The Grocery List
Nicole closes her eyes, shuts off her phone, and cracks her foot kicking the sidewalk. What a fuckin’ day.
As if seeing patient after ungrateful patient in the ER wasn’t enough, Matthias—that dirtbag, so much a dirtbag that she can’t even bring herself to think the word “Doctor” in front of his name because he’s so subhuman that giving him a title feels wrong—Matthias picked today to push every button she knew about and some that were previously undiscovered. Politics? Free game! Unwanted advances? Expected, really. He even found a way to have a shitty opinion about sandwich bread, something she didn’t even think was possible. Between the constant open ribs from both her coworker and the unfortunate patients, she’s had about e-fuckin’—nough. She just wants to buy some groceries, get home, and drink herself into a potbellied cherry-lime coma on the couch.
She takes a deep breath, draws in the crisp autumn air, brings her heated pace to a stop. Gotta calm down.
“Go over the grocery list,” she tells herself quietly. “One more time. Christ.”
Mental exercises like that feel like the only way she can find any order in the chaos of her life, these days. She pauses in front of the entrance of Wildacre Park and runs through her needs.
Lettuce (green), bananas (not green), bagged salad, milk (whole preferred but skim is fine), ~margarita mix~, whatever brand of coffee is cheapest, tomato sauce, garlic, a pint of ice cream—fuck it, two, and as much gum as she can physically hold.
There. A little more peace of—nope, a buzzing noise manifests in her left ear. She swats it away, and... there, a little more peace of mind.
Nicole resumes her walk, entering the park. Her favorite grocer is just on the other side, and it’s not too far away from the parking lot. Place is almost empty today, which is weird, but after that last shift she’s fine with not seeing another human being for a while. Besides, it’s a beautiful afternoon. The leaves are red, the breeze is soft, and the sunset paints a beautiful view for her tired eyes. She passes under her favorite tree, closes her eyes again, and thanks the unfeeling cosmos for this moment of respite—...
Nope. There’s that buzzing again. Harsh, brazen, offensive to her weary heart in this otherwise lovely moment. She swats, angry, and misses entirely. Wildacre is filled with wasps on a good day, but she’s surprised to see them out this late at night. Did it wake up hungover and miss the morning boat with the rest of the pollinators? Can wasps even be hungover? She’s already resigned herself to a bleary-eyed midnight Google check when the buzzing comes back.
This time, Nicole’s pissed. She lashes out with every limb she’s got, assaulting the space around her with blow after blow. Her fists are a whirlwind, her hair a trail of righteous fury; her kicks, well, she hasn’t kickboxed in years, but they’re fine too. She’s kicking and punching and shouting and feeling in her heart like a big cartoon dust cloud and, ultimately, not actually connecting with anything. Finally she stops, winded, the battle lost but the war not over.
It’s quiet. It’s uncomfortably quiet. She looks around, hoping she’s defeated her assailant through intimidation if not physical prowess...
Only for a sharp, white-hot pain to sear through her right calf.
She looks down, incredulous. A small stinger is implanted in her skin, surrounded by a blossoming bruise that spikes her anger to astronomical levels. Nearby, but drawing away quickly—the buzzing.
“Ow, you fucking—, stupid little—, vile bug, you bumbling, awful—bitch!” she seethes, fighting through the pain for a good insult and not really succeeding. The bug, unfazed by her harsh words, escapes out into the evening light, hopefully, she thinks, to die.
“Great. Great. Great!", she shouts into the empty park. Impotent rage never really works, but it just feels nice to scream right now. Her thoughts are scattered, her anger unfocused. She’s rearing back for her fourth, most powerful “great!", but instead gives up and lets her hands hang to her sides. It’s finished.
The empty park greets her newfound silence with a silence of its own. She rubs her bruise, which does nothing, then rubs her temples, which helps a little bit. Might as well add a truckload of sweet, sweet chocolate to that grocery mix. It’s a Treat Yourself kinda night.
Actually, though. Hm. Her pants are feeling kinda tight. Might cut back a little.
