The Fantasy: Grocery Shopping

TW: RAPE

My mother purchased this A-line, sleeveless dress with her first pay check in 1979. I have wanted this dress for as long as I can remember. Bigger than my mom was at my age, I could never fit it. On my 30th birthday, I finally fit it. The V-neck drops just below my chest tattoo. Over my belly button are hand-sized invisible pockets. The hem drops just above my knee. The subtle slit in the back does something to my confidence I can't explain. My nude pumps complement its burnt orange hue.

I went on my first date with my husband in this dress. He stared into my soul all night. His white teeth shimmered thru his Cheshire cat smile. His energy lit up the night sky itself. We ended our night with a two-block stroll from the restaurant to my then-apartment. On my doorstep he whispered "I never want you to take this dress off."

I knew early on that I would marry him. He was the first man to not touch me on our first date. The subtle hints I made were ignored. I fell in love within 2 weeks of dating. He could do no wrong in my eyes.

The first time we had sex was on our 1-year anniversary. This is the longest I had gone without sex. He said it was the same for him. He wanted a chance to work on his discipline after a bad heart break. Me, my days without sex only last the length of my period. I don't know why I agreed to this. It's probably one of my biggest regrets.

I'm glad he had a great time. I hated our first night. He was clumsy and uncoordinated. His lack of rhythm caused me to question his ethnicity. Attempts at foreplay, i.e., kissing, nibbling, sucking, biting, etc., sent me to the hospital. He caused a literal concussion when he leaned in. At some point he tried to finger me and ended up scratching my labia--he drew blood. He bit the skin around my carotid artery. His hands were rough. And before I get to the cunninlingus part, understand this was the worst sexual experience of my life. I haven't slept with him since.

I married him, tho. I have been a kept woman since that regretful night. We date. We shop. We travel. We're intimate. He supports all my dreams. I have a five-figure monthly allowance. He literally worships the ground I walk on. He provides a life for me I never dreamed of. The sex is just trash.

I love everything about being a stay-at-home wife. I wake up when I want to. I do what I want to. I help out local non-profit organizations. Dinner is ready at 8:30 pm, most nights. I clean, other nights. I practice different instruments. I learn different languages. Life is great.

Grocery shopping is a big part of my wifely duties. He likes to eat; I be high. Our house without food might as well be a Greek tragedy. I go to the grocery store every Saturday at 6:30 am to re-up. He has been down lately. This dress may be too formal for my weekend grocery store run. However, the smile he has when I wear this dress hasn't changed in 2 years. I'll wear it all day.

I move from aisle to aisle. He eats this. I eat that. Drinks aisle, next. The canned soda he loves are on the bottom shelf. I bend over to grab two 12-packs. I feel a slight breeze between my legs. I reach around. I touch the back of my thigh. I search for the slit of the dress. I follow the slit until I feel my labia. Embarrassed at my vagina's exposure, I immediately stand up straight. I picked the wrong day to wear this dress without panties. Awkwardly, I continue my journey through the aisles

These grapes may not make it to the register. I pop one after the other into my mouth. The first and only person in line, I take advantage of the cashier's undivided attention. Assisting the baggage person out of boredom. This undivided attention is the only reason I come to the grocery store this early. 30 minutes later, $377.10.

I walk slowly through the parking lot with my shopping cart full of items. I decline offers of assistance from the high school aged boy. Fearful, I move awkwardly. I pull on the hem with my left hand; I struggle-push the shopping cart with my right. My confident stride now tamed. My greatest fear: wardrobe malfunction. Why did I park so far from the door.

I arrive at my black Audi Q8. I contemplate the possible actions I can take. I decided to continue my slow movements--with a continuous tug at the hem. At least this way, I can pay attention and monitor any slight breezes.

I slowly place my groceries into my car. Bag by bag, I am careful to bend at my knees. Fuck. I dropped my keys in between the seats. I picked the wrong day to not wear a purse. I gotta bend over if I want these keys.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone's here. We only have one car. These grapes are so good. Where are these keys. A hand pushes my face into the leather seats of the front passenger seat. Before I know it, I feel him inside of me. I can't scream. I can't move. I'm terrified.

Wait a minute. His right hand caresses my hip flexor. The fingers from his left hand find my carotid. A little bit of pressure and I feel it. He leans in and whispers, "how does it feel?" I want to scream. My body How does he know how to please me.

His thrusts hit that one spot my husband forgets. Removing his hand from around my neck, he traces the outline of my spine. He stops at my lower back. He creates a deeper arch. Each stroke more calculated than the last.

He finishes. I'm scared to turn around

"I'll drive home."