Aldi Aisle Action

Aldi cashiers were built different. Superhuman scanning speed, zero patience for fumbling customers, and an efficiency that made Amazon warehouses look lazy.

Fiona was the queen of them all.

Red hair, freckles, built like she did CrossFit for fun. Scottish accent thick enough to cut, and a scanning speed that had become something of a local legend.

"That's twenty-three forty-seven," she said, items still flying past the scanner. "Card or cash?"

"Card." I was still trying to bag my stuff, nowhere near keeping up. "Can you maybe slow down?"

"Nope. Got a queue." But she was smiling. "You're that guy who always comes in on Thursday nights, right? The one who buys all the weird stuff from the middle aisle?"

"I have diverse interests."

"You've got a pressure washer, a yoga mat, and what I'm pretty sure is a chainsaw." She raised an eyebrow. "You either have very diverse interests or you're planning something."

"Just... ambitious DIY projects."

"Uh huh." She nodded at the card reader. "Tap when you're ready."

I tapped, still stuffing bags chaotically. She watched with barely concealed amusement.

"You know we close in fifteen, right?"

"Shit. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm just saying..." She leaned forward slightly. "If you're still here when we lock up, you could help me with the trolleys. Get you out of the car park before security."

"Is that code for something?"

"It's code for I think you're fit and I want to find out if you're as slow at everything as you are at packing."

I was not as slow at everything.

The trolley bay behind Aldi was deserted at closing time—just us, the shopping carts, and the flickering security light.

"Right," Fiona said, parking the last trolley with practiced precision. "That's the job done. Now—" She grabbed my collar, pulled me into the shadows. "Let's see what you've got."

She kissed like she scanned—fast, efficient, no wasted motion. Her tongue found mine immediately, her hands already under my shirt.

"Been thinking about this for weeks," she admitted. "Every Thursday, watching you struggle with your bags."

"Glad my incompetence was attractive."

"It was adorable." She shoved me against the wall, dropped to her knees. "Now shut up."

Her mouth was incredible—hot, fast, her tongue doing things that made my vision blur. She sucked like she had something to prove, and honestly, she did.

"Fucking hell, Fiona—"

She pulled off, grinned up at me. "Not bad. But I need more."

She stood, shimmied her work trousers down just enough. No underwear.

"Don't have time for extras," she explained. "Come on. Show me what you've got."

I spun her around, pressed her against the wall, pushed in from behind. She was ready—wet and hot and incredibly tight.

"Yes—finally—move—"

We fucked like we were being timed. Hard, fast, efficient. Her moans echoed off the trolleys, but she didn't seem to care.

"Harder—come on—I can take it—"

I grabbed her hips, gave her everything. She came in under three minutes, biting her arm to muffle the scream.

"Don't stop—keep going—"

I did, chasing my own release. She came again—faster this time—and the feeling of her clenching pushed me over.

"Inside—do it—"

I buried myself deep and let go. She shuddered through one more aftershock, then straightened up like nothing had happened.

"Right." She pulled up her trousers, fixed her ponytail. "That was good. Better than good."

"Glad I met expectations."

"Exceeded them." She pulled out her phone. "Number?"

I gave it to her. She typed it in, sent me a text.

"Thursday," it read. "Same time. Try to pack faster and I'll make it worth your while."

I walked home with a bag of poorly packed groceries and a stupid grin.

Thursday nights just got a lot more interesting.