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linen sundress clung to her damp skin like wet toilet paper.
Ashley felt suddenly deflated as she looked down at all the ingredients for Blake’s favorite meal. Oblivious as usual, he had forgotten that tonight was their anniversary.
the cart bumped the old woman’s hip and sent her staggering back against the bumper of a car.
a stench wafted into her nostrils, and she recoiled.
her face a wrinkled prune with a few lonely teeth jutting from her bright pink gums.
Ashley didn’t like to think of herself as a snob, but the homelessness and poverty that had infested New Orleans in the wake of Katrina had mixed the city’s disparate elements like a steaming pot of étouffée.
Ashley’s hands felt dirty where she had touched the woman’s wrinkly old arm, and she fought against the urge to wipe her palms on her skirt.
Ashley felt a surge of anger. Had the woman stepped out of her cart on purpose, hoping to set her up? Would she ask for money next?
“You want them groceries? That’s jes’ fine, girl. You gonna get them groceries!”
Something in that insane cackle gave Ashley a chill that cut through the unseasonably hot day like a knife through butter.
praying the old woman hadn’t followed her. She hadn’t. But something else had.
“Crazy old biddy should go get food stamps,” Ashley muttered. She and Blake paid enough in taxes each year to feed several families.
Unintimidated, the man stepped forward, and she saw that it was no man at all. It was… the groceries.
A large sack
of flour formed the thing’s abdomen, and it had a broad chest and shoulders composed of packages of ground beef. The rounded slabs of meat gave it a sculpted, muscular look that matched its bulging eggplant biceps. At the end of forearms – each one made up of ears of corn still in the husk, orange hands clenched and unclenched, and she saw that each knuckle was a baby carrot.
Atop its shoulders sat a head of iceberg lettuce that she’d meant to turn into a wedge salad with bleu cheese dressing. Now it gazed at her with black olive eyes that somehow conveyed a disturbing intelligence.
The upper body sat atop two thick loaves of bread. Between those whole-grain thighs hung a long, thick cucumber and a pair of smooth, ripe nectarines.
It raised an orange finger and pointed at her.
Zaka was the farming loa, a demigod of fertility and the harvest.
“What do you want from me?” Ashley’s voice sounded small and timid. The creature’s voice rumbled like fresh-tilled earth, as lush as rain-soaked melon vines. “To plant my seed. Rise, woman. Give me what is mine.”
A twitching movement drew her eyes higher, and she saw that his cucumber cock had begun to rise, angling upward like a flagpole jutting from the side of a building.
her firm young bosom
Licking his lettuce lips with a tongue that might have been a thick slice of the ham
He rubbed her with the slow undulating rhythm of cornstalks swaying in a gentle summer wind.
He brought his fingers up, and she saw her own glistening juices on the orange carrot knuckles as his ham-tongue flickered out to taste them. “Mmm,” the loa murmured. “Fertile soil for my seed.”
“Please me, woman, and I shall sow in you.”
She had done it plenty of times for Blake back when they were dating, though less lately since he was always working.
“Suckle my fruits, woman,” Zaka commanded. “Taste me.”
Against all rational thought, Ashley felt an urgent need to fuck this thing that had invaded her home and life.
She sensed that Zaka could give her so much more than her pampered but meaningless existence as a lawyer’s neglected trophy wife.
At that moment, she didn’t care if his cock was a cucumber or a zucchini or a fucking watermelon, she wanted it inside her.
“Come on, baby,” she pleaded. “Gimme them groceries! Gimme them fucking groceries!”
mind: an empty yogurt container lying on its side in the kitchen. Now she knew where the yogurt had gone.
