Chip Shop Chip | NEON LIT

Friday night at the chippy was sacred. Didn't matter what else happened during the week—Friday meant fish and chips, proper ones, wrapped in paper, eaten on the walk home.

Tony's Plaice had been there forever. Tony himself was ancient, barely visible behind the counter, but his daughter had started working there recently, and suddenly the queue was a lot more tolerable.

Natalie. Nat to regulars. Slim thing with a sharp tongue and sharper eyeliner, hair always up in a net that somehow didn't diminish how fit she was.

"Same again, love?" she asked when I reached the front.

"You know it."

"Large cod, large chips, extra salt, extra vinegar, no peas because they're 'an abomination.'" She was already wrapping. "Predictable, you are."

"Consistent. There's a difference."

"Is there though?" But she smiled. "Three fifty."

I paid, took my package, headed for the door.

"Oi." Her voice stopped me. "You free later? Dad closes at ten, I'm on cleanup."

"Could be. Why?"

"Fancy some company." She shrugged like it was nothing. "Gets lonely scrubbing fryers."

"Ten then."

"Don't be late. Chips go cold."

I went back at ten. The shop was dark, CLOSED sign up, but Nat opened the door when I knocked.

"Thought you'd chickened out."

"Never. Brought supplies." I held up a bottle of wine. "Goes with fish, right?"

She laughed, took the bottle, led me inside. The chippy was different at night—quieter, the oil settled, the smell of fried everything lingering like a memory.

"Dad's gone home. Just us and the fryers." She poured two glasses of wine into paper cups. "Classy, innit?"

"Very."

We sat on the counter, legs dangling, drinking wine and eating leftover chips that she'd saved.

"Why me?" I asked eventually.

"What?"

"You could have asked anyone. Why me?"

She considered, stealing a chip from my handful. "You're nice. Always polite, never try anything creepy, tip even though the jar's hidden. That's rare."

"Low bar."

"You'd be surprised." She moved closer. "Plus, you're fit. Obviously."

"Obviously?"

"Don't fish for compliments." She kissed me—tasting of salt and wine, her hand finding my cheek. "Just accept them."

We ended up in the back, past the fryers, in a storage room that smelled of potatoes and bleach. Not romantic. But Nat's hands on my belt made up for the setting.

"Been thinking about this for weeks," she admitted, pulling off her work polo. Underneath, a simple white bra that contrasted beautifully with her tanned skin. "Every time you came in..."

"Same. Watching you wrap fish was torture."

"Pervert." But she was grinning. "My turn to unwrap something."

She dropped to her knees and took me in her mouth with zero preamble. Efficient, eager, clearly knowing exactly what she was doing.

"Fuck—Nat—"

"Shh. Neighbours might hear." She looked up, eyes glinting. "Unless you want them to?"

"Don't stop."

She didn't. Not until I was close enough that I had to pull her up.

"Your turn."

I lifted her onto a stack of potato bags—improvising—and pulled down her work trousers. Underneath, a matching white thong that I moved aside to taste her.

"Oh God—yes—"

She grabbed my hair, grinding against my mouth. She tasted of nothing like the chippy, just clean skin and arousal.

"Right there—don't stop—gonna—"

She came with her thighs clamped around my head, shaking on her throne of potato sacks. Before she'd recovered, she was pulling me up.

"Inside. Now."

"Condom?"

"Pocket. I planned this."

She wasn't lying. I rolled it on while she positioned herself, bent over the bags, looking back at me with undisguised want.

"Don't be gentle."

I wasn't. I pushed in hard and we both groaned. She was tight, wet, and pushing back to meet every thrust.

"Yes—fuck—just like that—"

The potato bags shifted beneath her, threatening to topple, but we made it work. I grabbed her hips, fucked her properly, while she muffled her moans against her own arm.

"Close again—already—harder—"

I reached around, found her clit, rubbed while I fucked her. She came with a shudder and a gasp, clenching around me so tight I had no choice but to follow.

"Inside—do it—"

I came hard, buried deep, feeling her shake through it.

We stood there for a moment, connected, breathing hard.

"Well," she said eventually, "that's one way to end a shift."

"Better than scrubbing fryers?"

"Infinitely." She turned, kissed me properly. "Same time next week?"

"Count on it."

I started coming to Tony's every Friday. Then Wednesdays too. Then whenever I could.

Tony never seemed to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn't care.

Either way, best chippy in town. Personal service. Five stars.