Lick that ice cream!

You sit down in a chair by the wall in the front corner of the shop with your double chocolate chip cone, your hips pointed straight at the dorky young guy behind the counter. You suppose he deserves a little thrill for the free ice cream. You twist around and put an elbow on the ledge separating the shop from the mall, so you can watch the shoppers. At the same time, your dress tightens to show him your breasts in profile. You can tell out of the corner of your eye that he's watching you.

You lick round the edge of the cone to catch any drips. Mmmmm, chocolate, Mexico's gift to woman. Of course, turkeys come from Mexico, too. You glance back at the ice cream guy. He has a rag in his hand, polishing a tall, shiny steel milkshake cup. He's pretending not to look at you. Up, down, up, down. You stifle a giggle.

The ice cream is rich, sweet and soft, just the right texture for a little tongue sculpture. You lick a little double curve out of the bottom of one side of the ice cream. From where the curves meet, you lick a shallow channel up to the top of the scoop, and press a little dint in with the tip of your tongue. You bite a chunk off the back of the top, and lick it round and round to make a smooth, shallow inside curve. Tilting your head, you admire your work. A deep brown, speckled with little chips, and shining like lacquer in the overhead light. Bigger and tastier than any cock head you've seen before.

A woman with a shopping bag steps up and orders an orange sherbet.

You hold back, daintily licking and nibbling, until she gets her cone. Then you give it your all, licking with your whole body, bobbing your head up and down, round and round the sweet, gooey ice cream, flicking the little chips every which way, dripping on your hand, the table, the floor. You see a movement in the corner of your eye. He's turning. There's a loud ting! and clatter as the steel milkshake cup falls to the floor.

"Ohmygosh!" you squeal, turning to look at him with your chocolate-dripping lips. "Is everything OK?" You lean way forward in the chair, a gooey hand clutching your half-sucked cone. When he doesn't say anything right away, you leap up, jiggling your braless breasts at him and ask him again. "Is everything OK?"

"Y-yes, it's all good," he says. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes turn down to the floor. With a little stop at your chest. He bends and picks up the milkshake cup, and turns away to wash it.

You can feel the lopsided scoop beginning to slide down the back of the cone. Fun as it is teasing the guy behind the counter, you're not sure you want his help cleaning ice cream off your dress. Maybe if you can hold it until the right shopper is walking by the open front of the shop.