The Frozen Aisle

“Hi.”

Erica looked up from staring at the glass. She’d zoned out, the kind of zoning out you do when you look at something long enough and start to not look at it anymore but look through it.

The kind of zoning out we all do when we need a short brain nap. We all need those.

“Hi?” She said, more to wake herself out of the little mental break than to the source of the voice.

“Hi,” the source of the voice said, smiling.

Hmm. It was a he. And the he had a nice smile.

Erica looked from his face to his shopping cart, because quietly examining the contents of other peoples’ grocery carts is what all of us do in a grocery store. Organic crackers. Pasta. Cereal. Milk. La Croix. Toilet paper. A bottle of grocery store boxed wine. It was a full cart, which probably meant he was shopping for more than just himself. A family?

Erica looked over at her own shopping cart. Similarly common stuff, just less of it. Paper towels. Vegetables. Fruit. And diapers. Lots of diapers. She was out of diapers for Logan. And in the shopping cart seat, Logan, 8 months old, was sticking a plastic ketchup bottle into his mouth as far as it would go.

“I’m looking for ice cream,” said the man, his voice low, deep. He was dressed in a dark t-shirt, and jeans. Middle-aged; tall, broad shoulders, face slightly chiseled, a two-day shadow. Average. But attractively average.

And a wedding ring on his left hand. Fuck. Yes. Fuck.

“Dad bod,” Erica whispered to herself.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re looking for ice cream.” Erica declared, louder, quickly.

“Right,” he said, “That kind right there.” And despite that she’d been staring at that section for God knows how long, she looked through the glass. It was the Häagen-Dazs section. You know, the fancy, expensive kind.

“Which flavor do you like?” she asked, realizing she was asking because she wanted to know more about this decidedly average married man who had suddenly interrupted her shopping.

“That kind. Lemon,” he said, pointing a small container of lemon ice cream on the third aisle down. Erica looked at his hand as he pointed. It was a nice, clean, large, defined, hand. She imagined his arm and hand reaching past her to grab the ice cream, and what his hand would look like stretched out, then holding the pint of ice cream, and how she’d love to watch his forearm stretch with that defined hand at the end of it.

“That’s the kind I like,” he said, looking as if he was imagining himself dipping the spoon into the ice cream, scooping it out, and tasting it. “Sweet, tart, and a little salty.”

“It’s small,” Erica said, looking at the gourmet portion sized container.

He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s small. That is. That portion of ice cream, that one. It is small,” he said, clarifying just in case but with words that were barely catching up to his thoughts.

“So,” Erica said, looking down at the linoleum floor knowing at this point she was full on flirting with a married man. “The ice cream is just for you,” said Erica. “The kind you like,” she adding, quoting him.

“Yeah,” he said, “The lemon is just for me.”

For a minute, Erica entered the same kind of zone the man had found her in, a kind of looking-through rather than looking at. She looked at, or through, Jordan. She imagined that hand reaching for her the same way she’d imagined it reaching for the ice cream.

“Reach for me,” she whispered, her voice lower than before, almost more of a grunt, low enough that she surprised even herself.

“What,” he said again, tiling his head.

“Touch. Me,” she growled, low.

He coughed a bit. “Here?” he whispered, his thick eyebrows jumping, his question more a question of geography than probability. Of course this would happen, whatever “this” was going to be. But, “On aisle 11?” He looked up and down the empty aisle. “The frozen aisle?”

“Yes. The frozen aisle. What? You want to move to the baking goods aisle? Or maybe the meat department.” She paused and smiled at herself, “Where the sausage is.”

He laughed, his face blushing in half a second. “Did you really just say that,” he said, smiling a big smile. She reciprocated with a slight, mischievous smile. “You laughed at your own pun. You’re something else,” he said, “And your smile is something else. I like it.”

“I’m glad you like it. And yes it is. And yes I am. And yes I did. And I did mean.” She stepped closer. “Touch. Me. Here,” and with this she moved her hand down the side of her shirt where she’d been keeping it, safely, and across the mid-section of her jeans and to her crotch, like she was modeling what she wanted him to do, leading him with it. Here do this. Simon Says.

She breathed out a bit when her own hand skirted across the zipper. It was nice to feel even the little bit of pressure from her own hand against her jeans.

