This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “Nick’s Secret”
I walked by The Chocolate Dream every day for months on my way to work and resisted entering. Oh, I stopped and looked, like everyone did. In my case it was more at the girl behind the counter than the window display. But I am a man who has mistaken lust for love one too many times in life, and thought I had learned my lesson well.
In the window: tiny chocolates in the shape of skiers, chocolate-covered cherries decorated like nipples, a layered chocolate cake smothered with strawberries, a curvy cake resembling a stripper, and a rather large chocolate dildo decorated suggestively with dripping white icing. Behind the counter: long thick black curly hair, overripe breasts, a short skirt, and those over-the-knee stockings that can drive a man to school-girl fantasies. Also behind the counter, a bearded, older man who appeared to be either the owner of the bakery or the woman’s father.
It was such a simple and safe routine—leave for work, read the paper on the train, walk down 15th Street and stop and stare at her thighs while pretending to lust for chocolate. Proceed safely on through the day with fantasies sweeter than sugar.
So you can imagine my surprise the day the chocolate dildo disappeared.
I thought perhaps I had only dreamed it all. The entire erotic display was gone. Proper little candy boxes lay open on the red doilies. A three-foot tall wedding cake towered over them.
What could I possibly do? A man has to know why things happen. I opened the door and went in.
The stockings came toward me. “Hi, I’m Allegra, can I help you?”
Allegra? How well it fit her. Her voice was as soft as wind chimes on a slow summer day. Her tiny black and white plaid skirt swayed in front of me like a breeze. A girl who can make you think those kinds of thoughts is not to be taken lightly. I looked closer, and I could see that she was not a young girl at all, but a regular adult, like I was supposed to be.
“May I help you?” She looked a bit wary at my silence, probably from having seen her share of perverts admiring the window display.
Yes, I thought. You can tell me exactly how many inches of thigh are bare between your stocking tops and your hem. Or you could just let me measure with my hands.
Instead I muttered dumbly, “Hello. I see your dildo has disappeared.”
She laughed. “Yes.” She looked me up and down, and I could feel her taking in my three-piece suit and my monogrammed briefcase.
“You’re a lawyer?” she asked.
Man, I hate that it shows. The worst part is that it shows even when I’m in jeans. It’s been killing me for fifteen years now. I once dreamed of being a great writer, saving the world with my journalistic exposés on the way to glory. I think I was afraid, and law school seemed a safer bet. I made up the excuse for myself that a legal education would help with my dreams. But it’s difficult to save the world when you ride the train and kiss ass to rich people all day long.
“Yeah, I’m a lawyer.” I wanted to take this Allegra in my arms and run off to a new life. Either that or just bend her over the bakery counter and pull down her panties and kiss her from her stocking tops up to her ass.
“I have problems,” she said with a frown. It was really more of a perfect pout.
Problems were my life. Just once I wished a client could prance into my office and tell me they needed me even though they had no problems. But problems involving pretty girls and missing chocolate dildos at least seemed interesting.
I checked my watch and made the decision that would affect the rest of my life. “Tell me what happened. A burglary?”
“Come on in the back,” she replied. I followed the swaying skirt through the rear door.
“I’m Bret, by the way. Bret Dublin.” She shook my hand and I never wanted to let go. “Where’s your boss today?”
She lifted her cute ass up onto a desk and laughed at me. “My boss? You’ve watched me every day through that window and you thought he was my boss?”
Stupid didn’t quite describe my feeling. “He’s not?”
“You gotta’ watch those stereotypes, Mr. Dublin. I own The Chocolate Dream. Zach is an artist that does work for me. He was one of my teachers in art school.”
She flipped on the radio to a beautiful rendition of Sarah Vaughan moaning about ‘ain’t misbehavin, savin’ all my love for you. So I asked Allegra to dance. I don’t know what I was doing dancing this young woman around the back room of a bakery when I should have been at my desk meeting old Mrs. Carey to discuss how to safeguard the millions from her estate, but there I was. And she was with me all the way. Fred and Ginger. Or maybe I just dreamed it.
“Tell me about what you do, Allegra.” I know I was at least much closer to her, like up on her desk with my thigh pressing against her bare one while I surveyed her high-tech back office. A couple of computers in one corner and a constantly buzzing fax in the other implied a little more business going on than just wedding cakes.