Chapter Two: Randall Returns
Old passions die hard...
Previously on The Edible Erotic Adventures of Esmerelda Poppingcorn:
She gently tapped the service bell once and waited, trying to control her breath while squirming in her own skin. She tapped twice, this time with a bit more force than her usual style of tapping, anxious to get the special roast beef and be on her way. Still, no one arrived.
She tapped again, and again, and again; each tap more severe than the last, growing faster and so violent that the piece that goes “DING!” left a little purple bruise on her palm. She began losing control of her breath; buried memories lurching from their hiding place into the center of her chest, burning through her spaghetti squash-sized breasts like wildfire. (The Game of Thrones kind.) She remembered the cold cut platters at her grandmother’s funeral. She remembered all the ham.
She remembered all the ham.
Esmerelda was seconds from exploding when a voice rang out from the room where they keep all the extra meat.
“Hold on! I’m coming!”
It was enough to jolt Esmerelda back to reality; back to being the stoic, hardnosed OSHA inspector that was all business, all the time. She regained her composure just in time to lose it again.
The door of the extra meat room swung open, and out walked Randall Burningham.
And now… back to our story!
Dive headfirst into the waters of Lake Nipples. What’s the worst that could happen?
Esmerelda had spent 25 years doing everything she could to burn Randall Burningham from her brain — she employed therapists and hypnotists, used apps and blockers to scrub him from her internet. Shortly after what her parents chose to refer to as “The Hammening,” Esmerelda was sent off to St. Longinus’ School for Girls, where the Sisters of Obedience kept her safe from naughty boys. She had not seen Randall since. She made him a ghost… or so she thought.
It didn’t matter that the last time she saw Randall Burningham, he was an eight-year-old boy. There was no mistaking that lush mane of chestnut hair, or the sparkle of his blue-green eyes when he approached the counter with a courteous smile.
“Well you sure don’t look like Mrs. Tashman,” said Randall in a voice that had grown significantly deeper since the third grade.
She went rigid with panic, her brain began to throb like a spicy butthole. He was no longer the boy who ruined both her life and relationship with ham — the Randall Burningham who stood before her was a man. A hot, sexy, virile man who she despised with every fiber of her being, yet still managed to turn her into a Jell-O Jiggler just by entering a room.
“I know her daughter’s getting married tomorrow, so I’m guessing she sent you to pick up her order. Are you her niece?”
A dagger pierced through Esmerelda’s ulcer-spotted stomach…
…Randall Burningham had no idea who she was.
She had been praying he wouldn’t recognize her, but realizing she’d been forgotten entirely, her jaw began to quiver like regular Jell-O. Her whole life had been, in some way, defined by what Randall had done to her. In his life, she was nothing.
“Are you okay?”
Esmerelda snapped out of her trance and quickly looked down at her phone, hoping to look like a very important woman who was very, very busy with very, very, very important things.
“I AM FINE THANK YOU,” she shouted in a thick Russian accent that was a full octave lower than her natural voice. She did not know why she had done this, but it had happened, and now she had no choice but to commit.
“I am very busy woman that needs catering and roast beef,” she said. “Extra beef for old woman. Here is order.” She slammed a crumpled note from Mrs. Tashman onto the counter, her eyes straying not once from her phone.
“No talky talky,” she said. “I have important job that needs me.” Esmerelda was nailing it.
As Randall slinked off to slice the old woman’s beef, Esmerelda’s phone began to ring — it was Mrs. Tashman. There was no way she could pick up without blowing her cover, so she switched her phone to vibrate and sent Lily’s bitch mother to voicemail.
“TOO BUSY FOR PHONE CALL” she screamed to an empty market, desperate to keep her cover story intact. She opened her Notes app— her de facto diary —and began frantically typing, just as her therapist had instructed her to do. What she wrote wasn’t as important as the fact that it made her look industrious, hiding her frequent public meltdowns behind a curtain of clicking.
As her luscious thumbs violently struck the itty bitty keyboard, Lily’s bitch mother kept calling as if her house was on fire. But if the Tashmans were burning alive, they’d need to put themselves out. Esmerelda was trapped in a blazing inferno of anguish and ham, and needed to focus on saving herself.
“Here’s your beef,” said Randall, slowly sliding a thick package of meat across the counter. “Why don’t you go out the back door, unlock your car, and I’ll bring the rest of the order out to you. Mrs. Tashman ordered a lot of stuff. Don’t know how she expected a tiny thing like you to carry it all.”
Esmerelda bristled; though she was barely five-foot-three, she was more than capable of lifting food. But that was to be expected of rich guys like Randall Burningham, wasn’t it? Thinking that the measliest amount of effort made them tantamount to gods.
Stepping behind the counter, Esmerelda’s position softened once she saw exactly how much food Mrs. Tashman had ordered. There were colossal charcuterie platters on thick wooden boards — paper thin slices of prosciutto wrapped into delicate roses, weaving a trail between mountains of porchetta and rivers of rillettes. There were pyramids of cheddar chive biscuits with spicy sauce and honey ham, and down the middle of the long butcher block counter was a six-foot-hero celebrating the rich ham heritage of the Black Forest, flanked by big bacon-y bowls of German potato salad. The Tashmans were more than a family of filthy, dirty bitches — they were filthy, dirty bitches with an insatiable desire for pork.
