Arranged
The morning after Randi leaves, Randy stands in the shower until the water runs cold, watching steam curl toward the vent. His body carries the memory of her—his hips still tender, his thighs aching in a way that makes him hard again despite himself.
He dresses in fresh jeans, another faded university t-shirt, sneakers.
The funeral arrangements won't make themselves.
Heather Heart's shop occupies a converted terrace in Paddington, its window displaying funeral wreaths that look like modern art installations—cascading amaranthus, dried pampas grass, orchids suspended in geometric frames.
A small brass bell chimes when Randy pushes through the door, and the scent hits him immediately: jasmine thick and sweet, cut stems releasing their green breath, the cedarwood of display shelves polished weekly.
Heather emerges from the back room holding pruning shears, her honey-blonde waves catching the overhead spots. She's wearing a wrap dress in champagne silk that clings to her gym-sculpted shoulders, her cleavage deliberate, her legs bare despite the morning chill. The sunglasses pushed into her hair are oversized, designer, unnecessary indoors.
"You're Mavis's boy," she says.
She sets the shears on the counter and studies him with the same assessment she might give a damaged bloom.
"Randi mentioned you'd be coming. Poor thing, you look exhausted."
Randy's face heats. "I—it's been a long few days. Sorting everything."
Heather's smile widens, showing teeth kept impossibly white.
She moves around the counter with the fluidity of someone who never rushes, who understands the power of making others wait.
At forty-eight, she knows what she wants and how to get it.
"Your aunt was a particular client. Very particular."
She reaches past him to adjust a display of dried lunaria, her arm brushing his chest, her jasmine-cedarwood scent enveloping him.
"She'd want something memorable. Not sad. Mavis was never sad."
Randy swallows. "She was ninety-two."
"And formidable until the end, from what I hear."
Heather's hand lingers on the lunaria, her fingers long and manicured, the nails a pale shell-pink.
"Come. We'll discuss options in the workroom. I need to see your hands."
"My hands?"
"For scale," she says, already walking, her heels clicking against the polished concrete. "I always measure clients against the arrangements. Mavis taught me that."
The workroom smells of green sap and wet earth, stainless steel tables holding buckets of imported flowers—gardenias, tuberoses, stems of jasmine still dripping from the wholesaler's truck.
Heather closes the door behind them and leans against it, her arms crossed beneath her enhanced bust, the wrap dress gapping slightly at her sternum.
"Randi says you're overwhelmed," she murmurs. "That you've been sleeping in Mavis's penthouse, surrounded by her things, unable to escape her presence."
Randy's throat tightens. "She's—Randi's been helpful. With the estate."
"Randi is always helpful." Heather pushes off the door and approaches him slowly, her hips swaying with controlled precision.
"She's also a competitive bitch. She told me about the Beardsleys."
She stops close enough that he can see the Botox-smoothness of her forehead, the careful application of highlighter along her cheekbones.
"She told me you were... responsive. Eager to learn."
Randy's cock stirs against his jeans. "I don't—"
"Shh."
Heather presses a finger to his lips, her skin cool from the workroom's refrigeration.
"I'm not Randi. I don't require submission. I require presence."
She drops her hand to his chest, spreads her fingers over his university logo, feels his heartbeat through the thin cotton.
She guides him backward until his thighs meet the stainless-steel table's edge. The metal is cold even through his jeans.
Heather retrieves a taper candle from a drawer—beeswax, cream-colored, the wick trimmed to a precise quarter-inch.
"Take off your shirt," she says, lighting the candle from a match tin she keeps in her bra.
Randy obeys, his fingers clumsy.
The workroom's air conditioning raises gooseflesh across his chest. Heather watches him dispassionately, the candle flame steady in her hand, her smoky eyes tracking the lean muscle of his abdomen, the flush spreading from his throat.
"Lie back."
The table is wider than it looks, designed for large installations.
Randy stretches across it, his sneakers still on, his jeans low on his hips. Heather approaches with the candle held above him, tilting it slowly. The first drop of wax hits his breastbone—warm, then hot, then cooling into a rigid shell that pulls at his skin when he breathes.
He gasps. Heather smiles.
"Randi used you," she observes, tilting the candle again, dripping wax across his left pectoral, his nipple, down the centreline of his stomach.
"She likes breaking things open. I prefer..."
Another drop, this one landing dangerously close to his navel, the heat shocking against his sensitive skin. "...cultivation. Slow growth. The anticipation of bloom."
Randy's cock strains against his jeans, visible, undeniable.
Heather ignores it, working methodically, creating patterns of cream-colored wax across his torso that harden into abstract topography.
When she reaches his waistband, she sets the candle aside and produces an ostrich feather from another drawer—long, white, impossibly soft.
She drags it through the wax, not hard enough to dislodge, just enough to make him feel the texture's contrast: rigid shell, delicate barbs, the vibration travelling through his skin to his spine.
Randy's hands grip the table's edges. His breath comes shallow and fast.
"Sensitive," Heather murmurs, tracing the feather down his abdomen, circling his navel, dipping beneath his waistband to brush the head of his cock through the denim.
The feather withdraws.
Heather sets it beside the candle and unzips his jeans with deliberate slowness, working them down his hips until his cock springs free, dark and leaking against his stomach.
She climbs onto the table with him, her wrap dress riding high on her thighs, her knees bracketing his ribs.
Randy can see the lace edge of her underwear, her thigh's inner contour.
Heather turns, positioning herself above his face, her back to his cock, her slit inches from his mouth.
"Show me what Randi taught you," she says, and lowers herself onto him.
The taste of her is immediate—salt and musk, the jasmine of her perfume mixed with something sharper, more essential.
