The Movement of Spit By Robert S. Costic
Robert Costic has written a collection of fairy tales, "Flamethrower Fairy Tales," and a novella, "Kepler's Revenge," and has also translated the 19th century German writer Theodor Storm's fairy tales and ghost stories. All are available as ebooks everywhere.
"Want to fuck?" These were the first words the cashier at my local supermarket said to me when I finally reached him after waiting in his queue for ten minutes, pondering the wisdom of ancient Greek philosophers. The only thing on my mind had been to have my groceries checked as expeditiously as possible and pay the total for him, so I was taken aback by his frank question.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Here. Right now. On the counter. Are you game?"
"Are you joking? Here, in public?"
"Yeah, no one cares," the cashier said. "I blew the manager just an hour ago, and I've fucked everyone else who works here at one time or another. You're the hottest guy I've seen all day, and I've yet to get my rocks off."
My mind, once occupied by food and Plato, raced to consider the situation. Here was a young man who looked quite attractive in spite of wearing the tragically unflattering supermarket uniform, including a blue apron on which was adorned a lapel that simply stated that his name was David. He had a lean, handsome face with a mischievous smirk and lively blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his black hair. Here was someone I did not know at all -- I had no clue as to whether we'd even be sexually compatible -- but between his fearlessly perverse desire for public sex and his alluring face, which if nothing else tempted me to kiss it, I felt inclined to surrender to the temptation that he presented me. I considered the wise words of the philosopher Kavliargis, who said, "The penalty of refusing to participate in sex is that you end up fucking with your inferiors," and thus told the cashier David, "Sure, okay."
"Come up," he said, and we climbed atop the counter, bumping into my apples, oranges, cat food, and soda cans until we kissed and embraced.
Such an outrageously public sexual advance was outside my comfort zone -- I felt scared -- and so if anything I lunged myself forward in a frenzy, hoping that by propelling myself ahead as quickly as possible I could overcome this fear that presented itself.
The woman behind me in the checkout queue blurted out, "I can't believe you're doing this! Again! Look at all the checkout queues. I've already been waiting over ten minutes. Do you expect me to just to move to another queue and start waiting all over again? It's unacceptable for you to be taking up my and the other customers' time fucking on the checkout counter all the time."
But we paid no attention to her. I was busy tonguing my beautiful cashier as he unbuttoned my shirt and squeezed my nipples. He was a good kisser, someone with passion but who could also show some sensitive delicacy. I was reminded by the famous saying of Glossatis, "Kissing is the movement of spit to reach the soul for the education of its virtue."
David threw off his apron and his shirt to reveal a beautifully slender torso with a patch of black hair between the nipples that then trickled down like a stream from a lake to his nether regions, which at this point still hid inside his pants. He searched frantically around the counter, and to my surprise he grabbed the gallon of milk that I had brought, opened it, and poured it over his face so that it rushed and splashed over his chest and everywhere else. I kissed him and tasted the milk, sometimes licking it off his chest, considering the words of Galaxos, "At the touch of milk everyone becomes a poet."
Everything moved so quickly, at this point I forget when we had become completely naked, but somewhere among the kissing, the groping, and the milk our clothes were being shed piece by piece, and there we were, among the customers and other employees, completely naked, erect, our bodies against each other. At one point I may have heard a cashier call out over the intercom, "Price check in aisle four," or the muttering of some disgusted passerby, but I was too enthralled with this sexual adventure to care.
With a turn of his body David presented his ass to me and commanded, "Fuck it." But I couldn't do it just yet. His cheeks were so beautifully full and round, but also strong and firm, and the hole in between them was such a neat, discreet sliver, I wanted, as the philosopher Opisthia put it, to "taste the sensitive lips of the well of men's figs," and so grabbed the cheeks with my hands and inserted by tongue between them into his hole. David moaned. His hole tightened reflexively, but as my tongue caressed and lubricated him he loosened so that I could eventually reach all the way in with no difficulty. He was in a state of ecstasy, and I would have been, too, if I hadn't been so keen to replace my tongue with my erection.
It so happened that I actually intended to buy condoms that day, so I grabbed the box of condoms I had brought to the counter, slipped one on, spat on it, and slowly entered into him. He took it well, even holding my torso with one hand to guide me inside. For a fleeting second I pondered what I was going to do with my groceries once this was all over, especially now that I had lost my gallon of milk, but the thought past once I had reached all the way inside of him so that my testicles pressed against his taint.
As Peosinus stated, "Fucking is the body talking," and my body talked.
Both of our bodies did, as I enjoyed the inside of him and he enjoyed having me. We alternated between slow and fast, between intensity of feeling and the savoring of it, and we began to sweat so that when our bodies made contact they slid against each other, the friction nonexistent. But it came to the point that he wanted it to reach its climax. "Do it," he said, "go all the way. I want you to cum inside me." And so I increased the tempo of my thrusts, holding him by the shoulders, my erection growing larger and stiffer. It began to generate that burning feeling right before the release, so I warned him in a whisper and then did, shooting in several great pulsing spurts that thrust as deep inside him as possible, and he jacked off and came, his ejaculation shooting across the counter.
Exhausted and panting, we kissed, tasting each other once again, but at that moment we were reminded of the woman who had been waiting behind me in the queue, the one who had complained earlier when we began to kiss. She was there the whole time, and after we had reached our climax and were in the middle of our affectionate embraces she said, "Excuse me. Are you done?"