiddled with my wedding band. “Oooh,” She marveled, “You’re married.”
“Yes,” I blushed, “I am.”
“Ooh, is she pretty?” Roux asked, rather excited it seemed to know the answer.
I looked at him. “Yes, of course.”
“Why didn’t you bring her?” He asked.
I laughed, deflecting the reasoning toward the room around us. “If I had, there wouldn’t be enough room for us.”
“We have bigger beds in the A room!” Velvet said, “But I guess this is like a vacation from your wife. People do that lots around here.”
“You’re handsome.” Roux said, surprising me out of nowhere. “So of course, you’re married!”
“Aha!” I laughed, if only because I was now very nervous, catching a distinct hint of… strange, misguided, youthful interest from them both. “You think, hm? I don’t know about that. I’m just an old man.”
I had been wearing a workplace casual suit that day – dress pants and a jacket over a simple button-down shirt. I guess my shoes were nice, polished proper… but I didn’t think I could have looked that good. My frizzy hair must have been extra poofy after walking around in the heat so long. A thirty-six-year-old mottled cocker spaniel, attractive to kids! Odd as it was, it made me feel good. That anyone other than my wife could find me attractive was a boost to the old ego. Of course, that got me thinking about how many people may have found my wife attractive, like that Jeffry fellow. I kind of scowled despite myself.
“You’re not that old… You look like a hot teacher.” Velvet said. She placed her hand on my side briefly and her little tail flapped around. That’s when I backed up out of her reach.
“Alright, well, if you don’t mind, I would like to get washed up,” I said, “May I?”
Velvet blinked her big blue eyes. “Oh! Yeah okay!” She smiled and clopped out of the room, her big hair bouncing… and her big butt. I shook my head, just trying to shake the feelings of nervousness encroaching upon me.
“Come down when you’re hungry or something.” Roux said, and then they closed the door and left. I heard their boots and shoes clopping down the hall, then down the stairs.
It had been a long time since anyone had called me “hot,” child or otherwise. For a while, I just reflected on that and the warm, fuzzy feelings of pride it swelled in me. Ha! Me, hot. My wife had not called me hot or even handsome in several years. Where had all that gone? I tried to move on to other thoughts – the conference, for one. I had to plan how I would get there the following day, perhaps find myself some directions. I did as I said I would and took a quick shower to freshen up. The water was colder than I expected, but relaxing enough.
Once finished, it was about time I get something to eat, just as the young boy had suggested. All dressed and clean, I returned to the coffeeshop. I entered to no sign of Velvet or Roux, but Beurre was still there, lazily working the counter as he idled away on his cell phone. I approached when someone emerged from the kitchen with a pan of some confection or another. The smell of chocolate wafted to me, and I took it in hungrily. I also noticed the woman who had brought them was indeed a mouse, no doubt about it. Her tail was long and thin and waved around as she went about setting up the display with new brownies.
All white from head to toe, she was. She wore a blue head scarf on her head, and her silver hair was all put up with a clip to keep it from waving around. She wore a blue and white vest, and a white top wrapped around her chest with no straps for her shoulders. Gloves on her hands kept her from burning herself, and a sash around her waist of red silk was purely for decoration. She wore a skirt, one long and wide, tall boots on her feet with slight heels that clacked on the laminated wooden flooring. I didn’t get a good look at her face until she stood up, but she smiled when she saw me there looking at her.
“Oh hello! You must be Mr. Covitz.” She greeted me with a buck-toothed smile. For how old her gray hair made her seem, her face and body didn’t show it. “How are you today? Well, I hope.”
“Well enough,” I said, “Peckish, somewhat.”
“Ohh, really?” She said, a curious look passing her eyes, blue like the others, aside from Gabrielle. “Could I get you anything, dear?”
I looked up and eyed their menu for something good to eat. “Oh, well… maybe… something without THC.” I laughed, “I’m just looking for a normal meal.”
