Vodka: Peppermint , Chocolate


*Author’s Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

*Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.


Yvette Wooten tittered as Lori Scott straightened in her chair, thrusting her shoulders back. She could hear the tell-tale squeaking of Michael Theriot’s mail cart approaching their office.

“Hi Michael,” the two girls cooed in unison.

“Yvette, damn it, back off,” Lori hissed. “He’s mine.”

“Really? Is he? I had no idea,” Yvette gasped, brown eyes wide.

“Hello Michael,” Mrs. Cahill, their supervisor smiled.

“Aw, nothing for me?” Yvette cooed as Michael started to wheel the cart past their cubicles.

“What’d I tell you?” Lori snarled.

“Girls, girls, am I going to have to separate the two of you?” Mrs. Cahill threatened.

“No ma’am,” Lori grumbled.

“Hey, girlfriend, I’m just fucking with you,” Yvette apologized. “God, he’s so much into you I could be sitting here nude and he’d never even notice.”

They both heard the ‘oomph!’ as Butch Evans, the new IT assistant ran into a partition. Both girls looked over as the slender young man sprawled on the carpeted floor, hot blush on his slim face.

“You all right?” Yvette asked, squatting in front of the young man.

The squat made her knee length pleated skirt ride up her shapely thighs. Butch looked up and blushed even hotter as he realized that he could see up Yvette’s skirt to her crotch, and that Yvette Wooten, the attractive administrative assistant was not wearing panties. He also saw, quite clearly, that blonde was indeed Yvette’s natural hair color.

“I uh, I yeah, I I’m fine,” Butch struggled to his feet.

Butch had not intended to eavesdrop as he walked away from fixing Mrs. Cahill’s latest glitch. But he had heard the two girls arguing over Michael Theriot, the cute mail room attendant.

And Butch had heard Yvette Wooten say quite clearly ‘sitting here nude’ and then he’d run into the partition. He scrambled out of the third floor office, hoping no one would notice his erection tenting his dress slacks as he walked/ran to the elevators.

Erection had subsided somewhat by the time he stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor of Thibodaux Investments’ Elgee, Louisiana building. Billy Stevens, the head of the IT division nodded his head when Butch softly informed him that he had finished with Mrs. Cahill.

“Please log it,” Billy said a moment later.

“Way ahead of you, Boss Man,” Butch smiled, showing Billy his tablet.

Billy nodded his head. Tom Thibodaux, the owner and CEO of Thibodaux Investments had not been sure about hiring Butch Ryan Evans. After all, Butch was only nineteen years old. But Billy pointed out that Butch had some life experiences that they couldn’t replicate in a classroom. And Butch had graduated college at an age when most were just entering college.

Butch Evans had grown up in a trailer in Turning Point, Louisiana. Michelle Evans, his mother, an alcoholic, had no idea who Butch’s father was. She strongly suspected it was John Paul Thompson, the English teacher at John F. Kennedy High School; John Paul had shared the same slight build, the same effeminate mannerisms as her son.

Then again, it could have been Chad Johnson, Michelle’s cousin. He also had the same slight build and soft voice. Michelle often suspected that the only reason Chad had fucked her was to prove to everyone that he wasn’t gay.

When Butch was fifteen, Michelle had picked up a trucker at the Stepping Stone Diner. She allowed the trucker to move into the single wide trailer; he was a steady source of money, of alcohol and meth.

“Boy’s nothing but a pussy,” Melvin Wooten had sneered when he met Butch.

And Michelle had not stood up for her son. She had not defended her son the first time Melvin punched Butch, knocking the boy to the peeling linoleum floor. She had not tried to stop the constant physical, emotional and verbal abuse her boyfriend heaped onto her only child.

“Well, maybe if you’d learn stand up for yourself,” Michelle had shrugged when Butch sobbed for her to help him.

Jerry Chopin, an attorney in Penny Parish did stand up for Butch. He filed for Butch Ryan Evans’ emancipation and Penny Parish court agreed. Butch took his GED, then filed the forms for a hardship scholarship to the University of Louisiana at DeGarde.

In Sharp Shire dormitory, Butch met Frank Cohen. Frank was built like Melvin, tall and muscled. Unlike Melvin, though, Frank befriended the smaller youth.

Butch still blushed with shame when he thought of what he and Frank had done together. But his friendship with the hulking Frank Cohen had bought Butch protection from the other students.

When Butch had interviewed with Billy Stevens, Butch had asked Billy if he would need to cut his long brown hair. For the job interview, Butch had pulled his hair into a simple ponytail. He released the hair from his band otele gelen escort and it fell to just below his slim shoulder blades.

