Jobs

Act 3 – The Florist

I’ve always loved flowers. I just didn’t expect that I was a flower too. And it’s all thanks to you two, my Armando and Ricardo.

~ Flora Heist

“You should let your hair down sometimes,” teased Ricardo, pulling a lock of hair that was peeking from underneath my tomboy hat. I sucked air through my teeth to show my irritation.

I brushed his hand away and shot a cold stare, “Why don’t you grow your own hair and let it down,” I mildly exasperated, tucking the stray wisp of hair back inside my skull cap, “And you…” I pointed my gardening shears to Armando, “…stop flirting with just about anything with a pulse. It’s just … disgusting.”

Armando’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile, “Aw, our little Flora’s jelly. You know you’re the only girl for us,” he sidled close to me and pulled me to his body for a hug, causing my flower arrangement to look like shít.

I rolled my eyes, “Let go perv,” I pushed him away and gave his cheek a light slap. His smile pulled up even higher as his eyes turned wayward and dark. I rolled my eyes for the millionth time while dismissing them with my hands. The three of us needed to make our delivery, or else we’d be breaking our savings in the bank.

These two locos are like my childhood best friends. I was born in Italy but grew up in the South of France, then decided to fly to America to pursue my dream of becoming a wedding planner. But that didn’t happen so I ended up arranging flowers, “Are we even confident about all this? Ms. Meicker is a tough client to please,” I said.

Armando scoffed, “Who does she think she is anyway? Just cause she married this city’s mayor doesn’t give her the right to be a megabitch,” he remarked, stuffing peonies into his flower arrangement. His tone shifted from cold to warm, “Ever think of getting married yourself, Flora?” was his question, laced with an undertone of concern.

“Marriage is not for me,” I replied, pushing an exhale out of my body to somehow relieve myself of the sadness that came with those words, “I don’t believe in love,” I was convincing myself.

Ricardo threw an arm over my shoulder, “You’ll always have us, Florie girl. You’ll always have your putos,” he gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Ew. Yuck.

I wiped his drool from my cheek, “This is a professional working environment. No sharing of saliva. You boys are so disgusting,” I rolled my eyes again.

These two guys treated me like I was one of them because I shared their wardrobe. Every day the three of us wore loose white shirts tucked into denim jumpers, and manly loafers offering remedial comfort to the soles of our feet. And to ‘cap’ it all off, I wore their baseball caps, making me look like a tomboy, “Ricky, do a trim on that one right there,” I pointed to a vase with peonies, “It’s too much green. You need to show more the flowers I think,” I instructed.

He gave me a mock salute which I rewarded with an eye-roll. Anyway, we were florists, and probably the best in town. There was never shortage of business in this city where people always celebrated something phenomenal. Whether it was for a wedding, a debutant ball, or an engagement party, there was always something to throw a celebration for, “Flora,” Armando called my attention, pointing to his work. I nodded my approval. He smiled, proud of his work.

By their names one could already tell that they were of Mexican descent. Armando’s taller than Ricardo, but Ricardo had a fleshier build. They both have jet black hair, but I like Armando’s much better. His had this clipped and polished feel to it that makes him look like that sexy wolf guy Michael Trevino from the Vampire Diaries. As for Ricardo, he looked like William Levy, that sexy Cuban actor in soap operas and telenovelas, though more gruff with his strong jaw line covered with a dense five o’clock shadow, and his sexy tousled hair more richer and darker.

I came from a rich family. And I could say that I am somewhat of a Lara Croft-esque character. I was an heiress, a tough chick, but not as kick-ass like Angelina Jolie in the movie Tomb Raider, “I’ll move the truck. You boys load it up,” I announced, rubbing my hands together to get rid of the thistles from the foliage and shrubs which I twisted, knotted, and tied to look like archways.

Ricky and Armand were like brothers to me. Their father was my dad’s handyman back in the hacienda, the backyard of which was acres upon acres of grapery. Some sold as fruit, most used for wines. Yes, I was heiress to a winery. And these two boys were like my childhood best friends who, when their father died, became my own brothers when my dad opened our house to them. Poking fun into it, I could say that they were pretty much my lapdogs, “Hurry up. You guys are such girls sometimes, jeez,” I mocked, rolling my eyes.

“I can see you rolling your eyes!” Ricky yelled from the back of the truck. He didn’t need to see me behind the wheel because they knew me like the back of their hand. The slightest bit of annoyance from me and they would know that I was doing an eye-roll. I heard the clatter of metal and the rolling of the slats. We’re ready, “Fire it up!”Armando tapped the side of the truck.

