“Let’s play a game,” you say.
You only say that when you’re horny.
“Okay, but I have errands.”
“I’ll tag along.”
The game you have in mind makes me uncomfortable in good and bad ways. A flush hits my cheeks.
At the grocery store we’re in the freezer aisle. Pizza, frozen green beans, a pint of gelato.
You wrap an arm around my waist. Your breath is hot in my ear. Shivers.
“Show me your butthole.”
I giggle. I know you’re not joking.
“You’re so immature,” I say.
“I know. Show me your butthole.”
“Nothing about you is ever wrong. Now show me your butthole.”
“Such a romantic,” I say. My sarcasm is crisp.
“C’mon, I’m waiting.”
I glance down the aisle. Nobody. Cameras, though, probably watching from the ceiling. I imagine a bored security guard at his desk, just waiting for a woman to pull down her pants and be captured on film.
“Too risky,” I decide. “We come here all the time. I don’t want to get caught.”
You pull me closer. I can feel your erection against my ass. More shivers. I’m getting hot just having this conversation.
You whisper so softly into my ear that I can barely hear you.
“I want you to pull down your pants, bend over, pull your cheeks open, and let me see that hot, pink, pretty, dirty little button-hole of yours.”
My tummy does a flip. I’m wet. Butterflies. Nerves. Arousal, too. Here we are, in the frozen aisle. You’re embracing me from behind in a too-intimate-for-public, hip-pressed kind of way. We’re having a flirty conversation about my butthole in the grocery store.
“I’ll show you my tits,” I offer. I think it’s a good trade: a little safer, still naughty.
You’re not having it. “I want your butthole, and I’m gonna have your butthole.”
My breath quickens. I’m gonna have your butthole. Yes, I want that. In all the ways of wanting something.
I hear the amusement in your voice. You love to see me squirm.
“Oh my god,” I say with a big, determined breath. “You’re the worst.”
“Just do it.”
I hesitate. I chew my lip. You smile at me. Your eyes sparkle. For you, I think. I’ll do whatever you want when you look at me like that.
I decide all of a sudden. I’m gonna do it. I slip my fingers into the elastic of my yoga pants, ready to pull them down, ready to give you the view of my pale moon, to part the clouds and —
A mom with young kids pushes a stroller into the aisle, glances our way. You pull away and we wheel around the corner, both starting to laugh when we’re out of view.
“You see what you almost made me do?”
“Yes,” you say. “But you’re not off the hook. You will show me your butthole before we leave this store.”
“Stop saying ‘butthole’.”
“Only if you show me.”
“Shopping with you is impossible,” I say. I’m smiling. I’m amped.
“I like to make your day less predictable.”
We keep shopping. My mind is fuzzed. All I can think about now is the racing thrill of public nudity, even just a hint of it. I’m not sure if I’ll do what you’re asking, and that question is all I can focus on. Just the thought warms me, makes me jitter.
We’re in the natural foods section, which is a smaller store within the store and gives some sense of privacy. I know you’re going to ask me again. My heart is in my throat because I’ve decided to give you what you want.
I glance left and right.
“Ready?” I say to myself.
With a deep breath I pull down my yoga pants, dragging the underwear with them, so that they bunch around my thighs. The air is cold against my skin. I bend at the waist. My pulse pounds in my face as the blood rushes to my head. I reach back, grab my cheeks, and pull them apart. My butthole is bared in a place that it should never be bared.
I give you a second or two to look, but they feel like minutes to me. I let my ass cheeks close.
“Wait,” you say. “Open up again.”
Heart racing, fearing discovery, I do what you say. I hold the pose, trembling, for what feels like an eternity. I feel more naked than I’ve ever felt. I hear the camera noise on your phone as you repeatedly capture me in this humiliating posture. That makes it hotter for me, but I’m getting anxious.
“Now?” I whimper.
“No,” you say. “I’m going to count to ten.”
“Oh, no,” I moan. Delighted, appalled, at having to hold this posture even a second more.
“One mississippi… Two mississippi…”
“We’re gonna get caught.”
You touch my butthole, gently, as if you’re checking to see that it’s for real. I jerk at your cold fingertips, surprised.
You wiggle your pinky, pressing. I wince as you manage just the tip. A moan escapes. It’s terrifying and wonderful. A surge of arousal hits me. So dirty…
I hear the snapshot noises again as you take pictures to prove that you put your finger in my butthole in the grocery store.
“God,” I moan. “I’m scared.”
“Six mississippi… Seven mississippi…”
You withdraw your finger.
Your voice sounds thick with arousal as you count. I love that. I know you wish you could fuck my ass. Maybe when we’re home and the groceries are put away.
“I hear something,” I say. Is that the squeaking of a shopping cart? I’m shaking.
“Ten. You’re done.”
“Ohmygod,” I say, a burst of breath squeezing my words together.
In one motion I stand and yank up my pants. I’m flushed, hot. My heart is pounding. My pussy is wet.
You’re grinning at me. You like it when you can get me to do stuff. I like it, too.
You show me the pictures. There I am, bent and spread. Pale. Pink button bare. Pussy squished between my thighs. There I am, surrounded by organic crackers and boxes of whole wheat mac and cheese, my privates not so private anymore.
“Mind if I send these to my friends?” you say.
I think you’re joking but I’m not sure. You’re the one who always talks about sharing me with other men.
“Maybe, but you’ve got to earn it,” I say. I smile and take your hand.
“Oh, I will. I will.”