Behind her mask, Penelope watches.
She takes in a woman carefully selecting a bunch of beets, knowing that her pussy will taste like beet juice: earthy, subtly sweet, a little intoxicating. She imagines the woman’s fingers stained magenta, sliding from Penelope’s pussy and into her mouth—she can almost taste the colors. Her tongue tingles as she imagines swirling it around the woman’s clit, lapping up the rainbow.
Beep. She scans another item.
Penelope is no stranger to constructing elaborate fantasies about the strangers who enter the store. It’s an old habit she developed as a Catholic school girl in Mexico isolated in the hills of San Ignacio. Feeling trapped inside the thick, stone walls of the convent, erotic visions of her classmates, teachers, and the occasional visitor seemed her only escape from cloister. Now, when a customer’s face is covered by a mask, she notices prosaic features: the way his forearm muscles dance as he lifts a bunch of celery; the curve of her hip as she bends to grab the last package of toilet paper from the bottom shelf; the musical lilt of a voice behind a plexiglass shield. Estranged from flirtatious smiles, the mundane has come to conduct her reverie.
While her quarantined, single friends swipe away on their dating apps, Penelope swipes groceries. What you eat tells a story about who you are; and, here, afforded an intimacy not often granted to strangers, Penelope knows your dirty secrets.
Beep. She scans another item.
Glancing up, her gaze lingers on the grey-eyed man sauntering up to the yellow line that puts six feet of distance between their bodies. She can’t help but notice the arch of his calves, which strike her as muscular and masculine.
She sees them flexing, straining as he teases her with the tip of his cock. She’s glad he can’t see her bite her lip as if he is already mercilessly pumping her from behind, over and over again.
Feeling herself get wet, Penelope discreetly crosses her legs behind the counter; the anticipation of him being close enough to smell is torturing her. She notices the faint streak of salt on his tan neck–left from what she imagines was an intense workout– and wants to follow it with her tongue until she arrives at his throbbing cock.
What do his lips look like? Of all the times she thought that wearing a face mask was a nuisance, the torment of not seeing his mouth, his jawline is almost unbearable. She is mesmerized by a slight twitch in his calf, when he catches her staring; he has a smile in his eyes as if he knows what she is thinking. A jolt of electricity moves from her stomach to her pussy, and she waves him forward in line.
He looks directly at her as he places his cucumber on the belt.
Fuck. Now he’s bending her over his kitchen table and with one hand on the small of her neck he’s slapping her ass–dirty little girl–fingers just grazing her pussy. She starts dripping as his blows land, one after another, so hard that the imprint of his fingers remain.
“What are you planning to do with these tomatillos?” she asks, casually.
She can hear the smile in his voice as he replies, “I haven’t decided, any suggestions?”
Penelope’s eyes close as she pretends to consider his question. Behind her lids she sees his salt and pepper hair framed between her mocha thighs. His mouth glistens when he looks up to tell her how good she tastes.
“I know a family recipe for salsa verde, but it’s a secret.”
“Well, if you feel like sharing, I am excellent at keeping secrets. After these past weeks of isolation, I’ve been having the most intense cravings,” he pauses, then in a low drawl, “you should stop by and spill your secrets later, in exchange for a drink. I live just a block over, in the dark green house that overlooks the city park.”
He looks old enough to be her father but the glint in his eye is irresistable. As he walks away, she wonders if he’d tie her hands behind her back or if he’d bind them to the corners of his bed. Gazing at his tight, muscular ass, she aches to slide her hands into her wet panties. She wants him to watch as she slips two fingers inside herself, teasing her clit with her other hand. Juice drips down her hands and his cock begins to strain against his shorts.
She shakes her head and quickly sanitizes the conveyor belt, motioning to the next customer in line.
It’s the end of her shift and Penelope is torn. She knows she shouldn’t violate social distancing protocol, but she hasn’t been touched in months and her pussy is longing to be fucked. ‘That’s an essential service, right?’ she thinks to herself, ‘maybe I’ll just take the long way home, and walk through the park.’
As Penelope crosses the park she catches a glimpse of the grey eyed man, bent over, lifting something on his deck. She starts to walk toward his house and he looks up and sees Penelope’s voluptuous figure. Suddenly she pivots, he stares hopelessly as her denim-clad butt cheeks oscillate in the opposite direction until she becomes just a blur. He doesn’t understand what happened, his flame of hope extinguished with the abrupt turn of her beautiful hips.
Penelope opens her door. She smiles as she sees him, begging, waiting. He always pleasures her until she can’t take it anymore, thrusting, prodding, pulsating, fucking with wild abandon. Yet, he’s completely in her control; euphoria on demand. She doesn’t need a mask to fuck him; social distancing rules don’t apply; supply chain disruptions don’t interrupt his anticipation or her desire. And if she tires of him, Amazon still delivers.
The post Fantasies on the Frontline – #StayHome Erotic Contest Finalist Story appeared first on Volonté .Intimate Tickles found this article quite interested, and we thought you might to. We give all the credit for this article to Jim Mickey and Nora. Click Here To Read This Article From It's Original Source