Lust in the checkout line

It was a Sunday afternoon and the market was busy with shoppers getting ready for the week ahead. I got into the express line and pulled out my phone to let my friend know that I would be late for our meeting. And then I saw him.

Dressed in a "local 465" ball cap with a checkered shirt fitted nicely over shoulders firm and squared and wrangler jeans resting just right over his butt and thighs. He is younger than me by maybe 5 or 6 years. Young and willing to learn.

I moved to the city ten years ago. Many would say that I have become urban and certainly many of my tastes have become more accustomed with urban ways of Being. But I have a secret weakness for men who work with their hands. Their long, rough fingers hold such a delicious promise. Promises of hair entangled, of nipples and clit thoroughly serviced.

As I stand there, waiting for my turn (wishing that it might never come so that I can simply stand there and bask in his manliness) I imagine mounting him on the checkout counter. We would only shed what is necessary. It is hot and quick but oh so fulfilling.

Then, it happens. He has forgotten his wallet. The cashier begins to put aside his items while he runs outside to fetch it. While he is gone, I pay for his items and wait patiently by the door for his return.

One good turn deserves another. I am looking forward to my turn in the cab of his truck.