Mother Nature Knows Best

"I want to try something new," she'd said.

His idea: "Let's make you uncomfortable in public."

Now she fumed, hesitated, felt a tingle wash over her cheeks. But then she picked up the shopping basket and began wandering the aisles. Timid housewives stole furtive glances her way. Horny stock boys stared slackjawed.

"We don't want people thinking you're a high-class whore, necessarily" he'd said. "Besides, they've never seen a high-class whore. But I'd love for them to wonder."

Her skirt was too short, but just barely. Not outside the bounds of propriety; more a statement of arrogance—I can get away with it. So fuck off. Her blouse opened nearly to her abdomen. The tight spandex underlining kept her proper, more or less, while still offering her rich, abundant breasts and their defiant nipples in perfect relief. Spiked heels, pearls, and a slightly cheesy gold jacket completed the effect. Beyond the limitations of her outfit, she felt even more naked—as she'd gotten out of the car his hand slipped under her skirt and he peeled down her panties.

"Might as well leave these," he’d said, as though it were a sudden afterthought. "They'll just get in the way."

She checked her list. First up, two cucumbers. Large. She put them in the basket. Nothing wrong with cucumbers. People buy them in public all the time. Right? Don't think.

She placed a check mark next to the entry on her list and moved on to the next selection: Indian eggplant, the long slender variety.

"Look for the ones that bend at the tip. A few curves along the way won't hurt either," he'd said as he prepared her list.

She found them and couldn't suppress a smile. A toy back in her bottom dresser drawer had apparently used one of these items for its inspiration. Mother Nature knows best, he'd told her. Don't think.

The other items were quickly located: bananas (of course); two organic carrots, large (of course!), two zucchini, large as they come (the bastard!); and, last but not least, a roll of salami.

"Don't be shy with the salami," he'd counseled. "Something with a little heft. But we don't want a cartoon, either. Nothing longer than a foot and a half, I'd say. Two max." God, don't think.

Now, to accessorize. Two cans of whipped cream, two bottles of chocolate syrup, and a batch of fresh strawberries.

The next item was in the laundry aisle: clothes pins: three bags. She'd thought that might be a bit obscure but he'd been steadfast. "If they don't know what you'd use them for, so much the better. Their imaginations will do the work for you."

She studied her collection. Taking it through the checkout counter would be embarrassing—the point, of course—but still, it didn't make a definitive statement. The last item on her list, however, would wrap everything into one, deliciously humiliating package.

She wandered idly over to the Pharmacy, (just moseying around the store, folks, no ulterior motives here) and found them, promenently displayed: condoms. She looked for the brand he'd requested, easily located in their bright red, yellow and black package that WHOOSHED out at her. As did the name—MARATHON!!!

She sighed, dropped the box into her basket and moved to the front of the store and the checkout line. Don't think. Don't think.

"Can I at least wear dark glasses?" she'd pleaded.

"Why should you hide? Announce yourself with pride, dear," he'd told her. "That means don't look at the ground. Make eye contact. Lots of eye contact. Dare them."

And so she did. The check out girl, who took a moment figuring out what category the condoms should be rung up on, cast several furtive glances her way and each time found intense, dark eyes boring back like searing lasers. How odd. She wanted nothing more than to run and hide and not show her face for a week, yet this silly little girl treated her like she was... what? Powerful? Intimidating? A force to be feared? How was that possible?

The bag boy, a scraggly slacker with more zits than brains, was more in line with what she would have expected: snarky, smirking, hard as nails and drooling into his baggy jeans. The check out girl had wished her "Have a good day," like a robot. The bag boy said, "Have a good time."

She glanced around, then she leaned in close, feeling her braless breasts shift as they sensuously obeyed the laws of gravity and physics.

She said softly, "What the fuck would you know about a good time? Loser."

And left a trail of astonishment in her wake.

* * *

"Good girl," was all he said as he looked in the bag. "How did that feel?"

"Un-com-fort-ab-le," she said, dully.

"Hmm. Raise your skirt, dear."

She stifled an urge to look outside, see if anyone was nearby. What difference would that make? She'd do it anyway. And he knew it.

She pulled her skirt up to the tops of her thighs.

"How's that cunt?" he asked.

"Soaked."

"Let's see."

He touched her, slid a probing finger between puffy lips and then stirred it around inside her for a bit. Back to her clit, lingering long enough for a series of sweet, soft slaps. Each one shocked like a cattle prod. They shut down thought and raised her body heat to an instantly unbearable level.

"You didn't like it in there, did you?"

"I hated it."

"But you like this a lot. Yes?"

"You're a shit."

"Mmmm hmmm. Why don't you rummage through the bag, wrap a condom on something that appeals to you, for when we get back. It's looking to be a long aftenoon."