Waitrose

It was at the deli counter, when the

thickset guy with the ugly tattoo

asked “Anything else, madam?”, that she wanted to

shout “Yes, I’m a

married housewife with two

beautiful girls who will need

picking up from school soon, which will

entail standing amidst

picky parents with this bloody

penis-shaped bit of

plastic in my previously

untouched arse, sent to me by a

man I’ve never met in preparation for his

visitation to our little town next week when I am to

meet him at an hotel where he will—

sorry if this shocks you—

fuck all my holes and send me home with his

sperm on my pretty face—his words

not mine (I think I’m

rather plain)—and do you know

what is really shocking? Eh? Yes

I’m going but no that’s

not it—I’m about to have a

bloody great orgasm right here, right

now and I’m sorry if you have to

call for a clean-up but I hope you

understand and ...oh

fuck.......”

Instead, she got a grip on her

shame, her embarrassment, the rather

full feeling in her bowels, the

drip of her pussy and her

incipient orgasm and like a

good English housewife ordered a

half-pound of Cheshire cheese.