The woman laughed at me. “Oh, don’t you worry, we do that too. But we only supply breakfast in terms of meals, you might want to either order something to be delivered here – many of our guests do that – or pick something up. If you can be satisfied with a snack and some coffee however, that we can do!”
“Hm…” I studied the menu for a little while longer. “Some banana bread does sound nice, and Columbian coffee.”
“Of course!” She said, “Cream, sugar?”
I paused, as the way she worded that question made the tail end of it sound like a pet name. “Cream, please. Blonde, with two lumps.”
She smiled, then nudged Beurre. “Columbian, two sugars, and cream.”
The young man nodded his head and set about making the coffee. The grinder was noisy. The woman got me two pieces of banana bread and warmed them up in a microwave... I suppose there was only so much someone could do to keep it warm as if it had just come from the oven. She cut up a half of an actual banana to put the pieces on top, and powdered it with a smidge of icing sugar. It looked quite good as she placed it before me on a small plate with some plastic butter packets to accompany it, and a plastic knife and a folded napkin. The smell of my coffee was overpowering the other scents as Beurre finished making it.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I paid the woman for her baked goods, “I’m afraid I never got your name.”
She smiled politely. “Oh, my name is Chip,” She said, “You’ve already met my son Beurre and my wife Gabrielle, and you must have seen Velvet and Roux on your way in.”
“Chip?” I found myself asking that much louder than I intended to, because that name sounded like…
Looking at her face more closely, I realized the slight baritone of her feminine voice was because she had an Adam’s apple. She was a man.
How terribly convincing! My face must have gone beet red. Oh, how she… err, he, laughed at my expense. “I’m sorry, did I surprise you?” He giggled, nodding her head to affirm my suspicion. “Don’t you worry, I bake like a woman just fine.”
I found myself… fascinated! “H-How did… your accent is slightly different, if you don’t mind my saying. Are you from further abroad?”
He seemed surprised himself. “Oh yes! My family is from France, but I moved to Amsterdam, because, well…” He flicked his wrist in a flamboyant manner, “You know – sex and drug capital of the world! Or one of them, anyway. I met my Gabrielle and we opened this store… eventually we brought it overseas, here, and the rest is history. You’ve got a keen ear on you to pick up on that. I was convinced my accent had nearly been erased.”
Beurre slipped my coffee onto a coaster on the bar top silently, and then slunk off. I took a bite of the banana bread, and despite the slightly dry texture of the treat, the flavour was just this blend of banana sweet and spices that was, frankly, better than anything my wife had ever concocted in the kitchen. “This is quite good,” I said, “Very well done.”
“Aw, thank you~” Chip clasped his hands together in a joyous, swooning gesture.
I should have sat down, but I was rather entrenched where I was. I looked around the store, and I pricked my ears to the gentle sounds of jazz playing over speakers, low enough not to be invasive to the smoky, earthy calm of the place. “I heard of Dutch coffeeshops, but I had never visited one before now. Imagine, finding one here!”
“We’re a place of… discovery,” Chip grinned, “But I couldn’t resist. It was one of the first things I did upon moving to Amsterdam – it’s where I met my wife, I just couldn’t stay away from places like this. I wanted nothing more than to run my own!”
He touched the corner of his lip with a cheeky grin. “You must have heard of all the weed and the like,” He said, “I bet that was interesting to you.”
I laughed, nervously. “I confess, I was interested when I was younger,” I said, “To imagine there was a place where that was legal…”
“Oof, you’d be surprised at the rules in place, still!” Chip lamented, “Though… has it really been so long for you? Mm… are you certain you wouldn’t like to indulge, just a little? We don’t overload anything, we’re very moderate in our cannabis inclusion. It’s quite relaxing.”
“Oh, well, I mean…” I grinned at myself and sighed. I was, after all, on vacation, sort of. “Perhaps another time. I am curious about some items on this menu though… particularly that one.”
I raised my coffee cup toward the chalkboards, and Chip turned to see what I meant. “Oh…” He said, his voice dripping with knowing intrigue, “You must mean the Kleverige Honing.” I must admit, his inflection when speaking Dutch seemed rather spot on.
