tagLoving WivesGrocery Shopping

Grocery Shopping

byReedRichards©

Ahhh, the joys of being retired!

It was warm this morning, still the first part of May, but heading to around 85º by the time all was said and done. Since I was already halfway there, having gotten out of my doctor's appointment – just a routine check-up; no acute problems – I figured that I'd head to the Kroger supermarket on Bypass Road in Richmond. I needed some stuff, shampoo and bar soap as well as food, and the eleven o'clock shoppers would be mostly women, and I do so love looking at women.

The hot weather brought out a few Eastern Kentucky University coeds in their frayed Daisy Dukes and t-shirts, certainly nice to look at, but they reminded me that during my own college days, bras were a fairly scarce commodity on campus, while it seemed like all of the coeds were wearing bras nowadays. ☹

But, of course, nineteen and twenty year old coeds were certainly nice eye candy, but they weren't going to be interested in a 67-year-old man who had led a rough life, and looked it. Oh, I was still in excellent shape for my years, and broader in the shoulders than the waist, but while I had a decently cut physique into my forties, I sure didn't look that way in my upper sixties.

That was when I spotted her. She was somewhere around my age, but unlike so many women in their sixties, who had their hair cut around shoulder length, if not shorter, this woman wore her hair long and flowing, almost down to her elbows.

Also unlike so many women in their sixties, she wasn't trying to hide her grey . . . and it was spectacular. I guessed that she must've been a brunette earlier in life, because most of her hair was a dramatic steel grey, but right around her forehead and face it had faded to a very light grey, almost white. If she had gone to a beautician and asked for that kind of highlight, it could have been no more perfectly placed that what Mother Nature had given her.

And she was slender, emphasized by her slightly taller than average stature; a quick guesstimate placed her around 5'8" tall. If she was using make-up, it was so subtle that I couldn't tell.

One thing about Kroger: unlike a lot of supermarkets, they had a lot of staff, always available to help shoppers, and keeping the shelves well-stocked throughout the day. There were times that meant too-crowded aisles, but today this one store employee helped me as well as anyone ever could.

The employee had a cart full of bread, and was restocking aisle two, and he just happened to be in the grey-haired lady's way, which wound up putting me right in front of her. She smiled, apologized to me for being in my way – she really wasn't – and I took a chance.

"Oh, I don't mind; it gives me a chance to flirt with you."

Now, I'll admit it: I'm a natural flirt, and not shy about it at all. To me, a bold statement like that is no big deal, though I know men who had to screw up their courage to the utmost to make a remark like that to a woman . . . if they could at all.

Of course, some women don't particularly like strange men flirting with them, and I can always tell after that very first attempt whether they dislike it, and in those cases I back off and let them go about their businesses. But this vision of loveliness wasn't offended at all, and smiled back at me, telling me that it's always good to be flirted with.

At that point, I checked her out a bit further. Even though it was shorts weather, she was wearing full length jeans, jeans which fitted her very well, without being the skin-tight things that younger women wear. She wore a simple white blouse, sleeveless, showing arms which had already seen the sun this spring, and Birkenstock sandals on her feet. But, on the third finger of her left hand, she wore a huge wedding set, one that went practically from her knuckle to the first joint; she was not leaving anyone in confusion about her marital status.

A couple more brief, unserious remarks passed between us, nothing memorable at all, and then we had to go our separate ways; we had been headed in the opposite directions down the bread aisle.

So, what was I going to do about this? Ninety times out of a hundred, I'd just smile and let the situation go, but there was just something about this woman, whose name I hadn't even gotten, that stayed in my mind. We were clearly shopping for different things, as she was not in the next aisle when I turned in. I suppose that I could have 'stalked' her through the store, but I'm not a 'deviated prevert' as Colonel Batguano put it in Dr. Strangelove.

Then fate intervened. At least that was how I put it to her, when, as luck would have it, her car was parked next to my truck, and she was loading her groceries into it as I got there.

"We meet again," I began, "and this simply hast to be fate smiling down on us. I'm Wyatt."

She looked up at me, giving me a sort of subtle smile, and just said, "Morgan," which I took to be her name.

"Do you have any plans for this afternoon?" I asked her.

"You mean besides driving home and putting away my groceries?" Her smile got a bit bigger.

"Well, yes. We could go for a nice, romantic walk, sit under a shade tree, drink some wine, and perhaps share a kiss or two."

There! I'd laid out my intentions clearly, yet couched them in Hallmark Channel romance.

She smiled at that, clearly enjoying being flirted with, but then she raised her left hand, displaying that very ostentatious wedding set of hers. "As nice as that sounds," she replied, "there's kind of an obstacle to that."

I played dumb, as though I hadn't noticed that wedding set previously. "Hmmm. I suppose that could be an obstacle, at least if you let it be. Is your husband waiting at home for you, or is he busy until five at work?"

"He's at work."

