I’m the God of stocking at the Weesa County Grand-Mart. Everything we sell—ground beef, toilet paper, soup, soap—everything, I’m in charge of stocking it all. When the graveyard shift ends and the doors open at seven o’clock each brand new day, no one’s going to tell me the Turkey Noodle labels aren’t all facing out, lined up straight and pretty-like. I’ve won the Golden RIPA (the top Regional Inventory Placement Award) for the last five consecutive years. My crew knows and respects this about me.
There are eight stockers on my night shift. Eight. Can you imagine how big Grand-Mart is? We service the whole tri-state area; farmers and teachers and everybody from down’t the ChemKho plant. Fine, hardworking, family people. When they’re home asleep in their beds, me and my crew fill every shelf with all the tasty nutrients those good folks could ever want.
Cole’s my newest stocker. Straight out of high school and tall and skinny as six o’clock—a.m. or p.m., take your pick, both as narrow as the day is round. Boy’s got a chip on his shoulder bigger than a discount rump roast. Figures he ought to be up at the college with his fancy horn-rimmed glasses instead of pushing a dolly full of Ragù in a blue vest with the rest of us. Kid had the nerve to bring a book on his first day, like we have time to read on this job. Flow Bear, he said. Boy, you best put that in your locker, I told him. He jutted his chin out and shuffled his feet. When I saw that slinky-slanky attitude, I knew then and there I’d teach him to show some respect.
What the newbies don’t realize, and heck some of my older, slower crew don’t figure either, is I’m in control of all the goings-on out on the floor. When I sit in the back office and make the assignments, what I’m really doing is positioning the workers like rats in a maze. Old Mike might pull his work order and think: peanut butter, jelly and tea; cereal, crackers and cookies. That’s because Old Mike is dim. He doesn’t realize that I’m stationing him on Aisle 3 for hours. While he’s on 3, Fat Chuck is on 2; Margaret is on 1, and so on.
Now why would I do that, you might be thinking. I’ll tell you why. Because Bean Pole Cole, a.k.a. Chaucer, a.k.a. Hey You With the Books will be down on his knees clear on the other side of the store stocking the bottom shelves of Aisle 12. If everyone follows orders (and everyone always follows orders), there will be a good five or six empty aisles between Young Cole and the rest of my crew. With the music cranked up on the loud speaker just so, no one will ever be able to hear what I don’t want them to hear.
Everyone’s in place just like I’ve planned when I close myself into the office and swap my clothes–even my bra (did you think I was a man?)–for a clean white butcher’s coat from the meat department. Before making my rounds on the floor, I stop by the lockers, use my master key to open Cole’s, take off my underwear, ball it up, and stuff it into the corner behind the Flow Bear, which as it turns out, is spelled in true fancy-ass fashion: Flaubert. That’s what I’m thinking about when I head straight for aisle 12, my tits poking the butcher’s coat like they’ve got an agenda on top of mine.
Huey Lewis is pumping loud overhead because I let Fat Chuck pick the music tonight. The happier they are, the more they’ll stay out of my way.
Sure enough Young Lord Cole is haphazardly nudging sacks of sugar with the toe of his gigantic gray and orange Nikes when I reach the end of the aisle. Does he really think he can create regulation inventory placement with his feet? My pussy clenches at the thought of having something new to punish him for. When I’m close enough to see the pink bags on the bottom shelf with the blue C&H logos turned every which way, the kid stops and turns to me.
“You’re going to need to redo that.”
He bends over and begins straightening the front-most sacks on the shelf.
“Stop,” I say. Clearly the boy is dense. “Step back.”
I want him to have a view. I point across the aisle and tell him to stand there–a few feet away. Then I bend over and begin removing sacks of sugar from the shelf, placing them back on the pallet. As I do this, I keep my legs straight, bending from the waist so that the white meat coat lifts, exposing my upper thighs and round ass, and when I bend real deep, my pink chubby lips, too. I hear him snicker, so I know he’s seeing what I’m showing. You could say my inventory was effectively placed. Ha ha. Knowing he’s looking at my naked vulva’s got me extra clinchy and thirsty down there. I finish emptying the shelf and face him.
I let my left boob peek out of the meat coat when I tell him he needs to get on the floor and put the sugar sacks deep onto the shelf one at a time, making sure each label is straight. He snickers again like I’m joking.
“I’m not joking, Flow Bear.”
Down he goes onto his hands and knees, takes a bag of sugar and slides it to the back of the shelf. Huey Lewis blares Workin’ for a Livin’ all through the rafters and now I’m the one snickering as I move in between the kid and the inventory. When he turns back to the pallet to grab the next bag of sugar, he arrives at my sweetness instead. His nose is just about between my breasts and he startles. He can’t really claim to be surprised, can he?
He tries to reach around me, pretending like there’s not a five-time Golden RIPA-winning cunt within licking distance. No, no, no, no, no; that’s not respect! I lift my foot and place it on top of the bags of sugar on the pallet. I clear my throat. Then I sigh. He looks so cute down there kneeling between my legs.
“Well?” I say.
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the bright and generous Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
Read more fab Wicked Wednesday “On the Knees” entries here!