“What is that?” I asked, “Most other things on the menu are in English.”
“Another service we offer, run by my daughter…” Chip said, just as the bells chimed at the entrance to signal someone’s arrival. He looked past me and smiled. “Who just arrived, it seems.”
I turned to look back, following the bob of blonde hair that must have belonged to the girl in question as she approached. She wasn’t quite tall enough to see completely over the edge, but that was to be expected. She rounded the corner, and I think my jaw must have fallen into my drink. Her velvet skirt was far too short… her top, far too tight with a hole in the center to present her cleavage to anyone who would look. Her lipstick, while not glaring in its colour, was made to make her lips look fuller. Her eye shadow made her deep amethyst eyes look deeper. The boots she wore had stiletto heels over an inch high.
All of this was on a young woman’s pure white frame whose breasts were, frankly, utterly enormous, and the curves of her hip and thigh were too much. She smiled when she saw me staring. She canted her hip and turned to show off the projected curve of her rear, and sized me up with her own eyes, taking her sweet time to do it. It felt like she wasn’t simply taking in my appearance, but tallying up a checklist in her head… possibly wagering on things I would do with a woman like her. Her stance and stature were all geared toward the sheer sex appeal she exuded… and not naturally. This was all on purpose. I knew fake when I saw it. I had known a few plastic surgeons.
“This man was just asking about Kleverige Honing.” Chip supplied.
I stuttered trying to work out a polite greeting. The young woman just approached me, hips working left and right like a pendulum. My wife had never strut around like that. She would have died of embarrassment. She got in close – too close. Her breasts pushed against my front and she seized hold of my belt with her hand to keep me from just running away. I think I was creating fresh sweat stains in my shirt.
“I means Sticky Honey.” She informed me. She had such a young voice! Maybe she was in her twenties as well? Mid? Late? I was having a challenging time processing it.
“O-O-Oh!” I said, smiling at her, “I see!”
She just blinked her eyes maybe, but her lashes did such a flutter. Her lips seemed to purse around the syllables of what she said when she spoke in ways that made silent promises. “I’m Honey,” She said, “Nice to meet you.”
I opened my mouth but words didn’t come out. I just nodded my head and tucked my chin down to give her this strange stare. She smiled. It was devilish. I was reminded what was also legal in Amsterdam, and when I quickly looked to Chip for some kind of fatherly interjection, all he did was simply shrug his shoulders with a big old smile.
Never in my life had I ever walked into a den of drugs and sex that looked quite so… homely as these people made it look. I looked down at Honey once more and swallowed. Her smaller tail made admiring the rounded curve of her buttocks all the easier… from in front and above her. That was… unnaturally large.
Honey rubbed her chest against mine. “Don’t let me interrupt your snack~” She said.
Right, I was still holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of banana bread in the other.
She released me and strut away, shaking her rear the entire way because she knew full well I was staring at her. There was something about the pure white of her fur coat that made it that much worse.
“If you ever feel… lonely, Honey will happily warm you up.” Chip said, “Or, if Honey isn’t to your liking.”
“Ha! Oh!” I cut Chip off quickly, flustered, “No, that will be quite alright! Thank you! I am going to eat this now. Thank you very much! I will talk with you later more perhaps!”
I shuffled off fearing that the largest erection I had in quite a while was going to rub the wrong way against my underwear and leave me a mess. I shuffled to a booth in the darker corner of the place and sat down to enjoy the great taste of both my banana bread and my coffee – which really was something else, and very well made – and try to ignore the heart-pounding sensations that minx put me through, while simultaneously battling the thoughts that her father was a knowing enabler in this… perfectly legal and acceptable profession. Honey was surely very good at… it.
I was feeling rather suddenly very stressed. After I ate, I felt I had too much time and too little to do. I wasn’t tired, though an early bedtime would have been prudent. I mulled around with the idea of calling my wife, but she had made absolutely no attempts to contact me, and that angered me. I thought, why make the effort for her? She can see me when I get home. I just needed to relax, and there was one readily available way to do that… and I was an adult, damnit, I could handle a little THC. A little bit never killed anyone. I would know, I’m a doctor.
