The Look That Turned Us On at the Supermarket

It was December 31st and there were only a few hours left until the New Year when Valeria and I went out to the supermarket. There was nothing extraordinary about the reason: we needed fruit, a bottle of wine, and a little cheese for the dinner we were making at home. My father-in-law had stayed behind to look after our daughter, so we had that rarity that so seldom happens in the years we’ve been married: a moment of freedom without obligations.

But this wasn’t an ordinary outing. Nothing about that outing was ordinary.

Before we left, Valeria had showered and changed with a calmness that struck me as suspicious. She chose a black skirt with a bit of flare that fell halfway down her thigh, a narrow-striped blouse fitted to her body, and over it a long gray wool coat. Underneath, though, she was wearing stockings: first a natural-colored Lycra pantyhose, and over that another black fishnet layer that went up to her waist. Black mid-heel boots. Nothing in that outfit was accidental. When she finished getting dressed, she lifted her skirt in front of the mirror to check how the fishnet looked over her thigh, and I, watching her from the bedroom doorway, felt my cock harden at once inside my pants. She saw me in the reflection, smiled, and without turning around said, “Tonight I’m going to make you suffer a little, and then I’m going to make you cum like an animal.” My mouth went dry.

I had dressed well too that night. Dark shirt, dress pants. It was New Year’s Eve, even if we were only going to the corner supermarket.

When we stepped out into the December cold, the air was dry and cutting. I asked her to open her coat when we got to the store, and she did it without saying a word, with that small smile she gets when she knows exactly what she’s doing. Inside the supermarket the white light lit her from head to toe, and it didn’t take me long to notice that I wasn’t the only one looking at what she was wearing. Two men in the entrance section looked at her as we passed. One of them even turned his head.

There’s something about stockings that throws me off. I don’t know if it’s the subtle shine of the Lycra, the way they define every curve of the leg, or simply what they represent. On Valeria that effect multiplies. It’s enough for me to see her like that to lose track of any rational thought. That night, surrounded by families doing their New Year’s Eve shopping, I could think of nothing else than ripping her pantyhose with my teeth and eating her pussy right there, against the fruit aisle.

We got what we needed quickly: the fruit section first, then the cheese in the refrigerated back, bread from the bakery. We still had time left and strolled through the rest at an unhurried pace, pushing the cart between people loaded down with bags and couples arguing over which wine to buy. There was a particular energy that night, that mix of urgency and celebration that turns a supermarket into something different from the usual.

When we reached the liquor aisle, the atmosphere was organized chaos. The shelves were packed to the top, but people kept moving nonstop, looking for champagne, cider, something fizzy for the midnight toast. Carts collided with each other. Someone was arguing with an employee over the price of something. It was noisy, rushed, full of stimulation.

That’s when I saw him.

He was at the far end of the aisle, almost crouched over the floor, organizing the bottom tier of a tower of ciders someone had started and left half-finished. He was young, maybe in his early twenties, wearing the supermarket’s orange apron and with his hair a little messy. He was completely focused on his task, arranging bottles carefully so they wouldn’t fall. His position was perfect: squatting, almost kneeling, with his eyes right at the height of whoever stopped in front of him.

The idea crossed my mind in a second and settled in without asking permission.

I whispered to Valeria to go over, to ask him something about the ciders or anything else, that any excuse would do. She looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

—Just ask him? —she said softly, in that tone that mixes curiosity with something darker.

—Just stand in front of him —I replied—. Let him get a good look at your legs. I’ll stay here and watch both of you.

—And if he gets hard? —she murmured.

—Even better —I said in her ear—. Then you’ll tell me about it and I’ll fuck you thinking about that.

There was a moment of silence. Then she adjusted her skirt with a tiny gesture, ran her tongue over her upper lip, let go of the cart handle, and walked toward the back of the aisle. I stayed where I was, about two meters away, pretending to read the label on a bottle of wine I didn’t care about at all.

I watched her approach the guy. She greeted him, and he looked up, and at that instant I noticed his expression change. First the blink of someone who doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing. Then the sweep of his eyes, from her feet upward, lightning fast but complete, with no attempt at hiding it. And then stillness: he stopped moving the bottles. He was still in position, crouched down, but he was no longer organizing anything. He was staring.

Valeria asked him something while pointing to a side shelf. He answered, and she turned her head to look where he indicated, and in that half-second when she looked away, his eyes dropped straight to her legs and didn’t move again. It was a hungry, fixed look, the kind a man gives when he thinks no one is watching him. The look of a guy whose cock is getting hard in the middle of a work shift.

