Hypersex in the Hypermart

Attention shoppers: our restroom facilities will be temporarily unavailable while one of our Hypermart Associates scrapes the semen out of the grout. We pride ourselves in consistently achieving high standards of tidiness and we apologize for any inconvenience.

***

I came for the ripe fruit. Juliette, my wife, had awoken that morning with a wild longing for it. Fruit, that is. The poor young dear was nearly nine months pregnant—

over

ripe, I thought—with my would be first-born child. So it had fallen upon me to drive out to the Hypermart of greater Gary, Indiana to fetch some figs.

I scrutinized each section of aisle twelve, selecting the most succulent specimens and piling them in my oversized cart: glossy apples, shapely pears, sensual pomegranates, great juicy melons, a bunch of large bananas, and a particularly sadistic pineapple. I subjected each to individual inspection, admiring their colors and testing their softness with my thumbs. Was the scent pleasing? If so I bagged the fruit and asphyxiated it with a twist tie.

Satisfied with my plunder, I wheeled over to aisle nine to search for bargains—another husbandly mission. Juliette had sent coupons with me—5% off your second Blowsuck leaf blower/sucker with purchase of Xtra Long Handjob Drain Snake or other Handjob product of greater or equal value. She shares this coupon fetish with my mother.

Back to college savings! 10% off all dorm room supplies!

College! Goodness, I thought, with a child on the way I ought to open an account. I peered down aisle seven. Parents and their freshman boys and girls browsed the racks, picking out bathmats and toilet brushes, the teens adopting the universal cross-armed

mom-you're-ruining-my-life

posture of people who wish they weren't so helplessly submissive to their elders.

A cart emerged from aisle six, preceding a horse of a mother and then—break my heart!—a wingless seraph: young legs in short jean shorts, young painted feet in sandals, young breasts restrained by a flimsy sleeveless top, a frizzy mane of auburn hair, and two green eyes filled with man-slaying acid.

Attention!

cried my heart, and my homunculus obeyed.

The poison eyes met mine and lingered for a short moment, but a moment long enough to betray a degree of curiosity apart from the indifference with which girls of her age generally regard men of mine. But nonsense, I thought, I'm not yet thirty. Could I pass for one of her peers? I banished the notion as irrelevant. My appetite was aroused. I quickly diverted my attention to a chest of drawers, which I began to examine with great interest. The mother's smoke detector must not sound. A drawer for shirts, a drawer for skirts, a drawer for the chest, and a drawer for drawers. Fascinating.

Mother Bear and her sultry, sullen daughter disappeared down aisle eight, presumably to select new sheets for the young one's bunk bed. I returned to my cart with its fresh-picked harvest, which seemed duller now that I had bigger fruit to pick.

18-years-old—a dangerous age. The rules of sexual fantasy do not permit the mention of a person one day younger, no matter how consensual the situation. But upon her eighteenth birthday a girl is lawfully approved and fit for the raping (though such savagery is not at all my modus). I am a gentleman, and a gentleman always engages a lady first by means of a written invitation, which is precisely how I resolved to proceed.

I tore out one of Juliette's idiotic coupons and scrawled a note on the back: "You're more beautiful than you can know. Respond if you want to be wanted."

How shall I give it to her? I thought. Surely I couldn't just hand her the note with the mother hovering around. I'd have to stalk them discreetly and pounce when the right moment came. I watched them turn the corner of aisle nine, their cart now filled with innocent white bedding. Green-eyes plucked an electric tea kettle from the shelf. I was electrified, boiling, nearly blowing steam. I must have this girl, I thought.

She dropped her phone, and bent to pick it up. Her hamstrings tightened, the muscles of her inner thigh became defined, and at the fraying edge of her shorts I discerned the crease of skin that divides the leg from the buttock—as one often can when oblivious young girls wear very short shorts—and as she grabbed her phone I was granted an infinitesimal flash of her pink panties peering out from within the crotch of her scant... Daisy Dukes! That's what they call them!

"Damn," she said, "It's scratched." I pounced.

"Let me take a look at it. I own a phone repair business, we fix these problems all the time. Scratches, broken screens, water damage, you name it. I make sure nice girls like you get discounts. Here, take my card—Hazzard Repair Services Limited at your service. Have a blessed day."

