Checkout

by Frenulum

Kayla.

There you are, Kayla.

Ringing up the groceries. One thing after the next. Mechanical: beep, beep, beep, “Your total is twenty-nine fifty-three.” Get through the shift, earn a little money.

You don’t know I’m here. You don’t know I’m watching.

I stop here almost every evening, Kayla, but I only let myself pick your line a couple of times a month. It’s a little treat I award myself. Tonight I picked Angie’s line — that stuck-up little bitch. She’s nothing like you, is she, Kayla?

Do you know what first caught my eye about you, Kayla? It was your hair, of all things. It has such an interesting texture: tiny little kinks along every strand, like a screen-door spring stretched almost straight. What is it like when you let it loose? I’ve only seen you wear it stretched back into that harsh little bun, every last strand imprisoned. I long to release it, run my fingers through it, feel the tight curls slipping past my fingertips. And the color — there’s every imaginable shade of blonde, from bright pale gold to autumn wheat. It would look so fine, your pretty mane of golden curls, caught up in my fingers as I held your head and taught you how to —

No. I mustn’t think about that. Not yet.

That stupid slut Angie has her usual bored, superior look. I think it might be time to make a little adjustment for her. But not for you, Kayla. I’m saving you.

I love your body, Kayla; it excites me, it warms my blood. You try your best to hide it, don’t you? But I’m an expert. I know what to look for. The other girls wear their uniform polo shirts with the buttons undone, and when they bend forward one can sometimes glimpse a tantalizing curve. But you only have the top button open, Kayla, and as always you’re wearing another shirt underneath. And you’ve chosen a size that’s much too large, something roomy, something that won’t hug your body.

I know why, Kayla. I know you don’t want attention. I know you don’t want people to look. But sometimes you can’t help it: you turn or stretch and the clothes are drawn against you, and then if someone is watching he can see your secret. I know what it is, Kayla. You’re a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, aren’t you? You’ve got such a little pair — you’re barely curved at all. Does that make you feel inadequate, Kayla? Embarrassed? I know it does. No, I haven’t been inside your mind — not yet. I could, you know, I could read your mind in a heartbeat and know every thought you’ve ever had about your sweet little breasts. But I won’t do that. I’ll just watch how you move and how you dress, and I’ll know.

You hate those tiny little boobies, don’t you, Kayla? You want to have a woman’s figure. You want to have a cleavage. You want to be like other girls.

But Kayla, what you don’t understand is that some men don’t like the other girls. Some men like a slender, delicate figure. Some men like a breast that fits in the palm of a gently cupped hand. Some men say: more than a mouthful is wasted. Kayla, do you ever think that, one day, a man will capture your nipple between his lips, and tease it with his tongue, as his fingers explore its twin? Do you imagine that? Fantasize about that? Do you ever touch your own tiny titties and imagine that a man is doing it? I hope so, Kayla, because one day a man will do just that. I will, Kayla.

That piece of trash, Angie, has finished with another customer. She has her nose in the air as usual. She thinks she’s the hottie. She thinks she’s so beautiful. Look at her, the cheap slut, with her eyes made up like she’s headed for a posh evening out under the soft pink lights of the ballroom — not at all the right thing for a grocery store, in the harsh glare of fluorescents. She probably thinks it makes her look even hotter, but to me it just looks dumb. What shall I do inside Angie’s mind this evening, Kayla?

I have a better view of you now, Kayla. You don’t know I’m watching. You hardly ever look up — when you do, I always see that look in your eye, the look of a small, defenseless animal who knows there are predators in the world. Skittishness. Nerves. Fright. You know you’re vulnerable, you just don’t know where the danger lies. I’m the danger, Kayla. I can read minds, and I can bend them — any way I want to.

You have such slender, delicate fingers. Do your hands get tired of handling package after package, bag after bag? Do they get worn? I wouldn’t want anything to roughen your soft skin, Kayla — I want your hands to feel soft and sweet when you stroke my —

But no. I mustn’t rush. Just move ahead in line, one spot closer to stupid slutty Angie, the stuck-up bitch. I love how your head is bowed over your work, Kayla. I know it’s just because you have to watch the groceries, keep an eye on the scanner, make sure you don’t skip anything. But it pleases me that you are practiced in that submissive posture. I like that in a girl, I really do. It’s very important to me that a girl knows her place.

I wonder, Kayla, if you remember the time I touched you. The need was very strong in me that day, Kayla. Do you remember the unremarkable older man who fumbled the receipt as you handed it to him, so that his fingers brushed against yours? Perhaps that happens too often to note. Perhaps not. I’m sure you didn’t know that it was deliberate. It was so very hard, as I touched you, to stay out of your mind.

Angie the slut is wearing skin-tight pants. Most of the girls do. I can tell at a glance she’s wearing a thong. It isn’t just that there are no panty lines across her cheeks, but the way her buns move beneath the fabric. I’m an expert: I can tell. Such a show-off, pants clinging to her ass, displaying it for all the boys so their lust for her builds, so she can use them and manipulate them whenever she wants to. Look at the bag-boy, fawning all over her as she ignores him, disdains him. Bitch.

You’re not like that, Kayla. You don’t use people. You don’t look down on them. You don’t show off your body — your slacks are nearly as loose fitting as your top. It’s very difficult to get a good idea of what your lovely bottom looks like, but I like to imagine it’s firm and springy like a just-ripe peach. What are you wearing underneath your pants, Kayla? What’s hugging that ripe round bottom?