I returned to the counter, getting Beurre’s attention. “I’ll take some brownies, please,” I said, “Three of them, I suppose.” I figured I could space that out. “Is this made with cannabis oil, or…?”
“Oh, uh…” The chunky boy snapped his fingers to try and jar his memory, “It’s cannabutter! Err, finely ground trim mixed with butter used in the recipe. It’s pretty good.”
For a moment I was disappointed, but I’d forgotten he was old enough, I thought, to indulge himself. Maybe that’s why he seemed so… odd. Either way, that sounded fine to me. I didn’t really understand at the time what any of that even meant. I was never up on those sorts of things. It didn’t matter. When Chip said it was relaxing, I was simply going to go along with that. I paid the boy his money and got my brownies, returning to my booth to sit alone and eat. I got one, studied it, smelled it, and eventually took a bite.
It tasted about as you’d expect a brownie to taste, though there was some underlying difference I couldn’t quite put my finger on. That was clearly the ground up trim, but it must have been from a strand that complimented the flavour of the cocoa well enough to be nearly hidden. It was tolerable. I ate the whole thing, thinking of it as a kind of medicine. It didn’t feel terribly relaxing consuming the thing, but I had two more in front of me to eat. I waited after the first, knowing full well that edibles could take some time to kick in, as it were. For a while, I felt very little. I leaned back and twiddled my thumbs to no real effect.
I decided to take another. I ate that one just like the first.
Big mistake.
The light-headed relaxation hit me like a truck. Whatever I ate, I should have only eaten one. It really didn’t matter to me at that point. Nothing really did. I sat there in my booth staring at the dull light on the ceiling as people passed me by, and I was simply in my own little universe, alone with my thoughts. They were lucid. I remember reflecting on the dreadful day I was having, and on the state of my marriage. I thought about the mouse-bats that surrounded me. They were nice people, I thought. A bit strange, a bit forward, certainly progressive… but nice all the same. They were nice and they were attractive. I didn’t care if Velvet and Roux were eleven – they were damn good-looking. If I was gay, I thought, I’d kiss Roux. Right on his mouth.
Somewhere in the miasma of my warm, pleasant thoughts and the feeling of the music dancing around my head, I got it in my mind that I wanted some sticky honey. I can’t quite remember what the exchange was. I believe I meandered up to the counter and just asked Beurre for it, who had to go get Honey. She came out and waltzed straight into my heart. She was so beautiful! I remember gushing over how gorgeous she was. I showered her with compliments and assurances that I didn’t normally act this way with other people, that she was special for catching my eye. Why I was so insistent on buttering up a prostitute, I had no idea. Either way, she ended up in my room.
I was eager, clumsy… I hadn’t bedded a woman other than my wife before, not once in my life. I went right for her breasts. I grabbed them and mashed them in my hands, and she made such pleasant sounds… gentle coos and mousey squeaks as I shoved her against my room’s door and just had my way with her. I slavered all over her shoulder and neck, going on about how her giant breasts, big as my head, were like big, fat, warm marshmallows. She was nothing but encouraging. She let me take off her top and suck on them. I laughed like an idiot. I felt like a baby, I said. She just teased her fingers through my hair and let me have at it.
I wish I could remember more. She was well-practiced. The things she said and the noises she made, the way she reacted to my touch… they were certainly rehearsed. It was like a dramatic artform, designed to entice and ignite the lusts of a man like myself. She drove me wild. She made me want to lay her down and ravish her… so I did. I think I threw her onto my bed. The springs were so agonizingly squeaky, but at the time it was even more entertaining. I was going to fuck her, to be perfectly blunt. I hoped it was so loud that everyone could hear me. I tore off my own clothes and she took care of her own, and she spread out her naked body for my perusal. Her waist was so small… Her curves were unreal. Unnatural. She had to be cinching or something… not healthy, I knew, but it had the intended effect. I slipped on the condom she had provided less than gracefully, and then hunkered over her and I entered her with no ceremony.
