A Grocery Delivery

By Grenouille D'Amour

A struggling young man makes a delivery to a free-spirited older woman who seems to have a strange, wet fetish. As they swan dive into intergenerational debauchery, our young protagonist learns that their pasts are more intertwined than they ever could have imagined. 

 

MILF's, ponds, cucumbers, watersports, cabins, joints, drawn-out descriptions--what else could a reader possibly need? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grenouille D'Amour
• Release date: Nov 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223957881

Grenouille D'Amour

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Book preview

Chapter 1

Pulling up to that blue suburban country home, I thought it would be just another delivery. It was my favorite part of the day: the last couple hours or so of that golden evening sunlight, when the midwestern country felt most vibrant and alive. It was a long day, filled with near-accidents in overcrowded parking lots and shopping in lifeless supermarkets that were somehow even more crowded. My tired brain tried its best to wash itself of the vivid memories of the day as I drove: the yelling children, the sanity-grinding supermarket pop tunes, the mobility scooter-riding bison that probably downed their jumbo jar of mayonnaise through a straw on the way home. The suburban neighborhood I was delivering to, despite its own white-picketed flaws, acted as somewhat of a palate cleanser, like cleaning the taste of turd out of one’s mouth with a hearty feast from the dollar menu.

As I cruised into the long concrete driveway I could smell the summer in all its essence; a warm radiance of flowers, freshly cut grass, and a muddy riverbank filled my nostrils as I lifted the 40-pack of water out of the trunk. I walked up to the porch and straggled up the stairs, letting out a long sigh of relief as I put the heavy pack down. I rang the doorbell, and after a few long seconds of rummaging the door opened.

Hey, how’s it going? I said, bending down to lift the heavy pack without looking up.

I’m doing wonderful, thank you so much for your help!

That voice–it sounded so familiar. It had some mystic warmth to it; it floated into my ears with a softness, a genuine air of compassion I hadn’t felt for so long, especially in this line of work. I grasped the pack at my waist and looked up at this sudden source of warmth.

Looking at me with gentle brown eyes was one of the most subtly beautiful women I’d ever seen. She was barefoot wearing a colorful patterned sundress that radiated off her pale skin like a bright, radiant garden in a blinding snowstorm. Her flowy brunette hair was tucked back in a braid, and she had just clearly washed off all her makeup. She had that graceful motherly beauty: the teacher, the nurse, the soccer mom a few doors down every sexually frustrated, hairy-palmed boy grew up wildly fantasizing about.

After a few seconds of looking into her gaze, her gentle smile began to turn into a worried grin. I suddenly realized I had been so transfixed by this woman that I hadn’t even responded to her.

I’m so sorry, it’s been a long day–you kinda startled me. Want me to bring these in for ya?

That would be so, so amazing, she said emphatically with a welcoming grin. You can leave it right over there on the counter.

Her house smelt wonderful. It reminded me of the aromatic atmosphere that swallows one in when entering an authentic Indian restaurant: spices, herbs, an otherworldly portal into something so beautifully alien. Though her two-story home seemed like a modest one from the outside, the interior was a dazzling spectacle. Beautiful impressionist paintings dotted her walls, and I had only seen kitchens like hers in movies.

Here okay? I asked as I approached the sleek granite countertop. Books and magazines of all kinds were strewn across it, resembling those poor, overworked tables of a pediatrician’s waiting room; left with the daunting task of distracting children before their check-ups and entertaining adults after their check-ins. But now is not the time for these unnecessary comparisons–the waters are getting heavy.

Absolutely. Sorry, kitchen’s kind of a mess right now. Let me move those for you. She quickly made a spot for the waters, knocking a couple of the magazines on the ground. She bent down to gather them as I set the pack down, and stood up just as I backed away from the counter.

Ope, I muttered, trying to shuffle around her, and as we passed each other her hand accidentally brushed the zipper of my jeans. A painful silence enveloped the dead air and I could see that her cheeks were clouding with a bright red hue of embarrassment. She turned slightly, standing against the counter, and began fidgeting with the case of water. It seemed like she was searching for something to say, something to fill the air. For the first time, I realized how nice her ass was, slightly jiggling with every small movement.

I had to say something. It would be way too awkward to just walk out after that.

I love your paintings, that’s a Cézanne, right? You have great taste.

She looked at me across the kitchen with a surprised smile. Yeah, wow! She crossed her arms and looked at me with intrigue. That’s impressive, you seem a little young to know anything about Cézanne.I guess that pitiful art history degree did come in handy after all.

"I’m 25, so not that young anymore. I actually studied art history back in college, and my dad used to bring me to museums