I turned the key and the engine roared to life, “You guys locked the house?” I asked, pushing the clutter away from the passenger’s seat. I got a thumbs up from Armando as he pulled himself to sit beside me, followed by a muscle-bound Ricardo who squeezed in right beside him, “We need a bigger truck,” I commented, pushing the lever to drive.

“We don’t need a bigger truck. Just wider seats,” Ricky countered, putting a gum stick in his mouth, “You’re freaking Paris Hilton. You can buy this whole town if you wanted to,” he joked, all the while chewing his gum. Armando was busy with the tablet, playing some fruity game that seemed to be all the rage in the world of Android these days.

“Buckle up boys,” I said, “And I’m not Paris Hilton. I’m not that skinny,” I squinted then drove.

“You should let your hair down,” Oh no. Not again. This time it was Ms. Baby Meicker who made the comment, “Bunching up all this ebony hair under your cap is so unladylike,” she rubbed salt to a festering wound, taking me to the height of discomfort, “Here, let me tie a loose braid…” she took tufts of hair and separated them into sections, winding them loosely together before pulling a rubber band to secure the base, “Okay. You let it stay like that for a while to let your hair breathe. Then later we’ll tussle and blow-dry the heck out of it,” she smiled. And it was then I realized that all the rumors about her were false. She wasn’t a megabitch. Women were just jealous of her because the most coveted bachelor of this great city of Washington was gonna marry her, “How did you guys know I loved peonies?” she asked, regarding me at arm’s length.

I couldn’t help but stare at her baby bump, which she was now caressing with her dainty hands. Her fingers looked as soft as petals from the rarest flower. I shook my head, momentarily distracted, “We didn’t. We just assumed,” I looked up and mirrored her smile. She was beautiful and the epitome of ladylike, “I was given the floor plan…” I started, pulling the scroll from my back pocket, unrolling it in front of her to show her how me and the boys were going to scatter the foliage, “…does that fit your specifications?” I solicited.

“Yes. Everything looks great,” she beamed with her pearly whites. I’d never seen teeth as white as hers, “I’m happy to have you guys do the decorating. My wedding planner can’t even pull together a decent engagement party,” she rolled her eyes. I just had to laugh at that. I guess I wasn’t the only one who was fond of doing satanic eye-rolls.

“You guys should stay and party. I own the patisserie downtown. Ever heard of it?” she asked me, I shook my head, “Meickers. I’m Baby. Meicker of delicious treats,” And then it clicked.

“Oh!” I beamed, “I wondered what happened to that cake shop. It just closed,” I only heard of word about her bakeshop but never really made a visit because pastries weren’t my thing. I gazed at her bun in the oven and understood why she needed to close it, “Will you re-open after you give birth to your son?” I inquired, caressing her baby bump.

She gave me a look of wonder, “How did you know it’s a boy?”

“I didn’t. I just had a feeling,” At the corner of my eye I saw Armando looking at me, his eyes communicating a message other than friendly. The seriousness in those eyes pulled everything together in his face, as if he looked more predatory and much more handsome the longer I looked at him, “Flora?” Ms. Meicker pierced my thoughts. I looked to her with my head feeling lighter.

“Yeah?” my mouth suddenly dry and my consciousness reeled behind, remembering the mesmeric look in Armando, and those sultry, dark brown eyes.

“See. What did I tell you?” said Ricardo, twirling a section of hair around his finger while using his other hand to fist through my scalp, “You have such rich hair. It’s like it has its own life,” he commented, examining my tresses from roots to tips.

“You’re a gay Mexican jumping bean,” I spoke through a restrained bout of laughter, “You are so gay sometimes,” I pulled my hair from him. One more sniff and he was bound to become an addict, “Where’s Armand?” I leaned over the counter, jutting my neck out to see if he was tending any flowers.

Ricardo took a tuft of peony and slid it behind my ear, “There you go. You now look like a puta. My sexy, s*x puta.”

I smacked his shoulder hard and I think it hurt me more than him, “Grrr! I’m not your puta. You fúcking puto!” I smacked him upside the head making him groan, as if he wanted to be hit again.

“Aw, my chica knows how to fight now eh?” he pulled me into his arms and started nuzzling the back of my neck, all the while I threw my legs up in the air trying to escape from his clutches.

As if conjured by my deepest thoughts, there appeared by the doorway another Mexican puto. I was squirming and bucking against Ricky, all giddy and all over the place like a squiggly worm, but then it felt like time had stopped as Armando lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead.

