The double doors sprung open and I stepped out of the cold and into the bleak fluorescent wasteland of my local supermarket. Selecting a basket from the towers by the door, I walked through the checkouts, pausing to survey Abigail - the glowing radiant centre of the store. At 20, she was two years younger than I was and had a body that looked too good to be caressed by her drab uniform. She had full, ripe breasts and a slender waist. Her lips were a pale olive, matching her complexion. She had long, obsidian hair. Perfect black eyebrows surrounded her mischievous, dark eyes. Those eyes caught mine now and her full lips broke into a pleased smile.
We had been playfully flirting for the last few weeks, ever since we met in the store. Like me, she was a student so she worked the late shift from five until midnight. I usually went shopping around eight or nine, avoiding the queues and occasionally finding some reduced item worth having. We had begun innocently enough - smiling at each other, mildly amusing jokes about generalities. When she handed back my credit card, my fingers would "accidentally" brush hers. Then, the last time I was in, the top three buttons of her shirt had been undone and when I leant over to sign my name - and some more of money away - on the dotted line, she had leant forward, cupping her arms above her belly. Perfectly framed by the translucent plastic stand where the receipt rested were the tops of her magnificent breasts, forced to prominence by her arms. I could see the smooth flesh disappearing into a plain green bra. I had been about to ask for her number when a supervisor came up. Abigail had sat back hurriedly, redoing the buttons on her shirt, "Can you take these receipts to finance straight away? I'll finish helping this gentleman."
Still, I was flattered that she had actively put on the show for me. Abigail gave me a sad smile from the corner of her mouth and slinked off, her hips moving with smooth muscular grace that even the unflattering trousers couldn't spoil. She looked back, caught me checking out her ass, and broke into a broad grin. The mousy, overweight supervisor brusquely took the receipt and spent an inordinate time checking that the signature on it matched my card. I watched Abigail until she disappeared among the aisles.
I walked through Abigail's till, winking at her and flashing her my best smile. There was no customer with her at the moment so I stopped. "What's your favourite meal, darling?"
"Mmm," her eyes became distant as she thought and, consciously or not, a small pink tongue darted out of her mouth and ran slowly over her olive lips, making them glisten. I felt an almost uncontrollable need to kiss them, mingle my unworthy saliva with hers. At the thought, I could feel a preparatory rush to my groin - not arousal, but anticipation, adrenaline. She squinted up at me, silhouetted by the fluorescent lights. "Tagliatelle, I suppose." She had a refined voice, no trace of an accent, just perfectly formed syllables combined to bring a beauty to the English language inconceivable to one who had not heard her speak it. "Just wanted to know what to buy for our meal tomorrow night. Tomorrow's your night off, right?"
Perhaps I sounded confident, but my heart had stopped, my arms were water, and holding the basket was now a matter of luck or perhaps intervention by a helpful God.
She grinned at me, and my blood started flowing again. "Perfect." I gave her my address and directions and we agreed a time. I grinned back at her and turned to start my shopping. I felt her hand on my elbow, electric. Even through my jacket I could feel the delicate pressure of that hand and I was unbelievably aroused by even that mild a contact.
A frown crossed her brow. On anyone else it would mar it, but seemingly nothing could spoil her for me. "I never do this," she said.
"Me either," I replied. "Would you prefer if we went out to eat?"
She evaluated me, her eyes registering how unlike a serial killer I looked, taking in the normal white T-shirt stretched across my broad chest, the plain blue fleece jacket, the plain blue jeans gripping my ass and legs. Her gaze lingered on my crotch for a moment, and I felt my cock stirring. She realised what she was doing and looked up quickly, her dark eyes meeting my pale blue ones, her olive cheeks slightly flushed. She held my gaze for a second then, satisfied, "No, I think I can count on you."
Her hand still gripped my arm. A smile flashed onto my face and, surprising even myself, I grabbed her hand, pulled it to my lips and quickly kissed it. "You can trust me, my lady." I headed off to get the pasta.
I got the items quickly, floating on a haze of arousal. I was just trying to pick a steak for my dinner tonight when the skein of my mood was penetrated.
"Hey, baby, you miss me?" Brash, confident, certain that whomever she speaks to, they want to hear what she's got to say - my ex, Robyn. Robyn with a y, though that's not how either her passport or her parents spell it.
If beauty has a spectrum, it doesn't run from beautiful to ugly. Rather, beauty exists at both ends, diminishing towards the centre. Abigail exists at the far right of the scale (as the vagaries of my mind set it up), at the pinnacle of classical beauty, like an actress from Hollywood's golden age, or a very few of the modern stars, like Cameron Diaz. Moving left along the scale, we pass through towards the other end, past steel-minded women with faces of plastic and breasts of solid silicone, towards Robyn at the far left of our scale. Robyn was like a Monet painting - if all the components weren't present and exactly correct, she wouldn't work at all. But when the pieces come together, they sum into an almost painfully sensual earthy glory. She was shorter than average, maybe 5'4 and fleshy. Her breasts were colossal and entirely natural - my hands and tongue and cock had traced every square centimetre of their unblemished surface. They were capped with proportionally large nipples, crude and fiery red. The first time I took one into my mouth I almost hesitated, afraid it would burn, and, in a way, it did. They were remarkably buoyant, those globes - even without a bra, they only sagged a little. Judging by the way that they swayed at the moment, she currently wore no bra. Her pussy was large, thickly slathered with untameable coarse red hair, which she had never trimmed during all the time we had been going out. She thought that red hair against pale white skin was disgusting, so spent an hour a week at a tanning salon, exposing every part of her to bursts of ultraviolet light. Her ass, like her breasts, was huge and wonderfully smooth to the touch. A mane of curly red hair surrounded her face, whose features were broad and strangely undefined. Her mouth was a wide, thick smear of bright red, her nose a button bulb in the centre of her face, her eyes a non-textured brown. She was a year and change older than I was.
"Hey Robyn, how's it going?"
We had had an unceremonious break up. We had been together a few months, it had mostly been sex, and one day we just each acknowledged that we were bored. That was about half a year ago now. We had never really had much to talk about and, while I was still fond of her - how could you dislike a girl who, for your birthday, gave you a threesome with a girlfriend of hers - we hadn't had much contact since.
On my birthday, Robyn had cooked a meal for me at her flat. She was a terrible cook, but had managed to unevenly fry two steaks and some mushrooms. She had done some oven chips, but had somehow cooked them twenty minutes longer than the instructions said and the resulting hard black shards were more like anthracite than potato. For dessert we had mint sorbet which she took out of a Marks and Spencer box. Through the meal, her breasts were struggling to escape from a tube top that may as well have been paint on her body. She pulled the tube top down and her left breast popped out. She took the last spoonful of the sorbet and pressed it against her nipple, which hardened instantly. She smeared the ice cream in a small circle about her nipple, her body heat swiftly melting it. She beckoned me to dinner and I licked the sticky fluid off her breast. I was about to go to work more seriously when her doorbell rang. "Fuck it," I breathed, "Ignore it."
