They See Me Rollin'

Screeeeech!

Turn of the wheel. Turn of metal, grind, ice-ice. Turn of the knob, turn of the door on air, turn of the earth on an axis like a flame kissed roast. A kick and a whisper, a hush and a flicker, and one sneaker laid waste to a slightly dented door interior. Inside, sunglasses were lifted down the bridge of one nose of one man, dressed in glitzy long sleeves, a golden yellow robe, covering a flimsy tanktop across his slim torso. He also wore pants. They were white, with one red stripe on each stretching upward to the side of his kneecap. They were nothing fancy.

"Who the heck is that?" A sweet roll landed between two rows of pearly teeth. Crest? Colgate?

"I'unno," shrugged her partner, biting into a powder dusted churro.

Whitening strips.

"Uh," the third pointed a slender chocolate skinned finger, capped with a shiny black nail, "he's coming over."

Maybe natural.

Salvadora persica? Azadirachta indica?

Out jumped the fellow of his mildly parked, turbo equipped, V8-powered, half lowered ride. In the front passenger giggled a blonde woman, as revealed in his departure, dressed in a white leotard and donning impossibly voluminous, wavy blonde hair. He approached the gazebo, where the three pretty faces sorely awaited.

"Hi, ladies." He turned his glasses back up.

Chew. Swallow. Burp. (Cute burp.) "Hi?"

"Now bye." Titters erupted from the third woman's wit.

Stepping forward, he glanced down. Pastries on a tray. "That how you treat all strangers?"

"That your car?"

"No, just posers." Woman number three swept over woman number two's inquiry, adjusting her black cocktail.

With a swipe, the tray was granted one less cannoli. "Nobody's posing here," also ignoring the white-dressed blondie. Across from her, the short-haired brunette with the brunette shrugged.

"He's got a point."

"Hm." The black woman in the black cocktail dress leaned back, eyes laced with challenge. Legs thick with firm muscle. "Guess he does."

"Hey." Blonde girl narrowed her eyes. "Could y'all stop pretending like I'm not here?"

"Yeah," winked the stranger. "Guess I do."

"Oh my god." Mumbling, the blonde pulled down the wrap of her churro and bit.

"But you know what?" He wiped his hands.

"What?" tested the short-hair.

"That might just change."

"What?" echoed the cocktail.

Then he shrugged. One lift of a finger, this one aimed at the brunette. "'Cuz she is going to flip up her skirt and bend over in five seconds."

5.

Laughter rattled the trays for two.

3.

The girl in the short-sleeved white blouse and skirt stood to her feet.

2.

Smile like that? Had to be Sensodyne. "Damn right I am." She twirled her finger. "Now cover your eyes."

1.

Swish!

With a turn, both heels crackled on the gravel, and up she pulled the dark fabric, bunching it up above her firm derriere. Burrowing down the valley of her arse was a set of black underwear, which she displayed even more prominently by pushing it out and bending over the railing.

This woman's full gleaming legs and pattable buttocks, wickedly exposed before friends and company, was the latter's to drink in.

"You are going to slip off your straps."

The blonde let loose a titter as her cocktail-dressed friend pulled her top lopsided before reaching the other way. She subsequently slipped her arms out of each hole. Set free were two modest sized orbs, held in a grey brassiere, her dress dipping to her belly.

"You're hiding the best jugs out of any woman within a mile's radius here in that bra."

Her breasts boinged, her undergarment unable to perfectly contain them. The nipples peeked from past the unfit cups, her skin, shaded in cocoa, brimming with the flesh of fertility as her cleavage perfectly accumulated shadows cast by sparse lamps along the awning.

"You." The two women were posed. As they did, the man removed his sunglasses. His eyes were blue. "Wanna come with me?"

"M-me?" Looking about her, the blonde woman realized he was talking to her and chuckled. "Uh... I'm kicking back with my friends. If you're looking for a place to, hey, cast your net or whatever y'all like to call it, then maybe try the Hera House."

That southern drawl. What was it? Houston? Maybe up north? Montana?

A loud honk scraggled through the air.

"ARRRTHUR!" Then another. "How much longer?" It had come from his dark yellow Mustang. Slumped over his seat, the blond-haired bombshell in his vehicle was staring at the spectacle with restless eyes. "I'm hungry..."

"Looks like you already have company."

"Yeah." Arthur swung his attention back to the women. "So, you coming with or not?"

"Boy, I don't even know you."

Arthur grinned. As if caught in a tangent that had been precariously preemptive, he said aloud that her brunette friend wanted to massage her-self. Predictably, she immediately brought her hands back and, planting them palm first against each swell, kneaded and squeezed them, doughing the skin until it curdled between the gaps in her fingers. He then suggested how her other friend wanted to attempt to pierce her nipples with one of the small pins brought in with the special miniature club sandwich, and that it would be perfectly successful, with, relatively, minimal pain. Subsequently, she winked, swiped one pin off the table, and pulled one cup of her bra down, releasing one fanatically perfectly shaped breast to the three (though only in their visible range for two). He looked back to the blondie in the white dress, her arms currently folded, face unfazed.

"Don't make me make ya."

Rolling her eyes, the blonde woman flipped back her hair, looking at him with carefully tailored lashes batting the air. "Look. Just 'cause you got a nice car, just 'cause you use expensive pomade, just 'cause you're right a lot, that still don't mean you're king around here."

Arthur stared her down, eyes twinkling, golden jacket glimmering, not fancy pants befitting, and smirked. "'All things that are yellow and gold, I, Arthur JJ, have the right to say...' what?"

The woman didn't know his agenda, but humored him. "'...to say is mine.'"

"And you know that how?"

"Everyone knows it." Everyone -- even her mother -- did:

'All things that are yellow and gold, I Arthur JJ, have the right to say as mine. All the things that are white and bright, I have to right to undermine. All the things that are dark of shade, I have the right to ****.'

Just did.

"And," he went on, "you are blonde, right?"

"That's right."

"Blonde is a form of yellow."

"Uh-huh."

"So," Arthur stretched out a hand. "I now call you mine."

The girl paused. A blink passed her eyes as she stared at his hand, and then, finally, she shrugged. "Alright."

Hand went into hand. Up on her heels the girl climbed, then onto his arms. One shoe flew into a trash bin. Carrying her to his Mustang, her brunette friend called out after her, but to no avail, even as her hands continued to massage her rear end, to a nevertheless soothing aptitude. She watched, bent over, as the guy, the Arthur guy, tossed her in the backseat, before climbing in, gesturing at the other blonde woman in there, the real leggy one, to take the wheel while his not fancy pants were soon bunched at his knee-pits, against his calves. And she watched as on top of her he laid, car starting with a lion's growl, wheels hissing against the blacktop, the muffler kicked and flared. and into a spin it wnet. Only then did the door close from the inertia.

As Alma continued rolling her ass between her fingers, she clicked her tongue.

"...Arthur. Arthur Jordyn..."

Screeech!