A trail of dark hair lined the delicious ridges of his abdomen before disappearing behind the sweat-drenched lining of his pants. My whole body limped for some reason, my spine turning to jelly as I watched Armando pull his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face. Ricky was having so much fun, flailing me around like I was a ragdoll, “You guys seem to be enjoying yourselves,” was Armand’s observation, his voice throatier than usual, “I’ll just change my shirt,” he exhaled, pulling the fabric up his body to take it off. With arms draped around my body just below my bosoms, Ricky turned to Armand’s direction, shouting different variations of the word ‘puto’ as Armando went up the stairs.

And as Armand took steps going up to his room, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to f**k my own brother.

‘You should let your hair down’ were the words I kept rewinding in my head as I stood naked in front of the mirror. The words kept repeating. But the voices were of Ricky’s and Ms. Meicker’s. I silently wished that Armando had told me the same, just so I could re-play his own voice like a dirty soundtrack in my head.

Denim jumpers didn’t do my body justice. I had an hourglass figure, but was too conscious to wear anything that would flatter it. My breasts were succulent, and my n*****s were pink. Though against the muted halogen my areolas wore a shade of old rose. Meh, it didn’t matter. They were just n*****s anyway.

I pulled the sheer camisole draped on the chair and wrapped it around my body, trying it around the waist as I turned off the halogen by the vanity, “Right,” I exhaled, not really understanding what the word ‘right’ meant in this context. It was the only word I could think of to accompany my audible sigh of frustration.

Frustration. Hmm. Why was I frustrated? What was I frustrated about? A knock on the door jolted me to pull my camisole even tighter, “What!?” I screeched upon opening the door, “It’s nine o’clock. I need my sleep!”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Not really my problem now is it?”

“Let me in.”

“Ugh,” I rolled my eyes at him.

“You’re no fun,” Armando said. He was wearing a ridiculous pair of plaid underwear, which only the Irish people could pull off, “I can’t sleep.”

“Dunk an Oreo into a glass of milk. That helps,” I suggested as I sauntered by the side of my bed, pulling over the covers to tuck myself in. I reached for my Neil Gaiman book, ignoring the Mexican jumping bean that decided to literally jump up and down on the bed. My bed. My bed.

I slipped the bookmark and closed the book, “When will you ever hit puberty!?” I ridiculed, deriding his display of juvenile, scratch that, infantile behavior, “Stop jumping!” I hit him with Neil Gaiman’s book repeatedly till his arm became red, “Sit the f**k down!” I pulled his arm.

“What you reading?” he asked, his body digging by my side. He turned his head around to read the book cover, “The Ocean at the End of the Lane. Is it any good?” God he was so annoying.

I slammed the book on my lap and shot him a glare, “It will once you leave my room,” I rolled my eyes again and re-opened the book partway.

“I told you. I can’t sleep.”

“I told you to drink milk.”

“I don’t want that milk. I want yours.”

All the muscles below my navel clenched upon hearing those words. I immediately closed the book to stand. But he grabbed my arm.

“Please, Flora. I won’t tell Ricky,” It almost sounded like a petition. Like he was about to receive his death sentence tomorrow and I was his last request, “Come on. Don’t tell me you don’t touch yourself and think about me at night.”

I turned to look at him, my eyes with a spark of fury, “How dare you even say that to me,” I pulled my arm away, tightening my hold around my flimsy camisole that left little to a perverted man’s imagination, “Please get out.”

He scooted down the mattress and stood to meet me at eye level, “We’re not kids anymore. You tell me to stop acting like a kid when it’s you who should be taking your own advice. We don’t share the same fúcking blood, Flora. It’s not a sin,” he spoke, his eyes fraught with an emotion that scared me because they communicated something carnal and passionate at the same time.

Before I could retaliate however, he already grabbed my arms to pull me tight against his body, making our lips touch and kiss. All that was taboo about our relationship crumbled as my body sweltered with heat. This was bad. I pushed his chest, “Stop it,” I gasped the word as if it was a command. These boys used to obey me like they were my servants. But now, with Armando’s lips laving mine, I couldn’t help but feel that the tables had turned. Now I was the slave. His slave. His… “Armando…” I cried his name as I opened my mouth, inviting him to caress my tongue and pull it inside his mouth.

