Reclaimed in the Stockroom

I’ve never been the type to write this kind of thing down, but if I don’t get it out of my head I’ll go crazy. I’m Naomi, twenty-eight, married six years to a man who stopped looking at me like I was worth undressing sometime around year three. I work closing shifts at the big-box store on the edge of town—fluorescent lights, endless aisles of discount crap, the kind of job that keeps the lights on and my mind numb. Or it used to. Then Franklin transferred in as stockroom supervisor three months ago, and suddenly every night felt like I was walking around with a live wire between my legs.

Franklin is thirty-two, built like he spends every free hour in a gym that doesn’t mess around. Tall enough that I have to tip my chin up to meet his eyes, shoulders that stretch the polyester of his black polo until the seams look nervous. Dark skin that glows under the cheap stockroom bulbs, close-cropped hair, a neatly trimmed beard that frames a mouth I started dreaming about almost immediately. And that voice—deep, slow, like honey poured over gravel. The first time he said my name while pointing out a mis-shelved pallet I felt it in my clit.

For weeks it was just looks. I’d catch him watching me bend to break down boxes, those dark eyes dragging over the curve of my ass in my work khakis. I’d linger too long when I handed him the inventory clipboard, letting my fingers brush his. Harmless, I told myself. Married women are allowed to look. But the flirting thickened night by night. He’d find excuses to come out onto the floor during my shift, lean against the endcap while I straightened merchandise, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Those jeans hug you real nice tonight, Naomi.” Or “You keep biting that pen like that and I’m gonna start thinking dirty thoughts.” I’d laugh it off, cheeks hot, thighs pressing together under my apron.

My husband never talked to me like that. Hell, he barely talked at all anymore. Sex had become a rushed, lights-off obligation once a month if I was lucky, his soft little cock barely staying hard long enough to finish. I started fantasizing about Franklin’s hands—big, capable, the kind that could span my waist and haul me around like I weighed nothing. I’d go home and touch myself in the shower thinking about that deep voice telling me to spread, and then feel guilty as hell when I crawled into bed next to my snoring husband. Guilt didn’t stop the wanting, though. It just made it sharper.