Nicole runs her hands through her hair and continues her walk. Yeesh, the park really is empty tonight. She’s glad nobody witnessed her furious battle but, on some level, was hoping to have somebody offer their help, or their condolences, or what-have-you. She couldn’t come up with a better meet-cute if she tried—some handsome stranger, sweeping her off her feet, taking her away to a land of bug balm and back rubs and sweet, sweet love—
Damn it, that’s it. Time to download Tinder. Again
Her phone is in her hands before her brain can fight back. She hasn’t had much success with these apps before—a smattering of dates, the occasional one night stand, a surprisingly long friends-with-benefits situation—but nothing too serious. After a string of annoying men and missed opportunities, she wiped them all from her device and never looked back. Matter of fact, she hasn’t even had sex in... weeks? Months? Her perception of time is feeling a little skewed right now, but the point is, it’s been a hot minute. This point sticks out in the forefront of her mind as she watches the download bar fill up, heart missing a beat while her thoughts are lost in reminiscence. Sex is self-care, right? Plus, maybe all the burned calories will help her pants fit right again. She can almost feel her hips testing against the seams, her thighs rubbing achingly against each other as she walks. How did she go a whole day at work like this?
Ah, finally. It’s downloaded. A quick sign-in later and she’s looking at her old profile. Eurgh, these pics haven’t been updated in ages. She swipes through to double check: bridesmaid pic, party pic, pic with friends she hasn’t spoken to in years, pic of her at the hospital just to flex a little, pic of her cat, done. These could really use an update, but she’s been so focused on work that she barely goes out anymore, and besides, she’d rather get this done sooner rather than later. Just like that, a thought comes to mind.
Nicole looks out towards the sunset. Fading beams of light are slipping through the treeline, casting a warm hue across her skin. Really, she thinks to herself, you can’t ask for a better time than this. The camera goes on, and suddenly she’s looking at herself.
Skin looks great. Eyes look tired, but that’s raw, that’s her. She fakes a smile and frowns. Doesn’t look right. She tries a few different angles, but can’t capture anything that feels good—she just looks like a dowdy businesswoman, all curt brown hair and buttoned up shirt and—she pauses. That could be it.
She angles the phone down. Looks around. Against all odds, the park is still empty. A hand reaches up to undo the top button of her shirt, and it’s done. The autumn breeze sends a shiver down her back as it rushes in to the small opening, and her torso feels a little less constricted. Has she been buying shirts too small again? She thought she was doing better about that. No matter—her image in the phone is looking much more, well, good. She smiles. A real smile. Then she looks around again. “Well, just as long as nobody’s here,” she whispers to herself.
Another button undone. Dangerous. But God, her tits look great, gleaming all soft and inviting in the warm evening light, a few drops of sweat from her previous efforts giving them such a tantalizing sheen that she actually smiles in spite of herself. Then she tilts that angle just a little bit deeper.
Snap. The picture’s taken, uploaded to her profile, and sent off into the web to tempt the lonely, horny masses. It almost looks like—oh, what did her sister call it—a thirst trap? But damn it, it feels right.
There was a certain point in her career where she stopped feeling, well, hot. The patients don’t care how she looks, and any amount of skin is just ammunition for leering coworkers, so somewhere along the way she just gave up. Sweatpants-wearing, ice-cream-pounding, no-makeup-wearing layabouts only existed in movies and fantasies until her first year on the job—now, it’s just her average weekend.
Speaking of makeup, she should really add it to that list. Speaking of the list, she should really go through it again. Her mind is racing with expectation now that the possibility of sex is on the line, and she really needs to ground herself.
Deep breaths. One more time.