There it was, her surrender! "So, if that romantic walk in public might not be a good idea, I could at least take you home and ravish you?" That was only half a question, the other half a statement.

"Well, that's pretty blunt." She looked me up and down. "You still capable of ravishing a woman?"

And there I had all the information that I needed. Yes, she might still love her husband, probably did, but he was past his ravishing days. Sadly, old age did that to some men. "Still capable, ma'am, no Viagra required." The look in her eyes completed everything; just because her husband was beyond his ravishing days did not mean she wouldn't still like to be taken.

"4220 Isla Vista Drive." That's all she said, and then, having finished loading her groceries, she got into her car. I scrambled to get my stuff loaded in my truck, wanting to follow her car out of the parking lot, but she hadn't waited for me.

But Google is my friend, and I quickly looked up the address, and there it was, on a side street just past the EKU Planetarium. With not-quite-undo haste, I hurried out of the lot, turned left onto Bypass Road and headed toward the Planetarium.

Crap! Despite the GPS, I missed the turn onto Isla Vista, but realized my mistake, turned around, and then headed into the short street.

Why would such a short street have four-digit house numbers?

It took less than a minute to find 4220, and there she was, her car parked in the open garage, unloading her groceries. I parked my truck on the street, and walked up the broad concrete driveway. "I see that you found the place," she said, handing me a couple of her canvas reusable grocery bags. I took them, and then followed her into the house.

It was startlingly matter-of-fact at that point. Morgan was in full housewife mode, putting away her groceries – and I even helped! – and them carefully folding the reusable bags, and storing them neatly in a cabinet underneath the silverware drawer. Her kitchen was spotless.

"OK, come with me," she said, heading out of the kitchen, through the dining room, which had four placemats on the table, and a simple but tasteful centerpiece displayed, then through the living room, again, spotless, with nothing out of place, and the carpets looking freshly vacuumed, and up a short stairway up to a hall. (The house was a 1970s-style split-level. I hate split-levels.)

Down the hall she went, then, glancing right into the master bedroom, with its neatly made up bed, she opened a door on the left. It was as spotless as the rest of her house, with a nice double bed in it; it looked like it must've been the room of one of her now-adult children, now made into a guest bedroom, but still with a couple of high school football trophies on the wall, along with a University of Tennessee pennant. Her son must've gone to UT, possibly on a football scholarship. Hmmm, that might just indicate that his father, her husband, was a pretty big dude. There could be some danger here.

Still, it looked like she was at least not going to disrespect her husband by screwing me in their marriage bed. That was kind of a strange thought.

But I didn't get any time to really contemplate that, as she turned around, put her arms over my neck, locking her wrists together and pulling me down into a kiss, the first time we'd kissed, the first time we'd even touched each other. My hands went around her waist, pulling her in more closely.

She kicked off her Birkenstocks, and then I dropped to my knees, kissing her stomach through her blouse, and then unfastening her jeans; her hands were in my hair.

I moved slowly, easing her jeans down. While she had the hips of a woman who had given birth, her ass was kind of flat, as though advancing age had taken away what she probably had when she was younger. Beneath her jeans were a pair of what could only be described as granny panties, white cotton, which might have fit a bit better if she still had an ass. Clearly, she hadn't been dressing as though she expected to get laid.

Beneath those granny panties was the Promised Land, hidden behind a full, almost black bush, darker than her grey hair. When I pulled those down, I kissed her lightly on her sex, and her fingers in my hair tensed a bit, as though she wanted to pull my head in more tightly, but was hesitant.

I took that as a clue, and kissed her nether regions a bit more firmly, and then snaked out my tongue to tease her pussy. Still in the standing position, it was a bit difficult, and I thought, weirdly enough, how great it would have been to have a tongue like Gene Simmons in this situation.

Morgan could sense my difficulty, and she moved back and sat on the edge of the bed. Once there, she leaned back, propped up on her elbows so that she could still see the action, and my mouth followed along with her.

Man, she was horny, rising toward her orgasm very quickly. As is usually the case with a woman in her sixties, her own lubrication was present but still somewhat lacking, and I knew that adding extra saliva while eating her out would help with what I had planned next. Her first orgasm slammed her, hard, and at this point I would normally have risen up to enter her, but decided that no, I'd bring her to a second climax orally, just to enhance the lubrication we'd need.

With some women, especially women with a few years on them, bringing them to a second orgasm orally could be difficult, could take a long time. Not so with Morgan! Her second climax was rising in her quickly, and washed over her as hard as did the first one. My tongue wasn't even tired yet!

Of course, I'm good at multi-tasking, and had already unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans while I had been eating her. I had lucked out, wearing my sneakers instead of work boots, so I was able to kick off my shoes and drop my trousers and boxers in almost a single motion. Off came my socks and t-shirt, and I was proudly naked in front of her. And while she seemed to appreciate all of my naked body, most of her attention was drawn to just one spot. Fortunately, I'd been as good as my word, rising to the occasion without the need of a little blue pill.