Understanding that my body was now willing to comply, he loosened his grip around my arms and continued with his caress going around my back, down the curve of my spine, all the way down my tailbone which sent powerful chills of current between my aching thighs, “f**k your Oreos when I can have this,” my neck curved when he leaned down to take a n****e in his mouth through the sheer fabric of my pale cream camisole, sucking on the jut which slowly hardened between the pucker of his expert lips. Oh God. He was sucking so hard that each time he did I felt a powerful jolt to where my clít was screaming. Oh Jesus Christ. Forgive me. I raised my chest into his face, as the point of his tongue teased the bead of my n****e like it were a clít.

And then came two more hands that vined around my hips, followed by the feel of an erection that dug against the partition of my áss cheeks, “Florie girl…” he whispered behind my ear, sending powerful tremors that made my toes curl and flex against the wood of the flooring, “You still think I’m gay?” Ricardo asked, all the while slipping a fat index finger past the folds of my vágina, reuniting it with his thumb as both fingers gave the bud of my clít a gentle squeeze and a light rub. Oh, this is bad. Two men. Mexican. Big men. Big Mexican Men. Big. Two. God. Oh Lord. Por dios, por santo. I am a puta. A puta. Their puta. Oh God it feels so good. Oh shít. f**k. Aah!

Armando untied my camisole, enclosing his mouth over sections of skin from my collarbone down to the next n****e. His lips spread over my areola as he took another bud in his mouth, giving it so much attention with his tongue that my eyes started to roll backwards. The fabric pooling over Ricky’s arms didn’t faze him as he stood erect behind my back, rubbing his fat c**k against my butt. And judging by the circles he was making as he grinded our hips together, I could tell that he too was in so much pain, the kind of pain you’d feel when all you wanted was to f**k hard but the pleasure of foreplay was too hard to pass up. Jesus. Ooh Jesus. Ricky kept tweaking my clít between the textured squeeze of his fat index and skillful thumb. I don’t think I could last long if he kept this up, “Ricky, stop,” I was crying, my cheeks lined with fresh tears at the sheer magnitude of their lovemaking, “Boys. Listen to mama. Stop. Just f**k me. f**k me now.”

Ricky ceased from desecrating my cúnt and folded his knees into a sitting position across the bed, his hands raised for me to take as Armando turned from sucking my n*****s into smearing his pre-cúm against my pubis, “Oh God, Ricky…” I whispered, “I really thought you were gay.”

“I’m not. I just like flowers,” he murmured as I took his hands and crawled up to bed with him.

“What’s your favorite flower?” I asked, my mind buzzing, my spine tingling, and my cúnt throbbing as I pillowed my head over his outstretched arm, his other hand squeezing my breast while thumbing the bead of my n****e that was sore and hard. Ooohhh … my breast feels so heavy.

He pulled my face to give me a passionate kiss, “The kind of flower found between a woman’s legs, like yours in particular,” he breathed. Oh Lord have mercy. Such blasphemy in his words. Such sexy words that I didn’t think could sound quite as sexy if it wasn’t uttered by a Mehicano.

Every word, every murmur, every grunt, every hiss, and groan from these two men whom I had known for years, every little expression that leaked from their lips felt like fingers rubbing my clít. That was how strong they were to me. These two boys. My boys. They were mine. Mine.

I choked on a gasp when Armando slid a finger inside my áss, “Relax, chica. Your puto will take care of you,” he said, all the while pulling my hair up so he could salve my neck with strong bites, slow licks, and charged kisses, “You taste just like the wine we used to make in France when we were younger. You remember?” he whispered, leaving a trail of moisture around the socket of my shoulder while his left hand maneuvered his middle finger to scissor my crack.

I gasped yet again, but this time for a different reason, feeling my cúnt lips spread as Ricky pushed the leaking tip of his head, “Aah … So tight. So pure. So untouched. You are a good girl aren’t you?” he asked while rolling a n****e between his fingers, his díck becoming heavier inside me as my inner skin rolled in pain just to accommodate his girth. Oh God. Ricky was big. Ricky was really big. I don’t think I could … Aah! Aah! Armando entered me too. Oh dios mio. Oh Shít!

I cried. I cried. I cried so damn hard as two men … two mouths … two pairs of lips … two big, long, Mexican dícks made love to me like I was the rarest flower in the world. Oh, don’t forget four hands. Ooooooohhhhhhh…

I raked my fingers across Ricardo’s scalp gripping tight, my other hand winding to cup Armando’s face as I curved my neck and my back. I was being taken. Taken by two men. My childhood best friends. My two guys. My two boys who were no longer my best buddies, my best friends, my brothers, they were now my f**k buddies, my partners, “Ricky … Armand … don’t ever fúcking tell our dad,” I whispered as the three of us moved without the intent to stop. Thank God I let my hair down.