Randy's tongue finds her automatically, licking broad stripes through her folds, circling the hood of her clit where she's already swollen, already wet.
Her bud is firm.
Her nub is so responsive.
Heather's weight settles against his jaw, her thighs gripping his ears, her rhythm establishing itself: grind forward, back, forward again, using his mouth exactly as she needs.
She understands the grind.
She enjoys control of the tempo.
Heather doesn't reciprocate immediately. She rides his face, her hands braced on his wax-covered chest, her fingers digging into the rigid shells she's created, making him feel the pressure through the cooling wax.
Randy moans into her, the vibration making her clench, making her grind harder.
"Good," she breathes, and finally bends forward, her honey-blonde hair spilling across his stomach, her breath hot against his neglected cock.
"Very good."
She takes him in one motion, no teasing, her mouth wet and tight and practised.
Randy's hips buck upward, his tongue faltering, and Heather pulls back just enough to speak against his shaft: "Keep working. I want to come before you do."
He obeys, finding her rhythm again, licking in time with her suction.
The sixty-nine position is athletic, demanding—Heather's weight on his face, his cock in her throat, both of them sweating now in the refrigerated air, the smell of flowers and sex and melting wax combining into something overwhelming.
Slurping, sucking and spitting, doubly combined.
Randy's hands find her hips, gripping hard, pulling her down harder onto his mouth.
Heather hums around his cock, the shuddering travelling through his spine, and he feels her beginning to tighten, her thighs trembling against his cheeks.
"Fuck," she gasps, releasing him momentarily, her hand working his shaft while she recovers.
Randy doesn't.
He flattens his tongue against her clit, presses hard, feels her orgasm build in the tension of her hips, the catch of her breath.
"Oohh! Yes! Fuck! Yes! Aahh! Aahh!"
When she comes, it's with a long, low moan that vibrates through her whole body, her cunt pulsing against his mouth, her hand squeezing his cock very tight.
She recovers faster than Randi did, her professional efficiency reasserting itself even as her chest heaves.
She turns on the table, facing him now, her dress completely undone, her surgically enhanced breasts exposed, nipples dark and hard.
Her makeup has smudged slightly at the corner of one eye—an imperfection that makes her more real, more present.
"Your turn," she says.
She pushes him upright, turns him, bends him forward over the table so his wax-covered chest presses against the cold stainless steel.
Randy hears a lubricant's cap snap open, sees her fingers—two of them, slick and insistent—circling her crack hole.
"Add to the lube," she instructs.
Randy spits into her offered gape.
"A finger."
Randy pokes one, in and out.
Enjoying the puckered pop.
"Two, you dirty boy."
Randy sticks two digits deep and stretches.
Heather moans.
"Stuff my backdoor."
Randy likes this command.
He pries into her rilled rawness.
He groans.
God, the MILF is tight.
He sees his boner wedged in her balloon knot.
Cable tight as a vine choking a tree.
There is give where there is no frickin' give.
Her tushy is tighter than a corset laced by spiteful hands.
He burrows like a dude digging a trench under artillery fire.
His cock constrained like a hand in a perfectly stitched velvet glove.
He jags and prods.
She lifts, shifts, angles to increase the insanely blissful pleasure for two.
Heather's head falls back, her honey-blonde hair spilling across the stainless steel, her mouth open in a silent gasp.
"Yes," she breathes when she finds her voice.
"Like that. Use me, Randy. Use me as you'll never see me again."
She wants it memorably indecent.
He burrows into her with rapid injections like firing flesh harpoons into her arse.
He fucks her backside with the desperation she's asked for, his hips snapping forward, his hands gripping her knees to spread her wider, to get deeper.
The table rocks beneath them, buckets of flowers trembling, jasmine petals scattering across the concrete floor.
Heather meets each stiff thrust, pushing back against him, her fingers finding her clit and working it in tight circles.
"Harder," she demands. "I'm not fragile. Fuck me to buggery!"
There is vehemence in his punishing thrusts.
Piston pumping like a drill at maximum speed.
His hips and thighs, his whole-body leverage behind every lunge of his boner into her gaped, expanding tushy.
Heather's asshole grips around him, the pressure building, her free hand reaching up to hold his wrist where it holds her knee.
"Seed my arse."
Her words dissolve into her own orgasm, her body seizing, her butthole contracting rhythmically around his cock.
"Orrghh!"
Randy follows, unable to resist.
A cum injection in her bum.
They lie there, joined, until the refrigeration unit cycles on and the cold reminds them of where they are and possibly with whom.
Afterwards, Heather dresses with the same efficiency she applied to everything else.
Randy pulls his jeans up over his sensitive cock, his wax-covered chest still pulling with each movement.
Heather retrieves a fresh wrap dress from a closet—identical cut, different colour, this one dove-grey—and surveys him with satisfaction.
"Now," she says, as if the previous hour hadn't happened, "the arrangements. Crescent-shaped, I think. Looping jasmine for the fragrance—Mavis loved jasmine; did you know? Soft pastels with dark accents. Ivory roses, blush peonies, black calla lilies for that edge she cultivated. Finished with a grade-A silk ribbon, the kind that holds its drape."
Randy nods, watching the woman whose bum he shaped, going about ordinary florist business.
She guides him to the shop door.
"Go see Rhonda Birch, Mavis' lawyer."
The brass bell chimes.
Randy stands on the Paddington sidewalk, the harbour visible between buildings.
Damn! MILFs are off the charts.
They don't need a sex manual.
No swipe left or right.
They grab the cock in front of them.
They don't need to look up how to do it on the net.
The bitches are just experienced.
Every technique learned above the sheets.
Randy smiles and starts walking.