“Butch, we’re in IT,” Billy had smiled. “We’re invisible until the network crashes. Then? They don’t care what we look like, so long as we can fix it, get it back up and running.”

Cheerful Christmas music played through the hidden speakers. Butch did think seriously of hacking into the source station and switching the feed from Christmas music to death metal. He wasn’t a fan of death metal, but Butch Evans sincerely hated Christmas. The cheerful music was just another reminder that he had no one to celebrate the holiday with, nowhere to go for the holiday.

He looked up when Billy stood in front of him. Billy’s sudden appearance knocked the idea of hacking into the system out of Butch’s head.

“Remember, Christmas Eve? We’re off at three,” Billy said to Butch and Michael Fricke, the other IT employee.

“And then? See ya! Not back until the second dog,” Michael said happily.

“Uh huh,” Billy agreed, sharing Butch’s look of disdain at Michael’s juvenile attempt of ‘ghetto’ language.

That evening, while Butch was pedaling his bicycle furiously against a frigid wind to his one room apartment, Yvette was admiring the cute Kimble Louisiana bungalow Michael Theriot had recently purchased. She parked the car and hurried from street curb to front door.

Lori Scott opened the door and the two squealed at each other, even though it had only been twenty minutes since they’d last seen one another. Lori pulled Yvette into the warm home and slammed the door.

“Hey uh Lori? Want slam it a little harder? I’m sure you didn’t break it all the way there,” Michael teased.

“Oh shut up; I’m not so sure want to live with you anymore,” Lori groused.

“Man! That smells incredible!” Yvette enthused, smelling the chuck roast that had been cooking in the slow cooker all day long.

“I know, doesn’t it?” Lori agreed. “And we’re having Brussel sprouts, oh don’t make that face, you’ll love them, and Michael, you make us some Peppermint Loris?”

“Peppermint Loris?” Yvette asked.

“It’s this drink he made up for me,” Lori said proudly.

“I’m on it,” Michael said.

He combined one jigger of Nulough’s Peppermint flavored Vodka and one jigger of Nulough’s Chocolate flavored Vodka with two jiggers of club soda into a glass, pouring each jigger over ice.

“Mm! Oh, this is nice!” Yvette complimented. “And this is a Peppermint Lori? Michael, I love your house.”

“Thanks; got it when the insurance company finally decided I had nothing do with my brother burning my mom’s house down,” Michael called out from the kitchen.

“Let me show you,” Lori said.

When they returned from the short tour of the house, Michael was setting their plates onto the table. Yvette set her empty glass onto the counter and joined Michael and Lori at the small, comfortable table.

“Isn’t he the best?” Lori bragged. “He cooks, he cleans, he has a good paying job. And he loves me, despite all my faults.”

“Hey, after putting up with my older brother Timmy? Figured out, we all have faults,” Michael said. “But there’s something to love in all of us.”

“Aw,” Lori sighed.

“Want the recipe for that Peppermint Yvette,” Yvette said, sniffing her Brussel sprouts with suspicion.

“Peppermint Lori,” Lori declared.

“Whatever,” Yvette said, cautiously spearing one of the vegetables with her fork.

Michael laughed when Yvette tried the Brussel sprouts and nodded her head in satisfaction. He gave her the recipe for the alcoholic beverage.

After dinner, Yvette helped Lori decorate the small plastic Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. After drinking a mug of hot chocolate, eating a few of the peppermint cookies Michael had baked while they decorated the tree, Yvette left the small, comfortable home.

She drove to her one bedroom apartment in the Arrow Court complex. She bundled against the chill and scampered from car to E202.

The apartment was cold when she entered and she hurried to the thermostat. With a ‘whoosh’ the heater came on and blew warm air into the small apartment.

There was no Christmas tree; Yvette Wooten had no one to celebrate Christmas with. Her father, Melvin Wooten had been a long-distance truck driver. Four years ago, he called Yvette’s mother, informed Phoebe Wooten that he’d met someone else and wouldn’t be returning home.

“Oh, and good luck paying the God damned bills too, hear? Because of your stupid cunt daughter’s fucking braces and college and all that other shit? Put a second mortgage on the fucking house,” Melvin snarled.

Phoebe had silently cried herself to sleep that night. In the morning, she informed Yvette that their Melvin had left them; had run off with some truck stop whore. After Yvette left for classes at U.L.D., Phoebe put the barrel of Melvin’s shotgun into her mouth and pulled the trigger.

Melvin was outraged when First türkmen escort Union Bank located him, forced him to pay their mortgage. When he threatened to declare bankruptcy, First Union reminded him, they also held the note on his Peterbilt tractor.

