Sep 062006
 

Mom was being a pain in my ass again. Normally, I could have brushed it off, but I was walking into work, and she just refused to hang up. I knew I should never have let her buy me this cell phone.

“Paul, you’re a grown man of 24! You can’t be a stockboy all your life!”

“Mom, I don’t plan to. I’m just in a phase right now. I’m finding myself.”

“Bullshit!” my mother screamed. “You’ve been doing this for two years now! Do you really want to live in an apartment you share with two other guys?”

I shrugged as I stood outside the grocery store. “They’re nice guys. If you came over, you would see how friendly they are.”

“I could never do that,” my mother said. “It would be like condoning your lifestyle.”

“Mom, I’m not gay.”

“Sometimes I wish you were, then maybe I could understand why my boy is satisfied with bagging groceries for the rest of his life.”

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Mr. Angles, the day-shift manager, spotted me and motioned for me to come in. He was frowning like he expected me to give him lip, but I gave him a big thumbs-up instead. I’d rather be in there than listen to my mom complain about my job. Sometimes, I think I should just tell her what I do, but she would probably have a heart attack.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if there were a chance for promotion,” my mom said. “Do you think you could become a manager or something?”

I laughed. “Mom, I’m not allowed on the cash registers. I don’t think I’ll be manager anytime soon. Oops, my boss is waving at me. Got to go, love you, bye.”

“Paul, I need you to stock the vegetable aisle.”

“No problem.”

“Good, good. Before you do that, I need you to mop up something leaking from the freezers near the milk. I don’t know what it is, but it’s green.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Good, good. One last thing: We have a slut scheduled to arrive today. The code phrase will be, ‘I am looking for a special kind of sausage.’ ”

I grinned. “Yes, sir, I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

“Good, good. Just make sure you clean up whatever’s leaking out of the freezer section first.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. My cock was already getting hard, but I knew I had to clean up that mess first. I headed to the back of the store, stopping once to help a senior reach some spaghetti on the top shelf. The old man got cranky when I gave him the wrong noodles, and he gave me a short speech on how the youth of today don’t listen to instructions. I let him rant as I got him his noodles. I even acted like I was listening, so he got the satisfaction of educating a poor idiot like me. Some of the other stockboys get upset when they get chewed out by customers, but it doesn’t bother me. For all I know, yelling at me was the best part of that old fart’s day.

Cleaning out the mop bucket was another lesson in humility. The night shift guys never clean out the bucket like they are supposed to. The water was pitch-black, and all sorts of things were floating in it. I had to dump the water into a drain and then sweep up the crap that collected on the drain mesh. You’d think a grocery store would just have dirt from people walking, but apparently, people also drop candy wrappers, bottlecaps, wood splinters and, somehow, French fries. Where the hell do the French fries come from? In the two years I’ve worked here, I’ve never seen someone in the store eating fries.

It can be pretty gross to have to smell the dirty water and clean up the soggy garbage, but it always makes me think, too. I don’t know where the French fries comes from, and regular customers don’t know we have a back room with an inflatable mattress in it. The grocery store is full of mysteries even though hundreds of people come through every day. Kind of neat.

Speaking of mysteries, the mess by the freezer was really weird. It was green and very sticky. I had to scrub with the mop to get any of it up. While I was scrubbing, I thought long and hard about all kinds of things: How do freezers work? Is the green goo somehow important to keeping the freezer running? Should we be saving the goo to put back in the freezer? Why does hot water work best for mopping?

“Excuse me,” someone said, and I looked up to see a cute college girl who couldn’t be older than 20. She had nice brown hair and a pierced nose that her parents probably didn’t know about yet. I made a short silent prayer to God that this was the slut Mr. Angles had told me about.

“How can I help you?” I said in my best stockboy voice.

“This chicken alfredo meal says it should be microwaved but all I have is a hotplate. Will that work, too?”

Damn, she wasn’t a slut, she was a snackcracker. Oh, well. That was almost as good. A snackcracker is a college kid trying to figure out to keep from starving without eating out all the time. They just assume that because I work in a grocery store, I know how to make everything we stock. Like there was a cooking exam when I applied to bag groceries! The poor girl didn’t know that I’d never used three of the burners on my stove at home. That’s OK; I can fake it real good.

I told her that her hotplate would burn the chicken alfredo, even though I didn’t know if it would or not. Acting ten times smarter than I am, I steered her toward some other boxed meals that I thought she can cook without melting her food. She listened to everything I said, and her pretty hair kept falling in her face so she had to shake her head back. My cock was swollen, but I played it cool like I was the stockboy chef king. She was smiling, and she even laughed at one of my lame cooking jokes. I knew better, but I went for it.