She seemed to like it that way at least. She moaned her approval, music to my ears, and I held her down and rocked the bed with my lunging thrusts, sparing no effort. Admittedly, I had always been that excitable when it came to sex. I get giddy when it comes to intimacy, and I do tend to simply… unload everything all at once. My wife liked it, at least, and I was happy that Honey did too. The way her blonde bob bounced around as I plunged into her warm, surprisingly tight depths made me feel like a sex monster; like I was really throwing her around. When she grabbed the poorly-made metal bed frame and held on tight with her arms above her head, it thrust her breasts out just so when she arched her back. I bit one. I bit her nipple and then just sucked on it like a madman. I growled for her, thinking she’d like that. I think she did.
She had this talent, it seemed. She could squeeze with her vaginal muscles very effectively. Every now and then, she would clench up and it was as surprising as it was exciting. I thought she was climaxing each time, though it happened so often and so… deliberately that I’m not convinced in hindsight that I may have been giving myself too much credit. It felt wondrous. It really did feel different from my wife’s. I learned that day that no two women are the same – inside or out. Her new, foreign feeling brought me to a hefty release. It felt so intense as I gave her everything I had, forgetting that the reservoir of the condom was collecting everything. It left me a ragged mess. I rolled off her after the deed was done and just tried to get my bearings again.
Honey was a sweet girl, truly she was. She spent some time with me. She crooned to me and pet me, making me feel appreciated, adored. That was so foreign to me at the time. I hadn’t felt that in ages. I missed it so much. She made me happy, even if I knew that I had cheated on my wife. I wasn’t faithful anymore. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me, but I questioned whether she would find out or not. I suppose you could have called me paranoid… which made a lot of sense, considering my state.
I ended up falling asleep. It was a comfortable sleep.
I was awoken by the feeling of Honey’s hands on me again. It was surprising. Also, my room was darker than I had remembered. I jolted awake with a gasp and tried to take stock of the situation… at least my high had been worn down. I felt light-headed still, almost dizzy, but the sensations were certainly different.
“Hallo, Mr. Handsome…” Velvet stared down at me with her brother. Both young mouse-bats were all huddled up on the bed with me, looming over me, one hand each stroking my chest, one hand each pumping over my shaft. There was barely enough room for the three of us… I could feel their naked bodies rubbing against mine. Velvets thighs were so soft, and Roux’s… cock… was enormous and rubbing against my chest. The thing dwarfed mine by measures of feet, not inches. A grower, not a shower.
“Ohhh no…” I whispered, realizing what was happening. Worse still, the excitement that welled up in me… I just didn’t care enough to stop them.
One of them kissed me. It was hard to tell which, in the dark. Their lips were soft and young and perhaps inexperienced. Their tongue lapped at my lips. I let them in. They happily tasted me, and I them. I felt this inexplicable sense of fatherly… feelings well up inside me, and so I took the nubile young body in my one arm and held them close to kiss them proper. It was a svelte frame with an over-large endowment mashing against my chest, testicles and a cock… Roux made such a shiver when I did that. He was so excited. I relished in his tender reaction. It made me feel powerful and bold, and appealing.
Velvet tended to me with her mouth. She tucked her bottom-thick body between my legs and let her tongue explore… everywhere. She lapped between my legs, she licked my balls, she licked my shaft, liberally applying hot drool to my flesh in ways that would make my wife flush scarlet. Gods, if she could have seen me then, squeezing Roux’s pert butt with my hand as I guided his tongue in a dance I hadn’t done in years, but I knew all the steps. My body was racked with so much excitement, my toes curled so hard I thought I’d snap my feet.
Velvet practically purred. She loved my cock. She really, legitimately loved it. I wondered how often she did such a thing… she seemed experienced, for someone so young. Somehow the idea that she did such things often made me excited. She knew exactly what she was doing. There was no confusion, no innocence lost… if she’d had any once, it was lost long before I found her. Roux, too, had done it before. I could tell by the way he humped his shaft against my chest. He knew where the ending was, and he seemed eager to get it.