Yvette moved out of the home when an angry Melvin moved Michelle Evans into the home. At first she lived in Murphy dormitory. By the time she graduated from the University of Louisiana at DeGarde, Yvette had moved into her Arrow Court apartment.

Yvette held up her hand, verified that the heater was indeed blowing warm air and walked to her bedroom. In her bedroom, Yvette also stepped on the small switch for her electric mattress pad. The bed would be nice and toasty warm when she was ready for bed and she could snuggle down for the night.

As Christmas Eve loomed near, Yvette was not filled with Christmas cheer. In fact, she was dreading the nine and a half days from Christmas Eve until January second.

She was pretty, with waist length blonde hair, big brown eyes, and a button nose and button mouth on an oblong face. Her 34D breasts certainly got her a good deal of attention, as did her 32 inch hips and deliciously rounded buttocks. She could go to Dante’s, or Rank & File and pick up any number of available boys or girls for sex.

If Yvette could trust them enough to have sex with them. Because of her mother’s complete and utter dependence on Melvin, and Melvin’s undisguised contempt for Phoebe and Yvette, Yvette had a hard time trusting anyone. She’d had a few sexual trysts with boys, and those boys had blabbed to anyone that cared to listen that that Yvette was a slut, an easy lay. The one relationship she’d had with a girl, that girl had turned out to be an extremely possessive psychopath.

On December 23rd, Tom Thibodaux himself came down from his ivory tower and handed out the Christmas bonuses to his employees. He also thanked each one of his employees for helping to make the year a productive year.

“O. M. G!” Lori gasped when she did look at the dollar amount of her bonus.

“Hooo Lee shit,” Yvette agreed, seeing a check for one thousand dollars in her envelope.

Two floors above, Butch looked again at the five hundred dollar check in his envelope. He had just passed his ninety day evaluation, had been assured by both Billy and Tom that he would be retained. So, five hundred dollars was quite generous indeed.

“What can I say?” Billy shrugged, smiling when Butch asked him about the extravagant dollar amount. “Told him you’re doing a great job, you’re a great asset to the company.”

“Thank you. Merry Christmas,” Butch whispered.

“Oh oh, guess who?” Billy suddenly declared, looking at his monitor.

“Mrs. Cahill again?” Butch guessed, already grabbing his tablet off his bench.

“Must be psychic,” Billy said as Butch strolled to the elevator.

“Hey uh, Stevens, uh, any idea why I only got fifty bucks?” Michael angrily asked Billy, waving his bonus check.

“Because Mr. Thibodaux refused my suggestion that you get one penny?” Billy said. “Fricke, you spent half as much time working as you did trying to avoid work? Then your bonus might have been a little better.”

“Well, what’d he give the little faggot?” Michael spat, grabbing Butch’s envelope from the bench.

“Open that and your ass will be escorted from the premises,” Billy warned. “What Butch got is none of your business, hear?”

Michael stood and stared at Billy. With an angry grunt, he threw Butch’s envelope toward the small wastebasket in the corner.

“Pick that up,” Billy ordered.

“Kiss my ass,” Michael snapped.

“Hi, Mr. Conners? Yes, please come to my office. I am terminating Michael Fricke effective immediately,” Billy spoke into his telephone. “Thank you, Mr. Conners.”

“Here. God damned ass hole, here,” Michael snapped, picking Butch’s envelope from the floor and slapping it, forcefully onto the bench.

“Yes sir,” the hulking African-American man said, striding into Billy’s office.

“”Why I keep this handy,” Billy smiled tightly, turning and picking up a cardboard box that sat against the far wall. “I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors, Mr. Fricke.”

“You, you’re serious? Right before Christmas?” Michael screamed.

“Hmm? Oh, Merry Christmas. Yes, I’m serious,” Billy said.

Butch was unaware of the fracas occurring two floors above as he located the cause of Mrs. Cahill’s problem. With a few keystrokes, he managed to correct the error and the printer in the corner sprang to life and started spitting out the request.

“Thank you, Butch,” the older woman smiled. “So, what was the problem this time?”

“Hmm, think it was an I D ten T interface,” Butch said.

“I D ten T?” Yvette asked Butch as the young man walked past.

“I, then d, then the numeral ten, then t, type it out,” Butch whispered.

Yvette laughed when ‘idiot’ popped up on her screen. She and Butch shared a smile.

Looking into Butch’s rich brown eyes, evi olan escort Yvette felt something stirring in her belly. She blinked; the feeling was an unexpected one.

“So, plans for Christmas?” Yvette impulsively asked, swiveling in her chair.

“I uh, no, I, no one, I don’t have any family here,” Butch stammered.

“Why don’t you come over tomorrow night? I uh, I bought a turkey breast Saturday,” Yvette said. “Course, I don’t know what I’ll do with the goofy thing, but…”

“Oh, I can fix us something; you have noodles?” Butch asked.