I had snatched the girl's phone before blurting out this terrible gibberish. I handed it back to her with my folded coupon underneath. I quickly returned to my cart and fairly rode it out of the aisle, chariot-like. Mom stared at me but said nothing.

I was sweating like an action hero. What have I done? I thought. Will these people call the police? I'll go to jail, they'll take my child away. It's all over with. I've got to flee. I must get to the car; it's only a matter of minutes now before the bastards start closing in. I've got to make it to Canada before nightfall, before the news gets out. What will Juliette think? She'll see it all on CNN: the aerial camera looking down on my fleeing car, the fleet of sirens closing in as I swerve onto some back road, the gunshot that ruptures my tire, and then the horrible spectacle of ten beastly cops beating me into the asphalt with billy clubs and other savage tools of law enforcement.

No, no, calm down, I thought. You haven't done anything illegal. The worst you'll get is a stern lecture. You might get shouted at, pecked a bit my the hen. They'll probably kick you out of the store. That's fair. You'll regather the fruit somewhere else. It's no problem. I heard no noises of motherly consternation from the aisle over. I took this as a good sign. Had the girl even read the note?

I pushed my cart down the passage that runs perpendicular to the shopping aisles, following mother and child, who strolled down the passage on the opposite side. They didn't seem to take notice. The girl made not a glance in my direction. Aisle seven, aisle six, aisle five. Were they headed for checkout?

No. Suddenly they stopped at aisle four, and the girl said something to her mother. I hid between aisle five (light bulbs) and aisle four (canned foods). I heard her fairy footsteps flip-flopping toward me. To my great shock she stopped at the end of the aisle, looked me in the eye, and whispered reprovingly.

"Not so close you idiot. Here."

She handed me my coupon and trotted back to mama. I unscrunched the paper. She had written another note beneath my words: "Text me ###-###-####"

I was breathless. Her wide eyes had implored me with the most innocent and undisguised longing, an honest expression of desire of which no trace remains in the suspicious and disdainful eyes of women only three or four years her senior. And of course, the phone! Why hadn't it occurred to me? These kids exist inside their gadgets. The way to a girl's heart is through her toys.

Not so close you idiot.

I must stand back, I thought. I about-faced and wheeled in the direction of the fresh foods, away from my fresh

femme

and the foul

Frau.

Aisle six, aisle seven, aisle eight.

Attention shoppers: make Hypermart your Number One destination for ripe produce and fresh meat. Please commit adultery with the hot college coed before she and her mother check out in fifteen minutes. Thank you for shopping at Hypermart, where our business is your satisfaction.

Aisle ten, aisle eleven. The loudspeaker was right, I had to hurry. I must text the girl, I thought. But what to say?

"Hey baby girl." No, no way. Completely outrageous. That I had even generated the idea of texting such foolishness forced me to question my very capacity to make rational judgments.

What about "I want you"? Insane. I'd sound like a serial rapist, like some heavy breathing Neanderthal out of a slash and fuck horror flick. A SWAT team would smash the windows. I'd be carried out in a straight jacket in ten minute's time. For how long has my sexual acumen languished? I wondered. Had I lost the ability to flirt?

"It's your admirer ;)" That's what I went with. I thought she'd like the emoticon. What a fool I was.

I pocketed my phone and shivered as I pretended to examine some flank steak. I was all but sick with anticipation.

Buzz—

a little paroxysm of joy in my pocket. I'll never match the speed at which a teen girl texts.

"ur cute too" Sweet semen of Christ, I thought. When I was her age girls used to tell me "ur cute" on AOL Instant Messager. I was raping my own past. I was still awestruck by the speed of her reply. I needed to be quick as well. A response, a response, my manhood for a response.

"I want to see more of you." Casual. Ambiguous. I thought it was good. Apparently she did too.

Buzz.

The speed of lightening. She was an athlete, a virtuosa.

"gimme a sec" What did that mean? Was she going to come find me and take me by the hand to some secluded bower? Would I too be able to text at that speed if I abandoned all conventions of spelling and punctuation? Were my capital letters and periods signs of old age and pedantism? Would she find it hopelessly unsexy? Was she chaining her mother to the cash register at that very moment?