Eventually Roux withdrew, and spit connected his young face to mine. I had a moment to really think about what I was doing – but only just a moment. They switched places. Velvet mounted my face and dropped her fattened, muscular butt right down on my face. Roux teased my cock with his body. I felt it brushing between his thighs, and eventually get trapped between the cheeks of his rear. I forgot all about regretting my situation, and I instead grabbed firm on Velvet’s legs, smooth as her namesake, and I began to lavish her young sex with hot, needy licks. Her scent was fantastic. So… young. So fresh. She made such lovely music above me, crying out in gasps of pleasure.
Roux ground himself against me. He dragged his underside over my shaft back and forth, grinding it down into my belly with his weight. He was a flurry of motion. His arms were moving a lot, and so I imagined he was stroking his gigantic cock with both of his hands in a flurry of motion. He moaned too, for my benefit perhaps, or maybe just to join his sister. His voice was so smooth and high in pitch, tinged with this accent that made it all sound… creamy. They were a symphony and my heart was moved by their song. I had never been so excited, not once in my life had anyone driven me to such passion. I ejaculated over myself, and Roux smeared his fur through it, and he ejaculated too. Velvet was the last, but she clenched up so hard around my head it hurt, and she howled for me.
They panted so beautifully when their climax wore down. I found myself out of breath as well. They didn’t leave, but instead cuddled up to me in bed. They kept me warm as my sweat cooled. They said such wondrous things, so flattering and sweet. They were too young to be dishonest. Every word of how happy they were to have done such a thing, it rang true. I fell back asleep with them in my arms.
I woke up in the same position, and I was startled upon waking up to sunlight through the window and the children in my embrace, learning that what I had experienced was no dream. I had really found this dank, blasé paradise, and I had sex two times in one night with some of the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen in my life.
An older woman, and darling children. Somehow, in some twisted way, it made me think of my wife. Once, so long ago, she made me feel these things. She was my Honey. She excited me, I adored making her smile and embarrassing her and making her yearn for passion. When I began work, however, that dwindled. I stopped doing those things, and so she stopped in kind. I had never thought about kids, it seemed like just this next step, something almost methodical in nature… Velvet and Roux, if they were any indication at all at what having children may have been like, were an absolute joy. They were sweet, honest, and an absolute delight. Granted they were… exceptional as far as young folk go, but I knew one day I could have something so pure as they.
It's difficult to explain the mental knots I had unraveled after so long, but after a night of getting stoned out of my gourd and cheating on my wife not once, bit twice… All I could think about was taking that experience and bringing it back to her. I wanted, above all else, to get this feeling back in my life, not just as some… vacation apart from the woman I had chosen to spend my life with. We could have that life. We could love each other just like that. I needed it as badly as I wanted it.
So, I practically ran out of that quaint little coffeeshop to catch the first flight back home. The conference meant nothing to me anymore. I could catch the cliff notes in some journal, I didn’t need to waste my valuable time with a bunch of other stuffy old doctors patting ourselves on the back about how smart we were and how much money we made in our practices. That time was much better spent with my wife. I hurried home to her and when I arrived, I set to making things right. I made certain before the following night that she knew just how much I wanted to love her, work be damned. I made her feel me, and she received me with such love. She had wanted it for so long, and I had shamefully kept it from her for so long.
We had three beautiful children. Now they’re going off to university themselves. They’re adults, with their own lives and their own loves. I always encouraged them to be true to their hearts and to never let go of their passion. If they loved someone, I wanted them to always tell them so. Kiss their spouses, touch them in the way that they like. There was certainly no shame in it, though none of them much appreciated their old man talking about such things. I think, in the end, they’re happier for it though. My oldest son is set to be married this summer, and strangely my thoughts go back to a dank, blasé coffeeshop.
Wherever those folks are now, I hope they’re as happy as me.