The Frozen Aisle [FM] [Teasing, grocery store]

“Hi.”

Julia 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. Brain naps are nice.

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

“Hi,” the source of the voice said, a little growled but peppy.

Hmm. The voice was a he. She looked up. Oh. The voice had a nice smile.

Julia looked from his face to his shopping cart, because quietly examining the contents of other peoples’ grocery carts is what we 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.

Julia looked over at her own shopping cart because comparing ourselves to others is what we do. Similarly common stuff, just less of it. Paper towels. Vegetables. Fruit. Hummus. Rosé. Oh my god. So bach-y.

“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. “Dad bod,” Julia whispered to herself.

“Sorry, what?” he asked.

“You’re looking for ice cream.” Julia declared, louder, recovering.

“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 like it was the first time. She was the in Häagen-Dazs section. The fancy, expensive kind. God there was a ton of ice cream in grocery stores these days.

“Which flavor do you like?” she asked, realizing she was asking because she wanted to know more about this decidedly average 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. Julia 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. A little salty.”

“It’s,” Julia puckered her lips as she examined the container, “small.”

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

“So,” Julia 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 Julia. “That one there. The kind you like,” she added, quoting him.

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

For a minute, Julia entered the same kind of zone the man had found her in, a kind of looking through rather than looking at. She looked at, though, this ice-cream shopping man that stood, tall, in the fancy pants ice cream section. Then she imagined his hand reaching for her the same way she’d imagined it reaching for the ice cream. Grabbing it, holding it all in the palm of his hand.

She wanted to be his expensive lemon 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, tilting his head, still holding the ice cream.

“Touch. Me,” she growled, low, stepping forward.

He coughed a bit, covered his mouth. “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. “It wasn’t even a good pun. You laughed at your own bad pun,” he said, ” You’re something else. 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, less safely, like she was modeling what she wanted him to do, leading him with it.

Here do this. Simon Says: grab your lemon flavored boutique ice cream.

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. Julia’s eye looked up at the cameras too. If someone was watching, that made this all even hotter.

“Ok,” he said under his breath, nodding, deciding. 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 strangers should stand.” And for Julia that sense of danger was definitely there, because who was this stranger, where did he come from, and so on and so forth. But like the possibility of someone watching this all on security camera, the danger made it more fun.

He was close. She could breathe him in. She did. She realized she’d been smelling him this whole time. His scent was musky, like body and sweat (it was balmy outside), and grassy. Maybe he’d been cutting the grass in the morning. His breath was coffee and mints.

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

An announcement came over the speakers. A car in a fire lane. But neither Julia or the stranger looked away. His deep green eyes were locked on her. Looking at her. Or was he also looking through her? Was he zoned out in her? She hoped so. She wanted to be in his zone, be his zone.

Julia realized that time had passed and she’d been standing next to him for a while, but had 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 waist. Her waist, not her pussy. She wanted him to want it, to be the one moving that ice-cream grabbing hand down to the ice creaminess of her increasingly wet pussy.

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. Of course. She wanted this. He wanted this.

The stranger breathed in, taking in her smell the way she’d taken in his. She wondered for a brief moment what he was smelling, and then he 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 she breathed in deep; they were breathing each other’s breath now. God, it felt so good, the pressure of his hand. She could feel herself getting wet, or wetter, or the wettest, and she could feel his breath accelerating against her check, exhaling more coffee and mint out. It was like his breath was knocking at the door of her flushed tingling checks.

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

He pushed in closer. 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 down along the shaft. His precum was leaking through his jeans. He groaned, taking his eyes off her where they rolled 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? Would they cum at the same time? Of course, they would. Cleanup on aisle 11. Cum and pussy juice all over the floor. Tell the new guy to get the mop.

She felt like they were in such close proximity that she could predict with utmost certainty that he would, within seconds, cum, and that his pants would fill with a thick warm whiteness that would stain his jeans, and that 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 mingling with his. God. This was going to happen.

And then, “Can I help you two?” and just like when the voice had approached her and said hi, this new voice broke the two gropers out of a zone like a loud bell.

The voice was high-pitched, and it sounded knowing. It came from down the aisle, a professional looking woman wearing the grocery store shirt and nametag. A supervisor, probably.

The supervisor’s face was red; but why? With what? Anger? Or excitement? How long had she been there watching? Julia pondered for a second: maybe she’d been watching on the cameras and came to get a closer look. Julia would’ve if she were her. Hell yes.

Julia looked back and up at the man. She stepped back, but it felt more like falling back. Out. Out of the zone. His zone. Her zone. Their zone. Out of the reach of those long, ice-cream-grabbing arms. She searched his eyes. Would they find a dark corner behind the dairy section? The sausage section? Their cars? Anywhere? She tried to ask with her eyes.

But no, it was gone, the spell was broken. The man breathed in, this time slowly and calculated, and he also stepped back. Like before when Julia had broken her gaze out of nothingness with a word, the world of the grocery store came back into bland, fluorescent-lit focus.

Shit.

Julia sighed. Probably for the best. She needed a few more things. Some pasta. Some curry sauce. This man’s body against hers. Sigh.

“We were both just getting the same ice cream,” said the man, explaining loudly enough so that the grocery store supervisor could hear. His eyes were steady, never leaving Julia. She imagined he could see her heat move away from her pussy and hardened nipples and back into her body. He handed her the small quart of lemon ice cream and she took it, her finger briefly brushing his. She held the small pint of ice cream like it was a gift. It was soft on the outside now, a little melted. She was fine with that.

She looked up from her ice cream and watched him move his hand move towards the door, open it, the same hand that had been pushed against her clit a second ago, and God that had felt so good, and he handed the door to his other hand, right in front of her, like he was teasing her on purpose, and the freezing air swooshed around the door right into her skin, and she closed her eyes. The cold meeting her hot skin made all of it, the whole thing that had just happened, feel hotter, like ice on fire, and she wanted what was just about to happen but didn’t all that much more.

Her nipples, previously hot but now suddenly struck by the cold air, hardened into ice. She felt them pushing, straining against her bra and her t-shirt.

She watched through the tinted glass as he slowly grabbed another $7 lemon ice cream. She exhaled. His hand released the door, and it swung shut, its seal making a smack as it the metal frame.

Smack. Fuck yes, that sound. She wanted his hand to smack her pussy like the seal had to the door. She imagined the sound again. Smack.

He breathed out too, stealing another glance down Julia’s v-neck as he held the ice cream in his hand by his side. His hand must be so cold by now. She still wanted its hard coldness on her warm pussy.

“I need to get more groceries,” he said in his low voice, smiling that smile, and he started to step away. Julia watched him turn, he looked good in those jeans, and walk down the aisle.

Damn.

“Well, alright then,” said the grocery store supervisor as she turned to leave the aisle, “Let me know if you two need any help.”

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/9ayyjx/the_frozen_aisle_fm_teasing_grocery_store