I paced across the store, abandoning my cart in the frigid meat section. How long was "a sec"? For how many tortured

secs

should I wait before panicking and booking a one-way ticket to Moscow? I tried to dismiss these doubts. I wanted this girl. At that moment I wanted her more than I loved my wife and child.

Buzzzz. Buzzzz.

What, a call? Why would she be calling? Had her mother taken her phone and called my number, waiting for me to pick up so she could nail me to a cross and pour molten steel into my anus? No, it was Juliette. I didn't pick up. What did she want? This was ridiculous. Yes, I remembered the coupons. Yes, I checked to see if they still had that two for one deal on antioxidant-rich yeast infection ointment. I had forgotten the blueberries but I'd get them on my way out. This was no time for domestic tedium. She would have to wait.

What was my green-eyed sweetheart doing? Would these hellish seconds ever tick to a heaven?

Buzz.

A picture message, by golly. Sweet Mary's tits, I thought. It was a picture of my emeraldine teen queen in the Hypermart bathroom, a self-portrait in front of the mirror. She was doing all that girls do to be sexy in photos: parted lips, arched back, hips flaunted. A sublime intimation. A tantalizing prelude. A mere prologue to a volume of dreams.

I was staring at my phone, pacing aimlessly, and making no effort whatsoever to hide the absolute Burj Khalifa of erections, which was bulging in my trousers like a prehistoric monolith. This would not do. It was, I need not say, conspicuous.

Something had to be done about it. But first I had to respond to my mistress with sweet words of encouragement. I couldn't concentrate because some woman's baby was howling and screeching away in aisle three. I wished she'd drown it, the horrible demon.

I texted teeny and told her I needed more. Then I cowboy swaggered back to the meat aisle to get my cart. I knew mustn't raise suspicion. Pushing a cart around a store is a normal thing to do, I wagered.

Buzzzz. Buzzzz.

Another call. What on earth? Preggers again. I dismissed the call. What did the old crone want? It could wait. I wanted badly to disable my phone and forget about Juliette, but this very same instrument, the phone, was the only conduit between me and the Aphrodite in the Hypermart bathroom.

Buzz.

Rejoice greatly, O magnificent slut, another picture. O bliss, O love, O sweet come on my tits. She'd taken her top off. She'd taken her top off to show me her black bra and her modest though glorious cleavage, the precious whore.

There was no time to process this. Reason had to be abandoned. This was the time for thoughtless acceptance of every impulse, every inclination. I texted back with adolescent speed. It was hot, I said. Don't stop, I said. I believed in the girl. I knew that Daisy could doff those Dukes.

But where was her mother? Standing guard outside the bathroom door, growling with her three heads, waiting for her daughter to hurry up and put the tampon in already? The mystery began to worry me. But I had a topless pic for consolation. Her skin was so pale, so smooth, so much more pristine than that of an older person, and yet pimpled here and there, the dermatological paradox of adolescence.

Buzz.

May the Father and the Son gang bang the Holy Ghost, by Jiminy, this was it. The shorts were gone, she held the phone cam over her shoulder and there in the mirror was the coy turn of her shoulder, the balletically kinetic curve of her spine (its line interrupted briefly by the black bra strap), leading to a rump the likes of which a marble Venus would have envied. There she was, naked but for two scant shreds of fabric.

Allow me to interject with a brief aside directed at the reader. I anticipate that he or she will object that a picture of a teeny in her undies is all things considered rather tame, and that I am therefore a prude (as perhaps has been suspected all along) for having been raised to such monumental heights of passion over such a trifle. It seems that one may discover racier pictures in a Sears catalogue, or in one of those black and white advertisements for brassieres one used to filch from one's mother's newspaper.

Sed contra, respondeo dicendum quod

the reader has failed to perceive the magnitude of my situation's weight. Consider this, that one often finds oneself noticing the sexual charms of young girls in public places. Upon the occasion of the aforementioned noticement, does one not fantasize about seeing the aforementioned girl through the eyes of Mr. Clark Kent, human TSA full-body scanner? I allege that one does, and furthermore that were one to be provided the occasion to actually see the aforementioned girl remove her clothes, that the profound fulfillment that the aforementioned occurrence would occasion would be such that one would, and indeed that I did, experience an elation such that I seriously doubt the reader can point to any similar experience of gratification in his or her past.