Lettuce (green), bananas (not green), cucumber (long), lots of tequila, cum (whole + warm preferred but skim is fine too), two jelly-filled donuts, new panties, two pints of ice cream—fuck it, three, makeup, gum, and something long and deep between her thighs—
Hm. Is she missing something? Garlic, maybe? Her thoughts are clouded. She’s had a drier spell than she thought. Christ, she’s horny, and her too-tight outfit isn’t clearing her head. She feels itchy around the place she got stung, constricted in her clothes, hips swaying and thighs rubbing tight when she walks, semi-freed chest rocking a bit more with each step. She feels like every part of her body is trapped and needs out it need out it needs out—
Frustrated, she looks around again (pointless, but it never hurts to double check) before quickly finagling her bra off and whipping it into the bushes. It did wonders for her chest back there, sweet thing, but its time has passed. Immediately, she feels refreshed. Her tits hang free in her shirt, filling out the top—really filling out the top, she thinks to herself, why did she even needs a bra when her boobs are nearly bursting through her neckline as is?—nipples cold and hard and poking noticeably through the fabric. She sighs, happy, but remembers the problem that led to all of this—she’s horny.
Too horny. Weirdly horny. She hasn’t been this horned up since, what, college? And even then, it took a few drinks to get her there. Right now, though, she can feel her heart racing and her standards dropping. She swipes mindlessly through the first few men on Tinder and hopes one of them will answer, fast. What’s got her so worked up? Is she sick? She briefly considers calling Matthias. He’d know, and besides, maybe she could hate-fuck him back into a state of normalcy for them both. He’d be into it, probably, and she’d at least be in a state of mind where she could think calmly and clearly for a few seconds. Maybe she tells him to meet her back in the clean room: it’s air-conditioned, free of germs (not all germs, Matthias would be there, of course, but free enough), and, best of all, empty tonight. She could say she was stung by something strange and horrible and her entire body was aching, fighting for release, and he’d be just about to make a snippy comment before she was on him, pushing him against the wall, pants off, legs parted, riding atop him, wailing in angry furious ecstasy, laughing at the confused but accepting facial expressions on her coworker, fucking, rutting, and then...
And then...
Hm. That got away from her. Nicole needs to think, but, God, she just can’t.
She takes a hand away from a newly-freed nipple, wonders how it got there, puts it back. She rubs it, slowly at first then quickly, quickly, reaches a shaking hand up to her shirt and rips it open, buttons ripping and falling everywhere, heaving chest flying free into the cool evening air—why can’t she see her feet? She files that thought for later as waves of pleasure rock her body, once, twice, and again when she brings her other nipple into the mix. Her hands fly across her chest, rubbing tight and hard and passionately across her roiling flesh. She grabs a handful of tit and moans blissfully as that handful becomes two handfuls, as those two handfuls become something more, titflesh spilling between her fingertips as her breasts blossom and burst and grow, yes, grow, and her brain says that shouldn’t be scientifically possible but her hands say fuck, we’ll take it! And they clamp tight against slowly growing areolae and pinch hard against her nipples and she almost comes right then and there but to the frustration of every fiber of her being she doesn’t, and holy shit she really needs to buy bigger pants.
She brings her hands away from her nipples for a few horrible seconds and reaches for her waistline, all sense of propriety forgotten, struggling harder than she ever has against hips that have never felt this wide, against an ass that has never brought this much resistance but there it is the pants are off and, after a moment’s hesitation, the panties too, off into the underbrush, and her body is finally free. She breathes out, short, sharp, eyes closed in bliss and heat, grabs unexpected mounds of ass cheek and lets them go, sending a jiggle coursing through her lower body that’ll never truly leave. She runs wandering hands across her rapidly expanding rear end, up hips that’ll never take another un-swayed step, back up to her unrelentingly pleasurable nipples and down, down, down, and before she knows it she’s draped across a park bench, tits blocking her vision so she’s navigating solely through touch, one hand rubbing furiously at her clit as one no two no three no four fingers rock in and out of her deeply wet va—no, that doesn’t feel right, of her pussy, in and out and in and out until finally she lets out a long and high scream of overwhelming pleasure and comes to an orgasm that rocks her entire body so hard it very nearly knocks her out.