“Got elbow noodles; that good?” Yvette asked.

Butch shrugged, then nodded. He scampered away before Yvette could change her mind.

Christmas Eve was a bright, clear day. The temperature hovered right at thirty four degrees, but the cold wind blowing made it feel more like twenty four degrees. Butch was frozen to the bone by the time he pedaled his bicycle into the covered garage. He padlocked his bicycle to the small bike rack just inside the first floor entrance, then hurried inside. He stamped his feet and slapped his hands, trying to get some circulation into them.

“Damn, boy, need get you a car,” Jack Conners said, watching Butch’s antics.

“Knew how drive I would,” Butch admitted to the large security guard.

Safely ensconced on the fifth floor, Butch checked the ‘Help Desk’ emails. So far, no one had sent a request for help. Again, Butch toyed with the idea of switching ‘Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree’ to ‘Angel Of Death’ or any number of songs by Slayer, Merciful Fates, Him.

“Rocking around the Christmas tree, stick a knife in my skull,” Billy sang, entering the IT office. “Please, if there is a God, please strike me deaf until after the holidays. Please?”

Butch moved his lips, pointing to the monitor. Billy looked at him for a moment, puzzled. Butch again moved his lips, pointing.

“What?” Billy asked.

“Oh, thought you wanted to be deaf,” Butch said.

“Ha-ha, by the way, terminated Michael Fricke yesterday,” Billy said.

“Oh! Why?” Butch asked.

“Insubordination, but anyone asks about it, just refer them to me, okay?” Billy answered. “Nothing on the Help Desk yet?”

“Nope,” Butch said.

“Then play Solitaire,” Billy ordered.

“Free Cell’s harder,” Butch replied.

“See? SEE? That’s why I ran Michael out of here. Told him ‘play Solitaire’ and he said ‘Eat my shorts, I’m playing Free Cell,'” Billy claimed.

“But Solitaire’s fun,” Butch said and did bring the program up.

By two o’clock, there was hardly anyone in the building. By two thirty, Michelle, Tom Thibodaux’s executive assistant, Tom Thibodaux, Butch, Billy, and Jack Conners were the last people in the building.

“Go home, Butch,” Billy said.

Butch looked up from Free Cell, nodded his head and began to wiggle into his outerwear. His last act was to pull his hair into a ponytail, then strap on his bike helmet.

In Apartment E202, Yvette made herself a Peppermint Lori and wondered if she should make one for Butch. She hoped Butch wouldn’t chicken out; he had certainly scampered away quickly enough after she’d invited him over.

Just as she took a refreshing sip of her beverage, a soft knock sounded at the door. She smiled and walked to the door.

“Think my bike will be all right there?” Butch asked, pointing to the cast iron banister that stood along the edge of the concrete landing.

“I guess, but, damn it’s cold out here, why you don’t just bring it in here?” Yvette asked.

“Yvette, it’s filthy!” Butch protested. “Had to ride it right through this big old mud puddle right there.”

After they bickered about it, Yvette finally fetched Butch some paper towels and he wiped the tires clean. Only then would he wheel the bicycle into her apartment.

“Oh, this is nice!” Butch complimented, removing his heavy coat.

“And it used to be warm too,” Yvette playfully complained. “Before some goofball made me hold the door open while he cleaned his bike.”

“I, oh bite me,” Butch giggled.

“Uh huh, whip it out,” Yvette said. “Want a Peppermint Yvette?”

“A what?” Butch asked.

Yvette quickly made the alcoholic beverage and she and Butch sat down in her still quite cold living room. She took the small barrel chair while Butch perched on the edge of her couch.

“Oh, this, mm, okay, I taste chocolate, and peppermint,” Butch tried to identify the drink.

“Nulough’s Chocolate Vodka and Nulough’s Peppermint Vodka,” Yvette admitted. “And then? I just squirt some chocolate syrup and stir that in.”

They had another drink apiece; Butch preparing the drinks while Yvette gave the directions. Unlike a Peppermint Lori, Yvette did not waste time with adding club soda.

Yvette listened as Butch talked about growing up in Turning Point, Louisiana. She smirked when Butch declared that the ‘upper class hoity-toity’ of Penny Parish were the people that owned double-wide trailers.

“Want another one?” Yvette asked when Butch drained his glass.

“Whew! No, I have another one, I’ll never be able make it home,” Butch admitted. “I’ll just be falling off my bike.”

Entering her kitchen again, Butch quickly assessed Yvette’s pots and pans, knives and cutting boards, and pantry and refrigerator contents. Then he quickly, efficiently began to prepare their dinner.

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