The man squinted his eyes a bit, like he was running the scenario through his head, and his eyes flashed, and he looked around, checking up and down the aisles. No one, just the ever-present security cameras overhead. And maybe the cameras helped a bit, if someone was watching. Made it hotter.

“Ok,” he said under his breath, nodding. And he took one step closer, into that personal space where when people step in, there’s normally a sense of danger, like your brain is saying “ok this is not usually where people stand, but ok.” And for Erica that sense of danger was there; who was this stranger, where did he come from, and so on and so forth. But like the cameras, the danger made it more fun.

He was close. She could breath him. She did. She realized she’d been smelling him before. Musky, like body and sweat (it was 95 degrees outside), grassy. Maybe he’d been cutting the grass in the morning. His breath was coffee and mints.

Erica was a foot shorter, and she felt his heavy coffee-mint breath push against her face. She liked it. She wanted more of it. It was fueling the flush that was rising to the top of her cheeks.

Logan, her baby, dropped the ketchup, apparently bored of it, and reached for the stuffed bear beside him. But neither Erica or the stranger looked away. His deep green eyes were locked on her. Looking at her. Or through her?

Had it been two seconds or two minutes since he stepped into her space. It felt like forever, and she couldn’t wait anymore. “Fucking. Touch. Me,” she ordered, and her impatience surprised her (again) as she grabbed his wrist and planted his hand onto the top of her thigh. Her thigh, not her pussy. She wanted him to do it.

His coffee-mint breath felt heavier; it lingered on her forehead, she felt it at the edge of her hairline, and then down through her whole body, making its way to her warming pussy. Was her leg leaning up and in a bit to his hand? Yes, yes it was. She wanted this. He wanted this.

The stranger breathed in, taking in her smell the way she’d taken in his, and moved his hand across her hip and to her pussy, and when he pushed in against her pussy with a thrust she stood firm and pushed back against his hand, and God it felt so good. She could feel herself getting wet, or wetter, and she could his breath accelerating against her check, like it was knocking on a door.

God, she wanted this, and he clearly did too; his face was as red and flush as she felt, and he hadn’t blinked or moved his eyes away from hers except to sneak glances down her v-neck at her ample and flushed hot cleavage. She grinded against his hand. He responded, rubbing up and down, up and down, and she moved her own hand to his crotch.

She felt his thick cock pushing upward against his jeans, reaching towards his belt, and a wetness grazed her wrist as she moved her fingers downward along the shaft. He groaned, taking his eyes off her and rolling back into his head.

God, she wondered and almost breathed aloud, was she going to cum right here? In a grocery store? Would he cum? Of course they would. Cleanup on aisle 11. Cum and wetness all over the floor. Get the mop. She felt like they were close enough now she could predict that he would, within seconds, cum, and that his pants would fill with a thick warm whiteness that would stain his jeans, and the smell of cum would waft up and mix with the grass and sweat and coffee an mints. It was inevitable; she could already smell her own familiar wetness.

“Can I help you two?” and just like when he’d approached her and said hi, this new voice broke the two gropers out of a zone like a loud bell. The voice was shrill, and knowing. It came from a woman in a pantsuit, with a grocery store nametag. A supervisor.

How long had she been there watching? The supervisor’s face was red; was it with anger, or excitement?

Erica looked back and up at the man; was this to be continued? Would they find a dark corner behind the dairy section? But no, it was gone, the spell broken. The man breathed in and stepped back, and Logan started crying on queue, and like before when Erica had broken her gaze from nothingness, the world came back into bland focus. Shit.

“I was just getting this ice cream,” said the man to the grocery store supervisor, his eyes steady and never leaving Erica, him watching the heat move away from her skin and checks back inward into her body. She watched his hand move towards the door and open it, the same hand that had been pushed against her clit a second ago, and God it had felt so good, and he handed the door to his other hand, right in front of her, and the air swooshed around the door right into her skin, and the cold air meeting her hot skin made it all feel hotter, and she wanted it all that much more. She watched through the frosted glass as he slowly grabbed the lemon ice cream. She exhaled. He let the door close, and its seal made a smack sound as it shut.

Fuck, she wanted his hand to smack to her pussy like the seal had to the door.

He breathed out too, releasing, and stealing another glance down Erica’s v-neck as he held the ice cream in his hand by his side.

“Well,” said the grocery store supervisor, “Let me know if you two need any help.”

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/6r6frm/the_frozen_aisle