#whenthegroceryboycomestoyourhome (a story)

#whenthegroceryboycomestoyourhome

There is always that one, right?  I guess it depends on your age if he is the manager/owner or the stock boy who you took one look at and started to drool?
And you had that fantasy… of how fast his shirt would hit the floor.  Of how often you had to hump his leg before he’d either slap you or take you up on your offer. Of how good it’d be.
But now when you could finally justify the delivery fee, and the laziness of having them delivered (Or is that just me who thinks that way?), you’re not allowed to touch even the card reader, let alone him.
So what do you do?
Get a stripper-gram?  Though you’d have to let them freeze outside as they bared themselves. And the neighbours would get to see as well.  You know the little old lady next door would giggle, a few of the guys’d be into it as. But there’d be that prude as well.  Who’d wreck it for everyone else by calling the cops and making an indecency complaint.
Le sigh!
And with that mixed head-space, you begin to fill out the order. Click the virtual items you need to make up your shopping list.  Save the list…. and go spend some time on your couch… then start again. Shop, touch yourself and shop again.
Until you finally have the list complete and enter your credit card info and your loyalty points. Book your appt for them to shop and you to have it delivered. And send!
And wait for days, thinking of that guy putting on a show for the neighbours. It has to be him, right?
Or does it?
When he gets there, it’s not him  (pout, pout, pout!!) and your panties feel like they walked thru the Sahara Desert. He doesn’t look that thrilled either btw. Sighs!
And you chip tap  the credit reader for the delivery fee and the tip.  Sum B!  I mean they’d have gotten a bigger tip if it had been your lust object, right?
Then again, it might have been way toooooo haaaaaard to keep yourself from humping his leg. Pfffft!

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