“So, if you like, I can come over and help you cook it. I could give you some pointers.”

She paused, and the look in her pretty brown eyes told me she was trying to think of a way to let me down easy. That’s all right. I was a bit older than her, and I was a stranger. What depressed me was how fast she made the decision. As soon as I asked, her eyes looked me up and down, taking in the green grocery-store apron and the no-longer-as-young-as-I-used-to-be wrinkles around my eyes. When girls have older-man fantasies, they don’t fantasize about the guy having the same career as their younger brother.

“Aww, thanks, but I have a boyfriend,” she lied.

“Oh, well. Good luck with dinner,” I said. I didn’t mention that the meals she bought were only single servings. Just because she shot me down was no reason to act like a dick.

I headed over to the vegetable aisle and opened the box that was waiting for me there. It was an easy job, and I let my hands get to work. All I had to do was pull the older cans to the front and put the newer cans behind them. It’s called “first in/first out,” and I like it. If a can didn’t get bought last week, it gets moved to the front right where someone can snatch it. It’s the senior-can pension plan, and I think it’s sweet in a way. Imagine being a can of green beans that no one bought for years? That would be depressing.

I spotted the slut as soon as she came around the corner of the aisle. She had that embarrassed look that so many of them have. Our eyes met, and her face colored with a blush. I could have stood up and walked to her, but that would have been too easy. I let her come to me, and as she did, I checked her out from head to toe. It’s not polite to stare at the customers, but when it’s a slut, you can relax and gawk all you want.

The slut was an older woman. I’m a bad judge of ages, so I can really only tell if they are legal, older than my mom or older than me. She fell into the “older than me” category, which was cool. I have had far older in my job, so I don’t mind a girl with a few wrinkles.

She had blond hair, the same color as our best-selling hair dye and cut in that popular Atlanta shoulder-length fashion. Her sleek black leather jacket cost more than what all our cashiers combined made in a month. Dark gray slacks covered her legs but were tight enough to show she jogged every morning, hit the gym on Thursdays and knew the low-carb diet backwards and forwards.

It was her shoes, though, that really caught my eye. I’m the kind of guy who wears the same pair of sneakers for three years. It was my roommate Neil who explained to me that you should really run a hose over your shoes from time to time to get the mud off. I’m not a shoe fan, by any means, but even I could tell this woman had some awesome expensive high heels. They were dark red with gold glints. The leather was printed with swirls and all sorts of fancy patterns that I couldn’t begin to explain. When she walked, the heels clicked on the cheap tiles like they were clucking their disapproval of having to walk in a grocery store. Just looking at those shoes told me that this lady hadn’t gone grocery shopping in years, and if she had, she went to the fancy natural food store downtown.

This lady was so far out of my league that I got as hard as two-week-old bread.

“Excuse me,” she said. I looked up at her and said nothing. I did notice that she was wearing the slut necklace, so I knew I could drag this out as much as I liked.

She looked up and down the aisle before continuing. “I’m looking for a special kind of sausage.”

It was too low of a whisper for my tastes. “I’m sorry; can you say that louder?”

Her face blushed to a red as dark as her lipstick. “I’m looking for a special kind of sausage,” she said, louder this time.

I stood up and reached for her necklace. She flinched a little, and her eyes darted to either side, obviously worried that some customer would come by and see a lowly stockboy touching her jewelry. Her necklace was made of the same fine gold all of them were, but it was the charms that were important. My fingers identified the charms by touch, and I knew all her fetishes and secrets. One of them was humiliation.

Cool.

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to come with me,” I said as I grabbed her harshly by the arm. Her mouth dropped in shock as I firmly led her to the back of the store. We passed a woman with two kids, and the kids didn’t take three seconds to ask their mom what the blond lady was in trouble for. I was tempted to give a stern speech about the dangers of shoplifting, but that might have been pushing it. Besides, I had a slut to fuck, and I was sure the mom would explain to her kids.

We went into the back storeroom, and the slut was freaking out a little.

“Please, you have to be more careful. My husband is an important man, and if one of his friends saw me, it could cost him a lot of money.“

“Oh, shut up,” I said. “Your friends do not shop here. You don’t shop here. No one here knows you, your husband or anyone from your country club.”

She nodded. “I guess you’re right. My name is —“

My hand covered her mouth, and I squeezed a little harder than I should have. “You have no name. You’re just my slut today.”

Her eyes widened, and I couldn’t help noticing that every single eyelash was perfect and delicately shaped. Damn, what did rich people do all day?