The park is quiet. Cicadas cry in the distance. She brings her hand out of her pussy, pauses for a moment, licks it clean, and slowly, softly, begins fondling her breasts again. The heat between her legs, the feeling in her heart, the alarm bell screaming out from her inside her soul that her brains have not been fucked out yet, ma’am, so go out there and screw yourself silly post-haste, it’s not quite gone, but it’s subsided, for now.
“Finally,” she whispers, voice calm. “Finally. Now I can think.”
What was she missing from the grocery list again? She knows she missed something last time she went through it. One more time, then, just to make sure.
Lettuce (green), bananas (not green), dick (long), as much alcohol as they’ve got, cum (warm, so much, dripping down her chin), two filled holes at once, a kiss or two (just some sugar to balance out the salt), three pints of ice cream—fuck it, four, and one each of: the heat of being rammed from behind, hands grasping a shopping cart, tits rocking back and forth with the force of it all; the feeling of being pushed up against a wall in the back room, tongue deep down someone’s throat, their arms pushing her up and down, sliding wet and warm across as much cock as she can fit inside her; the soft moans of a stranger as she rips their pants off and squeezes her massive tits around their rock-hard cock, sliding up and down and slowly, tantalizingly, looking them in the eye as they’re being titfucked, face laying clear for all to see that, yes, sir, there’s much more where that came from; and, finally, the soft grunts of engagement as she moves aside a man’s shopping cart, backs her ass into him, swivels her hips and works her body, grinding against his growing member, tossing her hair aside and giving him the ghost of a smile until his hands grip her hips, rip off her skirt (what good are skirts for if not being ripped off?), fumble with his jeans, and slowly, she is realizing that that calm in her thoughts was not the end but the eye of the storm because she can not think straight and god god god god GOD she needs something deep inside right this damned minute!
Hands? No, her wrists are tired, and besides, she’s looking for something fresh. Still, she rubs her clit gently as she looks around for some new option to facilitate her pleasure. Her mind dances around the word, but she knows what she’s looking for: dick, peen, cock, so many names, none of them matter, all she needs is one right now. Seeing so many in her medical career left her desensitized to them for a while—they were just part of the body, same as anything else, some distant part of her remembers. But now she finds herself wistfully thinking of all the ones she gave up, wondering why she ever got rid of Tinder when a whole host of dicks are out there, waiting to enter her body and mouth and ass and spray all over and—holy shit, is that someone else in the park?
He... God, he looks the way she feels. Eyes wild, hands shaking, and, she belatedly notices, but how could she not: he is fully naked. Chest wide, rippling muscles all the way down to, well. As he swivels his gaze towards her she finds her own gaze falling lower, lower, past a bruise blossoming across his leg that some part of her mind vaguely recognizes and then forgets, to what has to be the largest dick she’s ever seen. It’s weighty, thick, a firehose, a machine, a tool to be used and used again, and before she knows it she’s taking trembling steps towards it, thighs tight and hot, tits swaying and calling, screaming out to be groped and rubbed and sucked and fondled by this strange man, and he’s coming towards her too, holding his head. He might be looking at her eyes, he might be looking anywhere, she doesn’t care: Nicole is laser focused on one thing and one thing only. They draw near and before she knows it she’s on the ground, crawling, tits nearly dragging along the sidewalk, ass in the air but facing the wrong direction but it doesn’t matter, she has a mouth for a reason. Finally, it’s in grasping distance and not long after it is being grasped, rubbed, gently, caressing it like the work of art it truly is.
“I-I”, stammers the man. He looks swollen, unsure of his body, his strength. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Shut the fmrph urph,” Nicole responds, mouth too full of dick to explain to this man how much she doesn’t care about his life story.