You deserve something classy, something elegant. Oscalito, or La Perla, or that Swiss company with the brushed cotton, I forget their name. Something renowned for softness, for opulence. You should have something decadently comfortable hugging your sweet cheeks and cradling your —

Don’t think about that. I have to be careful not to think about how your panties are drawn tight against your —

Stop.

Snuggled up against your warm, pink, virgin —

Stop. Move up in line. Relax.

I don’t imagine you have the budget for hundred-dollar panties, though, Kayla. Nothing that fancy. What, then? Perhaps... Victoria’s Secret? Something a bit more mundane, a bit more accessible. But no, I can’t picture you shopping there. You’d be intimidated, wouldn’t you, Kayla, by the busty glamour girls showing off their push-up enhanced hooters from every sign and poster? And the girls in the store, they might look down on you, mightn’t they? Sneer at you. “We have a bra to match those panties,” they might say, “But not one small enough for you.” They would smile as they said it, but you would know it was meant to sting.

What would be pretty enough for you, Kayla? Something you could buy without a clerk to help you. Not Vickie’s, no. J. C. Penney has a lovely line — have you seen the Mystique panties? Some of them are so pretty. You’d be perfect in that baby-pink double-string pair, so lacy they’re nearly see-through. The color would be so good on your pale skin, and the airy lace would really show off your —

No. No.

But even there, you’d have to take the little hanger up to a check-out station, and people would see. They would notice you, and notice that you were buying a pretty pair of panties, and their minds would fill with pictures of you slipping them on... or slipping them off. And that would be too much to bear, wouldn’t it, Kayla?

Do you ever think that way, Kayla? Do you ever think, as you snug your panties up around you, of someone else taking them off? Do you ever picture, as you get dressed, that a man might be the one to reverse the process? That a man’s fingers will gently take the elastic, that he’ll slowly slide the silky scrap of fabric down your long, slender legs, leaving you bare and exposed and open to him? That when his hands return they’ll stroke the fine, soft curls of —

Too soon. Not now. Not today.

No, Kayla, I don’t think your thoughts lead that way — not yet. I think I know what’s hugging your buns underneath those baggy trousers. I think: Fruit-of-the-Loom Hipsters, six to a plastic bag, purchased at Target and jumbled in with enough other items that they don’t stand out. I think that’s what you buy, Kayla. Hanes Her Way, maybe. But one day... one day... I’ll dress you in something as elegant as you deserve, just for the pleasure of taking it off.

It’s my turn with nose-in-the-air Angie. Yes, I found everything I needed. Paper, please. Let me look inside your mind, bitch. Hmm — worse than I guessed. Seventeen years old and on your fifth “boyfriend.” Slut. Cheap, mean, trashy little — you should be grateful you get to work near Kayla. She’s the beauty you think you are. Oh, sure, you’re all tits and ass and experience and sassy attitude, but she’s the beauty. She’s soft and delicate and naïve and shy. She’s perfect.

I think today I’ll leave you a little present, slut. I can see how much you look down your nose at bag-boy, here. How you think he’s a slimy little creep. How you think he’s dirty and smelly. He’s not, you know, he just isn’t quite the glamorous boy-toy type you usually spread your legs for. Well, Angie, you’ve just been tweaked. It was a tiny little adjustment, really. You never felt me inside your mind. But bag-boy is getting the best blow job of his life tonight, isn’t he? Hmm, yes, actually the first blow job of his life, now that I check his thoughts. But the best one you’ve ever given — and you have lots of experience.

Unlike Kayla. I haven’t been in her mind, but I know she’s a virgin. Every move, every posture, every bit of body language speaks of her innocence. You are a shy, innocent creature, Kayla. Nervous about your own womanhood. Hoping not to be noticed for your beautiful girlish breasts or your firm round bottom or your runway-model legs or your fascinating multi-hued curly-kinky hair or your frightened-fawn eyes.

I collect girls, Kayla. And you’re in my collection: like a precious bottle of vintage wine with the cork and capsule still intact. As with wine, merely keeping you will not be enough. One day, the cork must be drawn. One day, the wine must be tasted.

You’re a special one, Kayla, I want you to know that. I won’t just compel you to please me with your body. You’re too precious. When I let myself take your mind, Kayla, I’m going to fill it with love. You’ll be in love with me. You’ll adore me. Your world will center on me, and you will please me, not because I compel you to, but because you cannot conceive of doing anything else.

You will worship me. You will open your body to me, surrender to me your innocence, and overwhelm me with your devotion and love.

What's that, Angie? Twelve dollars and... fifteen cents? Here you go. You’re welcome.

Good-bye, Kayla.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Author’s notes on Checkout

Just a little something to think about next time the checkout lines are too long :-)

A bit of an oddity with respect to my usual style, in that it’s an [Mf][MC] story with no [Mf] and precious little [MC]. But it has been rattling around in my head for quite a while in just this form, and was pretty clear about not wanting to be re-shaped into a more explicit tale. Sometimes the muse gets to call the shots.

By the way, when I wrote “...or that Swiss company with the brushed cotton, I forget their name” that wasn’t just a literary device. I was actually thinking of a particular brand, but spacing out on the name. About three weeks later, it popped into my head: Hanro. I once knew a girl who, not needing a bra for support, favored Hanro camisoles instead. The feel of her itty-bitties through that soft, soft cotton is a delightful sensual memory.

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Checkout

by Frenulum

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