In fewer words, I was randy as a waltzing cock. I thereby resolved to fuck this girl in that very bathroom, at that very moment, and to hell with her raging mother, the interloping "Hypermart Associates," the Indiana State Police, Barack Obama, my nag of a wife, and any other freedom-haters that might have something to say about it. I texted the girl and told her to take it all off and unlock the door.

I realized I didn't know the girl's name. Should I ask? No. Lust has no name, no time, no place; it is for the ages.

The phone convulsed quickly in my pocket, nearly driving me to orgasm. Yet another picture. Can you imagine, dear reader, the tumbling, dizzying journey my heart took when I saw that this girl—the girl I had been craving with such desperation that I knew that I had to have her or to die trying—can you imagine the twisted trip my innards took when I saw that my dream girl had de-bra'd herself, and was looking at me through her camera's lens with those deep green eyes, and flaunting her outrageously exquisite breasts and nipples for the world of my lust to see?

I'd had enough of these pictures; the overture was done. This was the time for action. I pushed my cart at a moderate gallop to the back of the store, where the restrooms were, looking in every direction for the mother and hoping with intense urgency that she would not be standing guard. There was the bathroom door. The mother was out of sight, probably browsing the smutty novel section or picking out gluten-free butt plugs.

Buzzzz. Buzzzz.

What was all this frantic phoning about? I'd had just about enough of the swollen sow.

I stared over my cart at the door. Now's the time, I thought. Ramming speed, gentlemen! Platform nine and three-quarters here I come! I charged valiantly, pushing my cart full throttle toward the door. Open sesame, bitch!

The handlebar of the cart knocked the wind out of me as the cart stuck the unmoved door. The cart rolled off to the side, launching fruit in all directions.

The backward-looking view of life is sharp and unforgiving. I readily admit that using the cart as a battering ram was not my wisest move. Yet nor was it my daftest, for after the catastrophe I heard the door unlock.

How did she know it would be me? Well, who else would have engineered the shopping cart equivalent of the Montparnasse train disaster? She must have figured. A smart one perhaps, a real college girl.

Attention shoppers: mind the fruit, you rogue. Your wife is probably going into labor prematurely if not straight up miscarrying at this very moment, and here you are about to bang some floozy in a public restroom. Leaving aside the immorality of your actions, the risk you are taking....

Oh shut up! I twisted the door latch like I was tearing the leg off a roasted chicken, staggered through the door, and nearly lost my mind. There she was—my way, my truth, my light, my incarnation of beauty and youth itself—stripped to her panties and, wonderfully, still wearing her flip flops, the silly goddess. And then the lady spake. You wouldn't believe what she said.

"Hey." Hey. That was all. Like I had shown up to unclog the toilet. I slammed and locked the door.

Buzzzz. Buzzzz.

I cracked my phone over the sink's faucet and threw the pieces into the toilet.

With the door locked and the phone drowned, we were blissfully alone. I tore my girly's panties from her hips down to her feet, nearly tripping her. Then I wrapped my arms around her, and, my left hand groping her naked buttock, my right hand tangled in her forest of mahogany hair, I held her body tight and began to kiss her with the tenderness and intensity of a veteran returning to his sweetheart after years of war. The taste of her lips—it was just heaven.

There is something of divinity in the sensation of warm and naked female flesh against the rough material of a fully clothed man. The brutal triumph of masculinity. I savored this for a few eternal moments, but was in no way anxious to stay clothed for long. I unbuttoned my shirt with teeny's tugging assistance, and tossed it on the ground. Shoes and socks were thrown to the four corners of the room. The remainder of our clothes I laid out on the tile floor and laid my lady down atop them.

I took my tongue out of her mouth and embarked on a southward journey. She wouldn't let me do anything too savage to her neck or chest—I suppose dear mother was still on the mind—but her nipples were safe territory, the plucky little things. As I passed my lips over her shaven mound she emitted a slight groan of encouragement. I began to drink the wine that poureth forth from womanhood, which is to say her vag was soaked. I pleasured her with the devotion of a zealot, the intricate flourishes of a concert violinist. But time was short, and she was begging.

"Do me quick," she said, "get in me." This was no time for disputation and revolt. The queen's commands must be obeyed. It was time to snake this bitch's drain. I took my cock in hand—to say "rock hard" would be an injustice; only diamond serves as a just comparison—and slid it down and in. Lubricious.