But I was watching him. From my two meters away, with the bottle in my hand and my cock pressing against the fabric of my pants, I could see it perfectly.

They talked for more than three minutes. He gestured now and then, pointed out products, explained something, did the bare minimum the situation required, but every time Valeria looked toward where he was pointing, his eyes returned to the same spot. Fishnet over Lycra. The line of the thigh her skirt left exposed. The curve of her calf marked by the heel of the boot. And higher up, where he couldn’t see but was surely imagining: the junction of thigh and pubis, my wife’s cunt beneath two layers of fabric.

At one point, he made a gesture toward the other side of the shelf and she took half a step in that direction. Her skirt shifted just a little, an inch, and the guy held his breath. I saw it. A tiny detail, imperceptible to anyone not looking exactly at what I was looking at, but there it was. He had had to readjust the bulge against his thigh, using the excuse of stretching his apron.

I had been hard for a while. It wasn’t a comfortable situation: dress pants aren’t made for that, and the friction of the fabric got more intense with every second. The head of my cock was leaking inside my boxer briefs, leaving a damp stain that clung to my skin. I kept pretending to read labels, but the only thing I could see was that guy on the floor looking at my wife as if she were the most valuable thing in the supermarket’s liquor aisle on New Year’s Eve.

What excited me wasn’t jealousy. It was exactly the opposite: knowing that what he was seeing was mine, that Valeria was there because I had asked her to be, that she enjoyed that game as much as I did. It was a closed circuit of desire we had built together without saying it out loud, and that guy was only the involuntary catalyst for something that already existed between us. I was the one who was going to fuck her that night. He was going to be left with the image and with the handjob he’d give himself in the supermarket bathroom half an hour later.

I couldn’t hold back much longer. I walked over slowly, without hurrying, as if nothing were happening. I stood beside him, put a hand on the small of her back, right where the curve of her ass began, and spoke in her ear.

—Did you find what you were looking for?

She turned toward me with shining eyes and answered with a brief kiss at the corner of my mouth. She lowered her hand and squeezed my bulge over my pants, just for a second, long enough for the guy to see it.

The guy got to his feet in a flash. His tongue had tied up. He opened his mouth, closed it, and ended up nodding as if that were the answer to a question no one had asked. His face was red and his apron had fallen forward in a way that fooled no one. We took one of the bottles he’d been arranging, put it in the cart, and headed down the aisle without looking back.

***

We left the supermarket with the bags loaded and the December cold on our faces. We walked home quickly, and she told me in detail everything the guy had said: that the ciders he was stacking were imported, that he recommended one in particular, that if she needed more information she could call customer service. Completely normal things, said in a way that made it clear he was improvising while trying not to lose the thread of his own gaze.

—He was too obvious —Valeria said, laughing—. His cock was pressing against the apron, I swear. When I bent down to look at the label on a bottle, I thought he was going to cum in his pants.

—That’s why I liked it —I replied, already with my hand under her coat, searching for her thigh over the fishnet.

—He kept his eyes glued to the floor every time I looked away. As if he thought I wouldn’t notice.

—And did you notice?

She looked at me out of the corner of her eye with that side smile of hers.

—From the very first second. I was wet before we even got to the aisle, asshole.

At home, before my father-in-law had time to ask why we had taken so long, Valeria took me toward the hallway bathroom with a firm hand on my wrist. She locked the door behind us.

There was no preamble. She knelt on the cold tiles, tore open my pants with one yank, and pulled down my boxer briefs in a single motion. My cock sprang out hard, swollen, the tip shiny with the moisture it had been building up since the liquor aisle. She looked at it for a second, as if assessing it, and then raised her eyes to mine exactly the way he had looked at her from the floor of that supermarket.

—Did you like seeing him look at me like that? —she whispered, and without waiting for an answer she took my cock all the way into her mouth, to the back, until I felt the tip bump against her throat.

I moaned against the tiles. She pulled it out slowly, lips tight, and took it back in, this time faster. She sucked me with hunger, with both balls pressed into the palm of her hand, massaging them while her mouth went up and down my shaft. Her tongue curled around the head, then flattened along the whole length, then wrapped around it again. She knew exactly what she was doing. Ten years of marriage had taught her every exact point on my cock and she was working them all at once.

—Suck me like that, fuck —I said, my voice breaking—. Suck me the way you’d have let him suck you.

