Yesterday morning I went out to the grocery store to get somethings for dinner. Nothing major or elaborate–I just needed some fresh vegetables and to restock a few items we were running low on. My plan for the night was to cook a stir-fry, so one of the ingredients on my list was fresh ginger root for the sauce.
Now, for those who have been following along, we use ginger root for more than stir-fry at our house. It plays the chief role in “figging“, which is one of Joy’s favorite D/s activities. Even though I had no special plans around figging for the weekend, whenever I shop for ginger I always take this potential use for the root into account. Therefore, rather than being one of those people who breaks off a little piece from a larger “hand” of ginger, I’m the opposite–I look for big roots, ones that are thick and sturdy so that they will fill Joy’s bottom nicely and won’t accidentally break off during use. The store I visited had only a marginal selection, but finally I found a hunk I thought might do and put it into my basket and continued on with my list.
When I arrived at the checkout line, the cashier ringing up my groceries was young…I’m going to guess maybe 22 or 23. She had blonde hair and a fresh, innocent face, and she was both polite and friendly as she greeted me while I put my purchases on the conveyor belt to be rung up. I futzed with my credit card for payment while she did her job, and she made conversations–nice weather, etc. But then she got to the piece of ginger.
“My goodness,” she remarked as she put it on the scale. “This is a big piece of ginger! Most people buy little pieces.”
I was still distracted with the payment keyboard and so didn’t think much about my answer. “Actually, I was looking for a bigger one.”
“Really?” she replied. She looked me straight in the eye, a smile on her face. “What do you do with it?”
I want you to know that I was very tempted to give her a straight answer. I saw my choices laid out in front of me, option A and option B. I studied her face, looking for any hint of secret knowledge that might lead me to believe she knew what use I might have for ginger. She didn’t look away–her gaze was forthright, friendly and direct. And so I chose option B.
“Asian cooking,” I answered. “I’m making stir-fried chicken tonight.”
It was an honest answer–that’s where part of the ginger root went. And another part went towards making Joy gasp and whimper and thrash this afternoon as my hand came down on her bottom and her natural reaction clenched her muscles around the ginger, intensifying its effect.
I’m sure I made the right choice–there would be no reason to tell the checkout girl the truth. But I have to confess that part of me still wonders–did she know what she was asking about? All sorts of people enjoy the pleasures of BDSM. She was awfully young, but could she have been one of them?