Poor Krishna

Scene I
Aisle 13: Produce Section

  Looking for baby spinach and zucchini, an Indian couple catches my eye.  The wife is beautiful.  Long, lustrous hair pouring down her back.  Exotic, intricate tapestries adorning her gorgeous figure.  Looking at her rogue-stained lips, I couldn’t help but wonder, “I wonder if she tasted my flavor on his kiss?”  A week prior, while she was at the salon, her husband and I shared an afternoon together.
     He looks so worried.  Keeping his eye on me, praying I do not say “Hi”, while pretending to not notice me at all.  I find it comical that his wife is so concerned with choosing the right mango, that she’s oblivious her husband’s paralysis.  Should I push my cart elsewhere?  Should I hurry and grab my cilantro?  No, I am enjoying the tension.  Grabbing his arm, she asks, “Do we have any onions at home?”
     Watching me without looking at me, he stutters, “No, I think we have onions at home already.”  The dissonance is palpable.  On one hand, he has his wife gathering ingredients to feed his family, and on the other, he is in the presence of a man who holds his deepest, most guarded secret.  He likes the way cock feels in his hands.  He loves when erections grow from within his mouth.  He loves to savor and indulge in the distinct flavor of ass.  “I wonder if she tasted my flavor on his kiss?”

Scene II
Check-Out #5

     I don’t know why I enjoy torturing him.  Perhaps, because I know I'll never see him naked again.  Deciding to stand behind them, I waited to pay for my groceries with the same cashier.  Occasionally glancing over his shoulder, I’d scratch my crotch for his eyes to see.  I remember how he marveled at my dick.  It was much different from his.  Much darker.  Much bigger.  As if he was handling new machinery, he awkwardly stroked my cock with care.  His eyes were frozen and fixated.  His hands were ripened with repression.  I was getting turned on replaying the memories in my mind.
     “Krishna?”  Her Indian accent chimes, breaking my daydream, “I forgot to get milk, could you run and get it?”  His lips were stiffened by hesitation.  Much like our kiss.  The narrow line makes our crossing paths inevitable.  The smirk on my face doesn’t make matters any better for him.  Poor, Krishna.

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