As Esmerelda walked to her car, her phone continued to vibrate with frantic calls from Lily’s bitch mother. Safely out of range of Randall’s voluptuous lobes, she picked up and whispered hello.
“WHY THE FUCK WEREN’T YOU PICKING UP YOUR PHONE!” screamed Lily’s bitch mother like a feisty baboon. “Grandma Tiffany is losing her mind about the roast beef situation and needs you to make sure it’s lean.”
“Tell her it can’t be fatty!” shrieked Grandmas Tiffany in the background. “I can’t have fatty beef! I’ll get diarrhea at the wedding!”
Most people would find the Tashmans infuriating, but Esmerelda found them to be a welcome distraction. Nothing could push Randall Burningham out of her head faster than the thought of a 69-year-old woman in a sequined evening gown grooving on the dance floor with explosive diarrhea.
“I already bought the roast beef,” she replied. “But I haven’t left yet. Let me check....”
She pulled the beefy bundle out of her canvas New Yorker tote bag, placed it on the hood of her car, and quickly unwrapped it. It wasn’t lean. It wasn’t even roast beef.
It was ham.
Paid Subscribers: Get the recipe for Burningham’s signature ham sandwich. (And if you’re not a paid subscriber, consider upgrading!)
The floodgates that had strained to contain Esmerelda’s circus of emotions finally burst, her gargantuan knockers inflating like balloons of white hot rage. She dropped the phone, and picked up the ham. She ran through the back door of Burningham’s, her violet eyes ablaze, and found Randall with potato salad in his arms, an impish grin across his face.
She wiped away that grin with a fistful of ham.
“HAVE SOME HAM, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” screamed Esmerelda, her voice crackling like fire. “HAVE SOME FUCKING HAM AND CHOKE ON IT YOU FUCKING FUCKFACE.”
“Settle down, Poppincorn!” Randall screamed, grabbing her wrists and trying to subdue her. “It was a joke! I thought you’d find it funny!”
“FUNNY?!?” she screamed. “You fucking broke me apart! You fucking stole everything!
Randall looked at her like she was mad; a silly, hysterical woman who liked making a big deal about nothing.
“It was a joke!” he said in a baffled tone, unable to comprehend the gravity of his ham-fueled escapades — escapades he hadn’t even thought of for over twenty years.
“It was not a ‘joke’” she sobbed in screams. “You destroyed me. You made me feel weak, and small, and fucking WORTHLESS.”
Randall went cold and silent. He gently released her wrists, and felt her tender hands slip away
“You don’t understand what a monster you are,” she seethed. “You erased my whole future with your fucking ‘joke.’ Every day I look in the mirror and think about how much I hate myself. How disgusting I am. How I don’t deserve to be loved.”
His core began to tremble, his chest burning as if she’d stabbed him in the heart.
“While you were spending summers at your beach house, I was hiding in my room alone. While you were living it up at the country club with your douchebag friends, I was spending every fucking day forcing myself to go through the motions without falling apart. You got to go on with your life like it… like I was fucking nothing.”
Randall felt as if he’d been shocked out of a long, blissful sleep, awakening into a nightmare of his own design. He saw who he truly was for the first time, and it sickened him.
“Nothing ever happened to you for any of that, did it, Randall?” said Esmerelda in a voice that had regained its strength, her breathing growing slow and deep.
“You never face any sort of consequences, do you? You just go about doing whatever feels good while I can’t feel a fucking thing, because if I let myself do that, the only thing I’d feel is pain.”
He didn’t know what to do or what to say. The truth had broken him, and he was at her mercy. Randall owed her everything. He knew that now. And he was ready to give her whatever she needed to heal.
Esmerelda felt a surge of power as her repressed feelings transformed into currents of electricity that shot through every nerve ending in her body. Her breasts grew firm; her meat flaps, moist. She was ready to take what she was owed.
She shoved Randall towards the butcher block counter; he grabbed her hips and lifted her towards him. She ran her hands through the shaggy mane of chestnut hair she’d daydreamed about as a child, grabbing it firmly at the back of his head, pulling him into the first kiss she was able to feel.
They crashed onto the counter, sending platters of assorted pork to the floor, falling on a ham-filled six-foot-hero that cradled Randall’s back like a cushion. He kissed her deeply, then softly, letting his body relax underneath her curves, ready to pay for his sins.
“Randall Burningham,” said Esmerelda, her voice quivering with desire.
“I think it’s time for you to…
…pop my corn.
Will Esmerelda and Randall finally bone? (Spoiler alert: FUCK YEAH THEY WILL.)
If you’re a paid subscriber, you can read every filthy detail of their ham-fueled sexcapade it in Chapter Three: HAM BONING.
As for unpaid subscribers: the dirty is stuff ain’t free, so skip straight to Chapter Four: The Hamwakening to continue the story. (It will still make sense!) OR you can upgrade your subscription so you can get food porn, and I can get paid for doing God’s work.