I dragged her further, past the official breakroom, and unlocked the private break room the stockboys get to use. A single fluorescent light revealed a crappy little room furnished with boxes, a garbage can, a tiny microwave and a lot of empty soda cans stacked on the mini fridge. It was the well-used air mattress on the floor, though, that made the slut groan.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned.

It made me wonder again why the sluts come to us. Mr. Angles never told us where the women come from, and none of the other stockboys had any clue. Obviously, they belonged to some sort of club or secret group, but that didn’t explain why they came to this dirty room in a cheap grocery store. It sure as hell wasn’t because someone had decided that low-income guys needed to get some action.

Did the women come here to get laid? Were they sent here to be punished? I couldn’t help feeling that we were a piece in a grand scheme we’d never get to see. Oh, well, that’s the way things are, I guessed. It’s not like I get to follow a shopper home and find out what she did with the three apples and the giant can of chicken soup.

The slut looked around the room as I locked the door. The low-hanging fluorescent light was slowly baking us, so I took off my apron and my shirt. The slut looked at me as I got undressed, and she took off her leather jacket without being told. For some reason, that angered me.

I walked over to her and pushed her up against a shelf of boxes. She cried out as I pulled her blouse over her head and tossed it to the floor. Her bra was a lacy white thing that lifted her tanned breasts. I pulled at the material till one of her breasts spilled out, and then I leaned down and took one long, satisfying bite. Her nipple was already hard for me, and I enjoyed sinking my teeth into her soft flesh. I couldn’t help noticing that her breasts had no tan lines. Did she sunbathe topless next to her pool? I knew a woman as wealthy as she was had a pool. All of the rich sluts did.

The slut squirmed while I nibbled her tits. At one point, she put her hand on my head, and I slapped her hand away pretty quick. Nothing disturbs a good nipple biting like a woman’s hands trying to guide you. When her hand was away, I went back to work. I squeezed her tits, bit them, licked and sucked while the slut stood there and took it.

When I was done, her breasts were bright red from all my attention. She actually whimpered when I moved my hands away from her tits. The slut arched her back and offered her chest to me, and I thought about the snackcracker from earlier who had turned me down for a date. Funny how one girl will turn you down and another begs for it.

I ignored her offer and grabbed her arm again. I brought her a few short feet over to a box of canned corn sitting on the ground. The top of the box was stained with tears, but she wouldn’t know that. I always let the slut find out for herself what the stains are.

“Take off your pants,” I said.

The slut nodded and gently took off her expensive shoes. It was funny to watch. She took her slacks off and just tossed them on the floor, but her shoes she carefully set aside on one of the shelves. There wasn’t any underwear to remove, and I can’t say that surprised me much. Not many of the sluts bother to wear any.

Her ass was as well taken care of as the rest of her. Her legs were firm but not too muscular, and a tan covered her entire body. Even her cunt was well-manicured with a tightly shaven patch of light-brown hair. I wondered about her husband. Did she keep herself looking so good so she could stay his trophy wife? Or did she work out, tan and eat right for the people like me who get to use her? Either way, I was damn glad she did.

“Put your shoes back on,” I said. She looked a little confused by my command, but she did as I ordered. Hell, I was confused myself, but I was going on a whim. Those shoes were like my work apron: It served no purpose, but it reminded everyone of what I am.

When she got her shoes back on, I pushed her head down till she was bent over the box and was holding herself up with her hands. I took my belt off, and the sound of it sliding through the loops was really loud in the small space. The slut actually shivered at the sound. I folded the belt over once so I could get a good grip on it.

I didn’t give her a warning as I cracked the belt over her ass. She screamed, but that was OK, no one was going to hear us back here. I paused long enough for her to realize that, and then I hit her again. She screamed again and then tried to stand up. I grab her neck and forced her back down. Sheesh, her necklace clearly stated that she could handle a whipping, and she was acting like it was too much? Rich people — they have no work ethic.

My hand stayed on her neck as I whipped her ass good. When I first learned about my slut duties as a stockboy, I was worried that I wouldn’t give a good whipping. I rented a few porno videos that had spanking in them and tried to learn a thing or two. What I saw made me laugh. There were all these women slinking around in latex while some sort of chanting music was going on. The spanks were in slow motion, and the girls arched and writhed as if they came with each hit. Whipping isn’t like that. It’s about someone bent over and having the holy hell beat out of her for the bad things she’s done. I don’t know what this slut had done to deserve it, but the charm on her necklace said she needed to be beaten. For me, that was good enough.

That didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself. She had a really tight ass, and I liked the way it would clench after every lash of my belt. Her legs quivered as she struggled to stay bent over, and they quivered even more when I laid a few lashes across the top of her thighs. There’s something about the sound of a belt landing on a woman’s ass that makes me feel proud. It’s like the sound of a price scanner or the sound of opening boxes of items to be stocked. They are all sounds of working hard and doing a job right.

