It was such a cliché, she thought, to be there in the organic market exchanging glances with the younger man who was stocking the produce section with kale. The shelves were equipped with automatic misters that periodically sprayed the vegetables with a fog of cool water. She had come straight from the beach, from the amazing sight of her neighbors fucking on the sand, and her wild fantasies about joining them had made her whole body hot and shaking.
In the market, she stood near the misting nozzles and enjoyed the cool water on her skin. She was dressed in the same clothes but had removed her bikini, so now she wore just her barely-ass-covering cutoff jeans, t-shirt, and flip-flops. She felt a little sunburned, and her long blonde hair was tangled from the salt water, frowsy, good-looking. She had applied a little lip-stick, a subtle red color, and rubbed almond oil onto her arms and legs when she had returned to her car from the beach, so her limbs were moist and glistening.
The produce man was in jeans and a black t-shirt, busily piling kale and lettuce and carrots. As she slowly browsed the aisle, she was conscious of his eyes on her. My goodness, she thought, that feels good, to have a young man's eyes undressing her from head to toe. I must be fifteen years older than him! He had steely biceps, strong-looking hands, a wide chest, and a neat rounded butt filling his tight jeans. The front of his jeans bulged too. His brownish, sun-streaked hair hung below his ears - he must surf, she guessed. He turned to face her, frankly taking her in.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
Emboldened by her recent woman's retreat - in which she had felt encouraged to explore her desires, her needs, her erotic potential, no matter which way it took her, to not feel guilty about her urges, and to take risks - she looked him straight in the eye.
"I bet you can help me in more ways than you realize," she said, cocking her hip and putting her thumb in her waistband.
The young man reddened and looked away, at the row of Italian eggplants he had just arranged. I bet he's bigger than one of those, she thought, though they were each about 8 inches long and thick as her wrist. She loved that size, that sensation of being filled, filled almost to the point of discomfort, a perfect length and girth so that her labia stretched to hold a man's member so tightly. She loved that tiny sensation of pain that came when a man pinched her nipples and bit her earlobe. Her thoughts were slipping away as she gazed at him, running her eyes over his crotch and up his belly and chest, imagining the washboard abs of a young surfer, and the probably smooth hairless pecs of his chest, and his nipples, which she would bite and suck.
She felt so free to have these thoughts, these fantasies. She knew it was all good, that now there was nothing to be ashamed or guilty about, the old refrain "Good girls don't" far from her head. Still under her new bravery she felt a twinge of uncertainty. She knew it was OK to have desire, lots of it, and to act on it as much as she wanted. She knew it was OK to have fantasies, that fantasies weren't facts, that fantasies didn't mean she actually wanted to act them out (though she sort of did, especially the one of meeting a stranger in an airplane and fucking him in the bathroom, during the flight).