I thought that she might have taken off her blouse and bra at this point, but she didn't simply scooting up on the bed, her legs apart, ready to be taken. And that's just what I did.

My proud cock, 6½ inches long, didn't quite stand straight out anymore, but it was certainly capable of doing the job. I had always had good control, but it had been a long time since I'd had sex with anyone else; I was just glad that I'd had sex with myself yesterday, so that I wasn't so needy that I couldn't hold back. Morgan raised her knees up just as I got into position to enter her, and she snaked her arms around my neck as I did. I was using my elbows to keep my full weight off of her, but she was pulling my head down, mashing her lips to mine as I thrust deeply within her. Her legs wrapped around me, pulling me into her harder, and I could read the signs; she didn't want to make love to me, she just wanted to get fucked.

So I obliged. I mixed it up, sometimes slamming into her hard, and at others using slow strokes, but adding a technique I'd picked up decades ago, slightly rolling up my pubic bone as I bottomed out, to give her clit additional stimulation.

And it worked, worked spectacularly well. Morgan's climax was rising inside her again, almost as quickly as when I was giving her head, and she came with a crash like lightning and thunder.

Once her orgasm had subsided, I slowed down my pace; I knew that I was good for some time yet. That was when Morgan pulled her arms away from around my neck, unwrapped her legs from around me, and gently pushed up on my left shoulder; she wanted to roll over and get on top.

Well, I love it when a woman rides on top! I slipped out of her as we were changing positions, but Morgan took me in hand and guided me back inside of her. This time she was setting the pace, and there were no slower strokes with my pubic bone roll; after a few strokes to make sure we were lined up properly, she started slamming down on me hard, fucking me for all that she was worth. She was going to cum again, and this time, she was going to take me with her. I was the one being ravished this time, and in her intensity, I could feel my need rising within me.

My hands free, I put them under her blouse, starting to work my way up to her breasts, when she put her hands on my wrists and pushed them down again, pushed them down around her hips.

I knew what that meant. Yeah, she wanted my hands tightly on her hips while we screwed, but she also didn't want my hands near her boobs; I figured that meant she'd had a mastectomy. Big deal!

Fortunately, my abortive move toward her chest didn't slow down her rising orgasm, and it didn't slow down mine either. All of a sudden I had to put more effort into controlling myself, or I'd have cum before she did again. I held back for maybe a minute longer than I would have had I just let myself go, when she had he last orgasm, and with that I spent myself deeply within her. Morgan just collapsed on my chest, covering my face with kissed, before turning her head and resting it on my shoulder for a couple of minutes.

There wasn't much of an 'afterglow' period. A couple of minutes passed, no more than two or three, before Morgan got up and off of me.

"That was fantastic," she told me, "but get up and help me strip this bed. I've got to get this bedding washed and this room aired out before my husband gets home. He's a chemistry professor at the college, and he usually gets home around 4:30 on Wednesdays. With that, she walked over, opened up the windows – there was one on the long wall, and one on the shorter one where the headboard was – and opened the slats on the venetian blinds, to get more ventilation through the room. I pulled on my clothes, then helped her strip the bedding and carry the stuff to her laundry room. It was in the back of her still-open garage. Morgan was in diligent housewife mode again.

"OK, that was great, wonderful, marvelous, and I really needed that," she said, "but now we're done. Lose my address, forget my name, and never come back. We can never see each other again." She kissed me one last time, and showed me the door.

*****

This was just a quick fantasy, with no 'moral to the story' involved. While most of the locations I use in my stories are real, the address given for Morgan's house does not exist; there is no Isla Vista Drive in Richmond, Kentucky, at least not according to Google. The Kroger store, Bypass Road and the EKU Planetarium are all real places.

I did go shopping at that Kroger yesterday, and I did have a brief, flirtatious encounter with a woman in aisle 2, when a store employee was stocking the shelves. However, that was the end of it; I didn't stalk her, and I didn't see her again in the parking lot. The rest is all my imagination.

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by Anonymous

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by Anonymous09/14/18

last comment

For fucks sake Bonnie, try coming up with a more original comment. This one is getting old and tiring. By the way, nobody really cares what a bitch, who's been banned from a porn site, has to say. Givemore...

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by Anonymous07/17/18

5! Ever wonder why ANNONY reads all these stories if he hate them so much?

because they remind him of his dead ex wife the whore who fucked over a 100 men and told him on her death bed.

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by Anonymous07/17/18

Slut

Oh, and he's a wife stealing asshole also. Pure shit.

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by Anonymous05/17/18

This one causes a big smile on my face

Grocery stores are a great hunting grounds. a big 5

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by luedon05/17/18

It's a bit difficult, Anonymouse

When writing first-person from the viewpoint of the flirter, to include in the story a description of the emotional state of the flirtee.

Lue

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