Chapter 1: The Orgy in the Produce Section
The fluorescent lights in the grocery store hummed a flat, tired note, a sound Evelyn Stevenson had heard a thousand times before. Today, it was drowned out by other noises. A low, collective thrum that wasn’t the Muzak. It was something alive, feral, underpinning the clatter of carts and the rustle of plastic bags.
She stared at a box of organic penne, her fingers tight on the cart’s handle. Her body felt… different. Aches in new places. A constant, low-grade hum between her legs that made standing still a chore. She’d blamed it on stress, on the weird ‘flu’ going around, until David came home from work yesterday with his pants visibly strained, his eyes dark with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He’d looked at her, really looked, and for the first time in years, she’d felt a flush that wasn’t embarrassment.
A sharp cry, unmistakably pleasure, cut through the canned music from the direction of Produce.
Evelyn’s head snapped up. A few other shoppers paused, too. A man in the cereal aisle licked his lips, his hand drifting to his groin. No one looked shocked. Just… interested.
Curiosity, a thread pulled taut inside her, led her forward. The hum between her legs pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She rounded the corner of the dairy cooler, and the world shifted.
The Davidson family—Tom from accounting, his wife Sarah the school librarian, and their two college-aged sons—were in the organic greens section. They were a tangle of limbs and discarded khakis. Sarah was bent over a display of radishes, her skirt hiked, her ass in the air as one son thrust into her from behind, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. Tom was on his back on the floor, his head thrown back in ecstasy as the other son fucked his mouth with a brutal, rhythmic intensity. The neat rows of lettuce were crushed, a packet of sprouts torn open and scattered like confetti.
Evelyn’s breath caught. She should leave. This was wrong, obscene. Her pre-virus morality screamed it.
But her feet were rooted. Heat flooded her, so intense she felt dizzy. Her nipples, already sensitive and swollen beneath her bra, tightened into aching points. She could smell them—musk, sweat, sex—over the clean scent of cucumbers and dirt.
A low groan escaped her lips. Her hand, moving of its own volition, slipped under the hem of her sundress. Her fingertips brushed the damp cotton of her panties. She was soaking. A thick, slick wetness had already seeped through, making the fabric cling. She pressed her palm hard against herself, and a jolt of pure, electric need shot through her core.
“Wild, isn’t it?”
The voice, male and rough, came from beside her. She hadn’t even noticed him approach. He was a stocker, his red apron undone, his own substantial erection straining against his jeans. He wasn’t looking at the Davidsons. He was looking at her hand, still under her dress.
Evelyn should have been mortified. She wasn’t. A reckless, hungry energy crackled in the air between them. “I can’t… I’ve never…” she stammered, but her fingers curled, rubbing herself through the wet fabric.
“It’s the new normal, sweetheart,” he muttered, stepping closer. His smell, of cardboard and male sweat, enveloped her. “Fuck what it was. This is what is.”
He didn’t ask. He just kissed her, his mouth hot and demanding. His tongue pushed past her lips, and the taste of him, of coffee and salt, erased the last protest in her mind. Her free hand fumbled for his belt, her movements clumsy with urgency. He helped, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, veined, already glistening at the tip.
He pushed her hand away from her own cunt, yanking her panties aside. The cool air of the store kissed her exposed flesh for a second before he was on her. He lifted her, her back against the cool metal of a shelf holding jarred pickles, and drove into her with one hard, deep stroke.
“Oh, God!” The cry was ripped from her. It wasn’t gentle. It was possession. Each thrust slammed her against the shelves, making the jars rattle. The pain of the metal digging into her spine mixed with the overwhelming fullness of him, the raw, filthy friction, and it built something monstrous and beautiful inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, her sundress bunched around her hips. She watched over his shoulder as Sarah Davidson convulsed, screaming her release into the bruised kale.
The stocker grunted, his pace becoming frantic, animalistic. “Yeah, take it, you fucking ripe bitch,” he growled into her neck, his teeth scraping her skin. The crude words, instead of offending her, sent another vicious thrill through her. She was ripe. She was dripping. She was being used against a pickle shelf and it was the most alive she’d felt in twenty years.
Her orgasm tore through her without warning, a seismic wave that clenched around his driving cock, milking him. He shouted, his body stiffening, and she felt the hot, pulsing flood of his cum fill her. He held her there, panting, as the aftershocks wracked her body.
He slid out of her, leaving her feeling empty and dripping. He just pulled his pants up, gave her a nod that was almost professional, and wandered off, adjusting his apron.
Evelyn slid down the shelf, her legs trembling. Her wetness, now mixed with his, made a cold patch on her inner thigh. She was staring blankly at a jar of gherkins when a familiar, bubbly laugh cut through the post-coital haze.
“Mom?”
Evelyn’s blood ran cold. She yanked her dress down and turned.
Bethany stood there, a basket over her arm. Her daughter’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. She wasn’t alone. Maya Sharma from next door was with her. The once-shy girl was unrecognizable. She wore a thin tank top with no bra, her enormous, heavy breasts clearly visible, the nipples dark and hard against the fabric. A visible wet patch of what could only be milk stained the cloth near one nipple. And the bulge in her tight leggings… that was unmistakable. It was massive, and it twitched as Maya smiled.
“We saw you,” Bethany said, not with judgment, but with excitement. “You finally let go! Isn’t it amazing?” She shifted her weight, and Evelyn saw a dark, wet patch spreading at the crotch of her daughter’s jeans. A steady drip of her own arousal pattered onto the linoleum floor.
Maya stepped forward, her movements fluid, predatory. Her scent—sweet milk, musk, and something spicy—was overwhelming. She cupped one of her own breasts, a bead of white milk welling at the nipple. “The hunger is just beginning, Evelyn,” Maya said, her voice a low, melodic hum. “Your body is waking up. I can smell how awake you are.”
Before Evelyn could process it, another figure appeared at the end of the aisle. David. Her husband. He stood there, his work shirt stretched taut across a chest that seemed broader. His gaze swept over her: her flushed face, her disheveled dress, the stocker walking away, their daughter with a leaking pussy, their neighbor with a monstrous cock.
His eyes weren’t angry. They were black with pure, unadulterated need. A low rumble came from his chest. He started toward them, his stride purposeful, his own massive erection blatantly tenting his chinos.
“Time to go home, Evelyn,” he said, his voice deeper, rougher than she remembered. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a promise. The look in his eyes said the grocery store was just the preview. The main event was waiting at home.
Evelyn looked from her transformed husband to her dripping daughter to the sexually god-like figure of Maya. The last vestige of her old life, the fear of what this meant, crumbled. It was replaced by a surge of anticipation so sharp it made her gasp. The ache between her legs returned, deeper this time, hungry for more.
She took David’s outstretched hand. It swallowed hers whole.