Foreword: This is a series of fantasy stories totaling 12 chapters containing topics such as spanking, sodomy, interracial theme, rope bondage, gay sex, and a little bit of cross-dressing and femdom (in later chapters). The fantasies start out milder but gets progressively wilder towards the end. I originally wrote them for a friend (named Brian in the stories) and I'm posting them here in the hopes that you'll enjoy reading them too :)
It's a warm summer day when I visit your store like countless times before. I'm wearing a short sleeve T-shirt and a skimpy tennis short, thus exposing a lot of my creamy-complexioned skin to the sun. It feels deliciously sensual rubbing my smooth bare thighs together as I slowly stroll down the store aisles. There's one particular section that always feels "forbidden" to me, which is the corner displaying shrink-wrapped adult magazines with other adult-ish items such as condoms nearby.
I've only ever discretely peeked at this section before. For one, I'm not quite old enough to purchase these magazines which are clearly labeled as only sold to 21 or above. Besides, it feels very "dirty" of me to want to read such "filth", and I know I'd just die of shame if anyone catch me peeking at the revealing covers. On the other hand, I've always been very curious about them, especially a magazine named Penthouse as I "heard" that there are some very erotic reader's letters inside beside the usual nudie photos.
I don't know what came over me today, however, as I suddenly grew bolder and decided to check out some items more closely. For one thing, I've wanted to purchase some lubricants for some time, and I am delighted to discover that the famous K-Y Jelly is available on a shelf in that corner. But after I picked it up, I'm beginning to worry about how do I go through with paying for it at the cashier. What will they THINK when they see me buying a tube of this... THIS K-Y Jelly?! Will they immediately jump to the conclusion that I'm planning to use this... lube on my own backside (gasp)? Maybe they'll KOWN what I have in mind? My face starts flushing bright red just imagining my embarrassment, even before I walk to the register.
What makes the matter worse is that as I turn to take a quick look at the register, I realize that the cashier is a middle-aged WOMAN. What must she think of me when she sees this shameful item I hold in my shaking hand? I cannot bear such humiliating thoughts and am about to put the tube back and forget the whole thing. Except that there's something I've been dying to try but haven't been able to due to the lack of this lube. Then a "bright" idea hits me, as I remember that I happen to be carrying a small backpack with me today. So without giving myself much time to consciously register what I'm actually doing in my head, I quickly look around to make sure that no one is looking in my direction and I quickly slip the K-Y jelly into my bag.
Glancing around again I observe no unusual reaction from anyone at the store so I figure I've gotten away with that. Since this seems so easy, I grow even bolder and decide that why not also snatch a copy of the alluring Penthouse magazine... In for an ounce, in for a pound right? So again I swipe it off the shelf after carefully checking to see no one's watching. Then with my heart beating loudly in my chest, I pretend to casually stroll out of the store.
As I walk past the cashier, secretly thrilled at finally getting my hands on the items I've "lusted" after for so long, suddenly I feel a strong hand gripping my bare upper arm firmly. My stomach just drops to the floor. I can sense the presence of a tall, strong figure standing behind my trembling body. I turn my head in utter fear and come facing your stern gaze. At that moment I already know that I'll have to "face the music", although part of me is still in denial, hoping against hope to get out of this somehow.
"Excuse me, boy, but you need to come with me to the office for a moment," you inform me in no uncertain term.
"What... what is this about?" I stammer and try to twist my arm out of your iron-grip to no avail.
I am forcibly "escorted" (or, more like reluctantly dragged along) by you back to your office inside the store.
