Then she remembered what was in the freezer.

She had stowed away, deep in ice, a box of Rocket Pops.

The popsicles were red, white, and blue. The top portion was flavored red cherry. The middle was lime, and the bottom third was blue raspberry. The popsicle was frozen in the shape of a rocket—a thick popsicle with a narrowed tip.

Carey bought them out of nostalgia of long-ago summers when she was a young girl. They were the favorites of her and her friends in the neighborhood. They were cool refreshments in the heat and humidity.

When Carey opened the freezer door, the chilled air swirled, ghost-like. She grabbed a Rocket Pop and peeled off the wrapper. She resettled in the recliner to enjoy her popsicle and the view of the city skyline through the apartment window. The buildings were formed like the tops of the popsicle.

The Rocket Pop’s sweet flavors rushed her back to being a pre-teen on the country roads and open fields. Red cherry reminded her of cool lipstick. She and her friends would pretend to wear red lipstick. Then they would strut right down the slippery Slip ‘N Slide, acting as supermodels on the fashion runway. Their play got the boys’ attention. She thought about smooching round-faced Heath Cooper in a puppy-love way. However, he would always run.

This many years later, she giggled at how strangely boys think before they turn into teenagers.

For old time’s sake, she painted on the melting cherry end of the popsicle as lipstick.

The Rocket Pop drew Carey’s attention from the stale heat in her apartment to cooler memories. There was the childhood game of Ice Tag. Everyone tucked their shirt into their shorts and then ran wildly from the kid who carried the ice. That kid would grab anyone’s shirt collar and dump ice down the shirt.

Remembering the ice sliding down her back was terrorizing. Her body would contort and twist to keep the ice from touching her skin. The memory made her shiver.

In the heat of those summers, the ice melted quickly. Soon, the kids were in soaked shirts. They were all left laughing and tired. She smiled, sucking on the sweet treat.

But, while rummaging through her memories, the Rocket Pop dripped onto her white shirt. She cursed.

With the whole Rocket in her mouth, she rushed to the sink.

Setting the popsicle on a dish, she pulled off her t-shirt. She rubbed the fabric together, hoping to remove the red blotch. It only turned pink. She tossed the shirt on the chair.

She grabbed the Rocket Pop and plopped on the recliner, topless. A few moments later, her licks and the apartment temperature left the Rocket Pop as a stick.

Carey unwrapped another frozen Rocket Pop. This popsicle was colder than the one that had just melted. She got an impulse.

She lowered the frozen cherry tip to her rosé nipple. She shrilled at the touch of the frozen popsicle on her sensitive flesh. It felt the like ice dumped down her shirt but with a lot of sensitivity.

She collapsed her shoulders, as a natural reaction to the popsicle touching her flesh. She hadn’t had enough though.

She cupped her breast and towed the popsicle’s rocket-red tip to its blue end along her nipple. And she drew it back—blue raspberry to red cherry. The whole time, she hissed and stole sharp breaths. She winced and bit her lip, until her nipple adjusted to the wintry cold. With the red-cherry tip, she drew the outline of her oval areolas, making the flesh shrivel as its natural reaction.

She held the Rocket Pop in one hand while raising up her breast to suck off the red-cherry droplets.

She then attended to the other breast—running the length of the Rocket Pop against her nipple and towing the red popsicle tip around her breast.

Too soon, the red tip was gone again, leaving white lime as a blunt end.

To further cool her overheated body, she squeezed her breasts together and dragged the Rocket Pop through the tight passage between them and then drew a line down her stomach. She left a circle of lime around her bellybutton. She followed the popsicle’s path back to her chest.

She felt better with the coolness lingering on her. It was a means to avoid broiling in her stuffy apartment.

The red-cherry flavor roused childhood fun, but the lime, for some reason, brought to mind Wayne Harlan. He was a guy who gladly portrayed his contrasts. Well-done grunge-style hair was one example.

“Has anyone seen them before?” he asked her, as they waited at a stoplight in his car. If you try to write with a wide, general audience in mind, your story will sound fake and lack emotion.

She was too shocked to answer. Writing a story with personality for potential clients will assist with making a relationship connection. This shows up in small quirks like word choices or phrases. Write from your point of view.

“Well?” he asked again. If you try to write with a wide, general audience in mind, your story will sound fake and lack emotion. No one will be interested. Write for one person. If it’s genuine for the one, it’s genuine for the rest.

“Seen what?” The best stories make us feel something—whether it’s joy, sadness, excitement, or even a sense of nostalgia. When crafting your narrative, don’t just aim to inform; aim to connect with the heart. Use descriptive language

“Your titties, duh.” The most memorable stories often come from a place of honesty and openness. Don’t shy away from sharing imperfections or challenges. People connect with real, human experiences—not just the polished, idealized version.

She naturally covered her chest with her hands. “No.” Every sentence, every word, should serve a purpose. Think about what really matters in the story and trim away anything that doesn’t contribute. A succinct story with just the right details

“I want to be the first. I can suck tits real good.” He looked at her and winked. Readers want to understand how you got to where you are, not just where you ended up. It’s the struggle that makes the victory feel earned and relatable.

Until he stopped his car at a shopping-center parking lot, she was not going to let this boy look at her naked.

But when he turned toward her, his eyes flipped her mind. Her shirt came off.

She licked the Rocket Pop while her free hand slid into her shorts.

The shorts moved to her knees and the blunt lime end hovered centimeters above her clit.

Yet, the heat made her do it. The popsicle touched her. She jolted and heaved in a chest full of air.

Soon she was messy. This popsicle had melted. It drooled down the stick to her fingers.

Instead of another popsicle, she rushed to her room for her DOT Travel, a pointed plaything resembling a lipstick case.

The DOT was quiet like the popsicle. It had more precision than the Rocket Pop and none of the torture.

With these touches, her body eased. The hot and cold were forgotten. The childhood memories faded away as did the teenage boys.

They were replaced with ocean waves crashing against her body and a gentle dousing of cool water. Her fingers tightened on the lipstick case and its narrowed end.

The skyline outside of the apartment window watched her. The floors and floors of windows stared in seeming grins.

She spread her legs open for everyone to see. She set her feet on each side of the windowsill. The precision allowed her to apologize to all parts of her pussy that demanded reparations for wrongs done with the Rocket Pop.

The back of her knees tingled with the sensations. Her pussy hummed happily. Her upper lip curled into a snarl until she could contort it to a grin.

She imagined Wayne’s mouth on her breasts, sucking for life.

She strutted again down the Slip N’ Slide runway.

She smeared on sweet lipstick.

And then it all went blank as her body fell into orgasm. Clear memories were for another time. The whoosh of goodness covered her like lotion. Her feet fell from the windowsill and her knees went limp. She left the DOT in her lap as she succumbed to a new heat in that orange summer.

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