SuperMarket

“I still need cheese, the big block kind…mild, like I like, and melon…you forgot the melon. You were in charge, Johnny. Tsk tsk,” I grinned at you and waved the list in front of your face with superiority, “And soda, and chocolate.”

You looked up from perusing the condiments and cocked your eyebrow, “Chocolate’s not on the list, my beautiful baby.”

“Is so, see?” I pointed to the word chocolate brilliantly-forged and squeezed between paper towels and dental floss.

“Mm hm,” you nodded, scanning the list for other items I might have snuck in, “I think I know what I wrote, baby. And I would not have put chocolate in the non-food section of this list.”

“Oh, stop acting like you have a system. You have no system,” I frowned, picking out peanut M&Ms and a box of Oreos and tossing them into the cart.

“Put those back,” you said, stopping the cart and nodding down at the new items. I shook my head and continued over to the crackers, making list-approved selections.

“Lola. I make the lists because I am in charge of everything you consume. Goals will not be attained with a bevy of chocolate goods, will they?” you asked smugly, picking the items out of the cart and setting them on the shelf.

“Bevy, huh? Someone has been into the children’s dictionary,” I smirked at you and dropped them back into the cart. Your jaw tightened and you reached for the cookies.

“Don’t be a smart ass, little one,” you warned, giving me a significant look and removing the chocolate to the shelf a second time with an audible thump.

I stomped my foot and picked them up again, “This is so unfair. You know how much I like chocolate. Why can’t you be reasonable? I’m just going to go buy some at the gas station next time I’m there, you know.”

“You’re fucking not,” you growled, grabbing the boxes from my hand, “Enough of this. Don’t pick them up again. You understand?”

I frowned and looked longingly at the cookies, “Yeah. Fine.”

You continued down the aisle while I dragged my feet, grumbling about the injustice in the balanced of consumed sweetness. You ignored me and checked off the last few items on the list. I let you unload the cart and scanned the headlines on the scandal magazines, opening a couple, then setting them down. As you went to swipe your card, I slid a candy bar onto the conveyor belt.

The kid at the register fumbled when he picked it up and I gasped softly, but you were helping the checker pile bags into the cart. I breathed a sigh of relief as it made it across the scanner and into the bag. I couldn’t help smiling. I tucked my face into the sleeve of my hoodie for a second and tried to compose myself.

“What are you doing?” you asked, loudly. My head snapped up and you were very close, a puzzled look on your face. You watched the color drain from my face, you watched me lick my lips and tuck my hair behind my ears feverishly.

“Huh?” I asked, my heart beating so loudly. I looked at the bag. It was stupid, but I had to make sure you hadn’t seen it. Your eyes swung easily to my brown paper treasure chest and I stammered, quickly, “Wa-wait. Nothing. I wasn’t d-doing anything…”

You dug out the candy bar. The grocery checker watched intently, fascinated, his pupils dilating as he glanced from you to me, trying to anticipate my reaction. My forehead folded up to my eye line and I looked away from you; I shrugged, as innocently as I could manage, “What?”

You saw right through that, shaking the candy at me, “Don’t ‘what’ me! Is this yours? Don’t lie, I’ll just ask this guy.”

The checker blinked at you and then snapped out of his ridiculous gawking, trying to look uninvolved, but at this point the bagger and the woman behind were watching too. Burgundy climbed up my neck and stained my face; I was humiliated. My voice became very low and very deliberate.

“Yes,” I breathed softly, covering my face and trying to push past you. You stood in my way and caught my wrist, shook it, pulling me toward you.

“Excuse me? You put this in the cart even after I specifically told you not to?” you glared down at me, your voice not loud, but loud enough. I shook my head and looked away, wishing to be anywhere but there.

“Unbelievable. I thought you were beyond this sort of childish disobedience by now,” you continued, holding me tighter as I struggled to escape the growingly embarrassing situation, “Don’t fucking move. You don’t have permission to move. Only good girls get those freedoms.”

I gasped, felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. I was livid. I couldn’t believe you would do this in front of strangers. You seemed to enjoy it to some degree, though you were clearly controlling the level of my shame by keeping your voice worryingly low. I knew that at any moment you could slide up a few decibels and I would never be able to shop here again. I ground my teeth together and narrowed my eyes.

You smiled, released my hand a little and whispered loudly, “What would a good girl have done if she wanted the candy bar, little one?”

Fuck! Whatever would shut you up the fastest? I looked around quickly and, as quietly as I could manage, hissed, “Pleeease stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

Your face didn’t change even the slightest and you stepped backward so that I couldn’t hide behind you, spoke louder, “I don’t care. It’s not my concern. Answer the question.”

I swallowed hard, clenched my fists, spoke through nearly motionless lips, “Ask. A good girl would ask first.”

I wanted you dead. You smiled condescendingly at me. The customers around us were not even pretending to be reading the magazines or sorting their groceries. You held up the candy bar, “So then, ask.”

I didn’t want it anymore. I just wanted to go home and sulk for the rest of the night, hide in the bedroom and be very belligerent and hostile, but I could see this was going none of those places any time soon, I growled, “Can I have the fucking candy bar?”