She rides her lips all along his cock, testing her throat, finding its limit, which exists, yes, but is still deep enough that something snaps in the man’s voice, his stammering replaced entirely with a low rumbling moan of pleasure. She bobs her head up and down, slowly at first, then abandoning all pretense as she rocks quickly, with hunger, the sloppy noise of suction and gagging and moaning the only sounds in this otherwise quiet park. Blearily, she remembers she has hands, and puts them to proper use fondling his swollen balls and rubbing whatever exposed bits of cock aren’t otherwise occupied by her soft, ripe lips. For his part, he seems to have recovered from his confusion and uses his own hands to paw at her hair, grasp at the side of her head, and pull it forcefully down across his member, pushes it, pulls it back again, and for Nicole’s part she is content to be pushed and pulled in this manner because it means she can take more and more of this... this creature, into her throat, and spend what little bits of mental effort remain on her own pleasure. She takes her hands away and digs them deep into her own pussy. Masturbation is self-care, right?
The added noise shocks the man before her, as if he was so bodily and mentally focused on facefucking the woman before him that he completely forgot he had other options. He disengages Nicole from his cock, ignores her disappointed face, reaches down, and picks her up. Despite all those curves, he lifts her like she’s as light as a feather, her hand grasping for one more touch before falling to her side in shock as he places both hands onto her supple ass and squeezes, lifting her up and close and parting her legs and taking a moment, just a moment, to feel the heat of her needy and aching pussy above the head of his dick before holding her tight and lowering her down.
She screams, first at the, at the weight of it all, the filling of a hole that she never knew before was this empty, then at the pleasure her body responds with as the man’s dick finds its way into her. She wants, needs this, and drags her nails tight across his back as he squeezes her rear end just a little bit tighter. He lowers her, tests her, finds her limit, which exists, yes, but it is still deep enough that something snaps in her voice, her loud moans replaced with a quick, high pitched oh! And then, they’re off. She grinds her hips against him, getting as much movement as she possibly can as he pounds and pounds and pounds between her thighs, her tits pressed so firmly into his upper chest that they can’t bounce, really, but merely jiggle rhythmically with the fast beat of their fucking. He holds her close, bounces her up and down on his throbbing penis, digs his hands so far into the cushion of her ass it leaves marks, runs his tongue across her neck, the tops of her tits, until finally he backs up just enough to let her breasts go free and brings one swollen nipple into his mouth, running his tongue up and down across it and eliciting even more moans of pleasure from the breathless woman before him.
It feels like everything Nicole did before, sex? Coitus? Making love? All of it feels so meaningless compared to this, this rutting, this animalistic fucking. She feels whole. She feels at peace. She feels like she finally understands RnB. She feels like she could never get tired of this, and, in truth, she never will.
He grunts, deeper this time, and she knows the end is coming. She can feel it, just as she can feel the waves of pleasure coursing through her as she approaches her own climax, just as she can feel the way his breath catches as his hands pull her tight and time hangs frozen for a moment, just a moment, until he comes deep deep inside her, just as she can feel her body react in joy and orgasm and passion and heat, as all of this and more fills her mind and roils over it and overwhelms it and, finally, finally, finally, she closes her eyes, shouts in pleasure, and blacks out.
The cashier grunts once, twice, and is finished. He disengages with a blurry, dazed look in his eyes. Poor guy looks like he’s about to burst out of his uniform, newfound muscles straining against buttons that are fighting to hold on like their life depends on it. He wants to think, wants to wonder why this shift has been so weird, wants to figure out what it was that stung him earlier, but thinking is hard, and besides, just a few seconds ago there was a mouth wrapped around his cock and giving him deep, sweet head from right beneath the counter. No, there’s no point to thinking right now. Instead his mouth acts on impulse, on autopilot, voice low and distant.
“Did you need anything else today, ma’am?” he asks the woman beneath him.
Nicole happily wipes up a few remaining drips of cum from her chin and sticks a long-nailed finger in her mouth, licking it clean and swallowing, a blissful smile on her face.
“No thank you!” she says brightly, then furrows her brow, eyes trained on a nametag that has somehow held onto his bulging torso. She frowns, moves her lips a little, then smiles again and pats the haul of ice cream in her cart.
“No thanks, Ted! I’ll see you next week!”
And, with a wink and a toss of her long blonde hair, she begins her long journey back home.