She moaned with my cock in her mouth. She liked hearing that. She sped up. She took my cock out for a second to spit on it, the spit landed on the head and she spread it with her hand, then took it all back in. With her other hand she lifted her skirt and slipped two fingers under the fishnet pantyhose, straight to her cunt. I heard her sigh when she touched herself. She was soaked. I heard it in the sound of her fingers moving between her lower lips, a little wet slap that mixed with the sound of her mouth on my cock.

—I’m going to cum, Vale —I warned her—. I’m going to cum in your fucking mouth.

She nodded with my cock inside her, without taking it out, and sped up even more. The head was hitting her palate, her throat, and she swallowed each time, squeezing her mouth around me. I braced against the cold tiles of the wall and let myself go completely. I came in her mouth in long waves, three, four spurts in a row, gripping her hair with both hands and holding back my groan so they wouldn’t hear me from the living room. She swallowed it all, not losing a drop, and when I was done she still kept it in for a while longer, sucking me slowly, drawing out the last pulse.

She stood up, ran her thumb along the corner of her mouth, wiped away the tiny thread that had escaped her and brought it to her lips. She fixed her hair in the mirror as if nothing had happened and opened the door.

—Now, dinner —she said.

***

That night we toasted at twelve with the cider that guy had been stacking, and we both knew it without saying it. We looked at each other over our glasses with that complicity that doesn’t need words. My father-in-law proposed a toast for the New Year and we clinked our glasses smiling, each of us thinking about something completely different from what he imagined.

Later, when the house fell silent and we went to bed, it was she who brought it up.

—What do you think he thought when he saw you coming over?

—That he’d made a mistake —I said.

She laughed against my neck, a soft sound that was lost in the pillow.

And that’s where it all started again.

I ripped the pajama pants off her in one yank. Underneath, she had put the fishnet stockings back on, without the Lycra pantyhose this time, just the net straight against her skin, and nothing else. Her bare cunt showed through the mesh diamond, shiny, already swollen, the lips parted from how little it had taken to get her hot again. The image of the crouching guy was still haunting both of us.

—Eat me out —she asked me, and pushed my head down with both hands—. Eat me out thinking about the way he was looking at me.

I spread her legs, lifted her ass with both hands from underneath, and buried my face in her cunt. She tasted like a woman who had been wet for hours. I ran my tongue all the way from bottom to top, from the edge of her ass to her clit, and she arched with a long moan she smothered in the pillow. I stayed on top of her clit, sucking it with my lips like it was a tiny cock, while I slid two fingers into her and curled them, searching for that spot inside. She started moving her hips against my face, rubbing herself, with no control at all.

—Like that, like that, don’t stop, asshole, don’t stop.

She came in my mouth a few minutes later, her legs tightening around my head and the fishnet stockings scraping my ears. She came with a tremor that climbed from her thighs to her belly, biting the pillow so she wouldn’t wake anyone. She was still shaking when I climbed on top of her and drove my cock into her in one thrust, all the way in, feeling how her cunt was still contracting from the orgasm.

—Oh, fuck —she gasped—. Fuck me like that.

I fucked her slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out and then pushing back in until I hit the back of her. She dug her nails into my back. I lifted one leg and put it over my shoulder to go deeper, and from that angle it looked perfect: the fishnet stockings running up her thigh, my cock coming in and out coated with her juices, her cunt opening around me every time I thrust.

—Tell me what you would’ve let him do —I whispered in her ear, never stopping my thrusts—. If I hadn’t been there. Tell me.

She closed her eyes and panted.

—I would’ve let him put his head under my skirt right there, between the cider boxes. Let him lick my pussy on the supermarket floor, kneeling there with his apron on.

—You little bitch —I growled—. Go on.

—And then I would’ve let him take out his cock and shove it into me against the shelf, with my skirt up, with the stockings on, while you watched me from the other end of the aisle.

I started fucking her faster, with my hand on her throat, squeezing just enough. She was rubbing her clit with two fingers between our bodies, moving them in quick circles.

—I’m going to cum again —she panted.

—Cum, cum with my cock inside you.

She came a second time that night with a spasm that clenched my cock like a fist. I held out three more thrusts and came inside her, with all the strength I had left, emptying myself until there was nothing left. We stayed like that, stuck together, sweating, with the fishnet stockings still on and the image of that crouching guy turning over in both our heads. We remembered him in whispers, adding details that probably never happened, building a version of the episode more intense than the real one, more charged, more ours.

That’s the best thing we have: that film that exists only between the two of us, that gets better every time we watch it again.

Even today, when one of us says, “Do you remember New Year’s Eve at the supermarket?”, the other already knows where the night is going to end.