After a good long time, I stopped and put my belt back on. I put my hand on her ass, and the welts were scorching hot. The slut sobbed when my hand grabbed her bottom. There were new tear stains on the box of cans.

“Lay down on the ground,” I said. I unzipped my pants and stepped out of them. The slut got down her hands and knees and started to lay down on her stomach.

“Roll over onto your back,” I told her. She hesitated, but she turned over and her very sore ass pressed into the matteress. Her eyes clenched shut as she screamed. Tears of pain made her makeup etch trails down her face. I watched her lip quiver as I rolled a condom over my cock.

“Oh, God, it hurts,” she whimpered.

“Ever been fucked by a grocery boy before?” I asked.

Indignation replaced the pain that was on her face. “Never,” she said.

I smiled as I got down between her legs. My hands grabbed her ankles and split her legs wide. She winced at my tight grip and swallowed hard. Despite the disgust on her face, her cunt was sparkling from how wet she was. It reminded me of the water-mist sprayers we use on the vegetable display. Funny what you think of right before you enter a woman.

My cock slid into her. She groaned as I opened her, but my groan was louder. Christ, she was wet, hot, tight, smooth and fucking good all at the same time. I sunk my full length into her, and my weight just made the pain of her ass all the greater. The slut’s squirming and screaming just made her pussy even tighter.

The slut closed her eyes. I placed my hands on both of her tits to support myself as I fucked her. She whimpered from the pain, but she kept her eyes shut and her head turned. I guess I could have felt offended that she didn’t want to look at me, but that was OK. My cock was in her cunt, her tits were in my hands and her mouth was making the sexiest sounds. I certainly didn’t need any more than that.

We fucked. In that tiny room with the too-bright light and the sweat pouring from our bodies, we fucked for a good long time. Some guys like to think of baseball to keep them from shooting off too fast. One of my fellow stockboys says he tries to price every item on aisle seven in his head when he fucks. I don’t need any of that. I just think about the senior citizens who criticize everything I do, the hot shoppers who never say yes when I ask them out and the endless spills and messes that sloppy customers leave for us.

I looked down at the slut underneath me, and there was no way I was going to bust my nut too soon. The slut owed me. I wasn’t going to climax till I was damn good and ready.

After a while, the slut’s whimpers turned into groans, which turned into short gasps and finally a long screaming orgasm.

I kept fucking.

She came again and this time grabbed my back and sunk her fingernails into me. Her legs wrapped around me and I felt her expensive shoes dig into my ass. Long scratches dragged down my back while she shuddered and climaxed.

I kept fucking.

The slut opened her eyes and looked at me. Now, instead of disgust, she was looking at me with submission. She was exhausted. The fucking, the whipping and the humiliation had wiped her out. If I’d brought in my coworkers, she would have fucked everyone without complaint. For one brief moment in time, I owned this slut and she knew it.

I pulled out of her and ripped the condom off. She lifted herself to an upright position and tilted her head back. My hand jacked my cock till my semen flew onto her tits in long white strands. I saw it in a porn movie once, and it makes me feel like a superstar every time one of these sluts takes my money shot. The seed stuck to her tits like some weird biological price sticker.

“Put your clothes back on,” I said. The slut nodded and obeyed. She didn’t bother to wipe me off her chest before she put her bra on. None of the sluts ever do. After she put the rest of her clothes on, she took out her vanity mirror and cleaned up her makeup. I don’t get the chance to see women do this very often, so I watched. In about five minutes, she looked just like she had when she first came to me. For some reason, that bothered me.

“One more thing to do,” I said. “Go buy four boxes of condoms, the largest boxes we have. Don’t get anything else, and get in the longest line you see.”

The look of fear was back on her face. “Four boxes? Why?”

I bluffed a little. “You’ll find out. Make sure you do exactly what I ask. We’ll know if you don’t.”

The end.

  7 Responses to “Fiction: Grocery Dom”

  1. I love it. Now, next time I’m in the grocery store, I‘ll be checking out the employees in addition to the bottles and the produce!

  2. Class warfare at its best….yummmm….

  3. Oh man, I love that.

    *I* need a special kind of sausage!

  4. wordslut- Grocery boys are standing by as we speak.

    Larosa- It does seem like a happier way to settle class differences

    AAG- Yes, I think you do :)

  5. Just found this through Sugasm. Wow. Very hot! I love the necklace idea.

    bella

  6. Most interesting… Glad I found your site..fellow ATLr…nice story still have my Kroger apron from my first job…maybe I should find my own slut…

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