Your eyes flickered. I knew how badly you wanted to hit me, but even you had your limits. I felt a little relieved, but you were already composing yourself, “Ask me properly, like a good girl, or you can do it on your knees here in front of everyone. You won’t get many second chances, my girl.”

I knew you were serious, nodded carefully, tried to forget everyone around me. I can’t very well come back here now as it is; I swallowed again, my throat dry, “Please can I have the candy bar, Sir?”

There was a slight pause. You looked hard at me.

“See? That’s better. There’s the good girl I know you can be,” you tapped me on the cheek and turned back to the cashier, “And no. You can’t.”

I bit down angrily on the inside of my mouth when you leaned over the counter and threw the chocolate away, grabbed my hand and said, “Come on then, I’m not nearly done with you.”

If you had said those words in any other tone, I would have still been whining about how horrifying that had been, but I could hear the trouble in your voice. You were devising something wicked for me. I was very quiet, made myself useful unpacking the groceries, unlocking the car.

You didn’t speak to me. The ride home was unnerving. I turned to you and opened my mouth, but before I could speak you said, “No.”

I looked at you, closed my mouth, looked out the window, back at you, and opened it again, and you said, “No.”

I leaned forward, taking a breath and opening my mouth, before, “Are you going to make me say it again, cunt? No talking. None.”

I sat back and scowled out the window, then shortly turned to you and opened my mouth again. You slammed on the breaks, pulled over to the side of the road. Without a breath, without a thought, you grabbed my hair and yanked my head into your lap, unzipping your fly with your free hand, and growled, “You want your worthless cunt mouth to be useful? Get my dick out and fucking suck, got it?”

I tried to get my seatbelt off and move to my knees; you sighed with exasperation and slapped the side of my ass, maneuvering my mouth closer to your swelling cock with a fistful of my hair. I squealed and twisted uncomfortably, panting with surprise and moaning indignantly. You slapped my ass harder, grabbing the bottom of my skirt and tugging it up roughly, unceremoniously. I squeaked, closing my eyes and shifting away from the steady and increasingly raw spanking you had begun, concentrated on getting your cock free.

I grunted as your hand stained my ass with thick smacks, heavy and punishing. I could hear you catch your lip with your teeth, concentrating your slaps on my left cheek, your hips swaying with each, your thigh tapping my face as you pressed me closer. I tried very hard to be still and silent, groaning occasionally, but finding your cock with my wet mouth.

I was terrified, but I couldn’t help how much I liked it when you took what you wanted, when you shut my mouth with your dick. I exchanged all my thoughts, my desires, my objections with a throat full of flesh and cum.

My ass was really starting to hurt and I groaned; you loved the way my pain felt along your bulging meat, low vibrating ache. You slapped me harder and pushed my mouth farther down your cock when I opened my throat to scream.

I choked on your dick and you pumped past my tongue. Your hands were on my panties, scraping them across my splotched heat and red ass, your third and forth fingers assaulting my juicy slit. I gasped, short of breath already, as you used my throat, thrusting your hips against my chin and jerking my hair tightly.

“You know what the problem is, slut?” you grunted, dribbling your sticky salt into the dark hollow of my mouth. I blinked tears and looked up at you, my lips, cheeks and chin shiny wet; you continued, punctuating your lecture by alternately plunging into my cunt, and then my throat, “You don’t know when to shut up and do as you’re told.”

I shook my head and grunted, blinking hard as you fucked my face; you said, “You keep forgetting that I own you…that I make every decision in the end…that you must ask for every single freedom you have.”

I squeaked, pulling my throat free and wrapping my tongue around the rim of your cock; you shoved your index finger into my cunt as well, and then yanked your whole hand out and up to my clit, sliding hard and slick over it. I was gasping, my knees shaking and I slapped my palm on your stomach, digging my nails into your belly. You grunted.

“See why I’m in charge, baby?” you groaned, as I sucked harder, narrowing my eyes, “Because you like it.”

You raked your hand up over my ass and smeared my juice across my cheeks, up my back; you grinned, pushing your cock into my throat again, “You fucking love it, my little whore. But if you didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I own you.”

You came then, both of your hands on the back of my head. I swallowed quickly, my tongue milking every last flavor from you, panting. My cunt was sticky, my mouth was sticky. I licked your lap, cleaning your thighs, your balls, tenderly bathing your cock as it softened in my mouth.

When I was done, I sat up, my panties twisted, wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and looked at you.

You tucked your cock back into your pants, put on your seatbelt, turned to me, reached across the car and grabbed my neck, stroked my jaw with your thumb, your eyes tasting every visible stretch of skin, memorizing what my obedience can look like. I wrapped my hand around your wrist.

“Who is in charge here, cunt?” you asked, softly, watching for my reaction. But I was totally happy, totally calm. I knew how this felt; I loved how this felt. I had no hesitation.

“You’re in charge, Sir,” I said, without blinking. You nodded, knowing that you would have to go through this event over and over, knowing that I would push often, but also knowing that I wanted this place more than anything else. You knew what made me happy.

“You just love to forget that, don’t you?” you murmured, tapping my face lightly, as you nodded and started the car, “I’m sure those people at the grocery store won’t next week.”