Lidl Late Night | NEON LIT

The middle aisle of Lidl was a dangerous place. You go in for milk, you come out with a welding mask and a kayak.

Tonight's haul included a pressure washer I'd never use, some German chocolate that was probably amazing, and a complete inability to find the bread.

"Is by the cheese. Always by the cheese."

The cashier had appeared beside me—Eastern European accent, couldn't place where exactly. She was thick as fuck, blonde hair pulled back tight, work uniform straining at the seams. Pretty face, tired eyes.

"Thanks," I said. "This place is a maze."

"Is designed that way. Make you buy more." She shrugged. "I work here two years. Still get lost sometimes."

"Comforting."

"Is not meant to be." But she was smiling. "You need help carrying? That pressure washer is heavy."

"I'll manage."

"Strong man." Her smile widened. "I like. You come through my till, yes? Number three. I give you discount."

There was no discount—this was Lidl, not a market in Morocco—but she did scan everything painfully slowly, making conversation.

"You live near?" she asked.

"Ten minute walk."

"Good area?"

"Alright. Bit rough round the edges."

"Like me." She winked. "I am Katya. From Ukraine. Here five years. Still can't get used to British weather."

"No one's used to it. We just pretend."

She laughed—a proper laugh, full and warm. "You are funny. I like funny." She handed me my receipt, let her fingers brush mine. "I finish in thirty minutes. You wait? I show you where is best bakery stuff. They reduce it all at closing."

"Is that the only reason?"

"No." She didn't break eye contact. "Is also because you have nice arms and I am bored. But bakery stuff is good bonus."

The reduced bakery stuff was excellent. So was the stockroom.

Katya led me there after closing, past the checkouts, through the "STAFF ONLY" door, into a cavernous space full of pallets and produce.

"We have fifteen minutes before security check," she said, already pulling off her fleece. "Is enough?"

"We'll make it work."

She kissed me like she was starving for it—deep, desperate, her hands everywhere at once. Her body was soft and warm, all curves and heat.

"Been so long," she breathed. "Work, sleep, work, sleep. No time for fun."

"Let's have some fun then."

Her work trousers came off, revealing plain white knickers that somehow looked incredible on her. Her thighs were thick, her arse round and perfect.

"You like?" she asked, turning for me.

"Fucking love it."

She bent over a pallet of water bottles, looked over her shoulder with that tired smile now looking distinctly less tired.

"Then come get."

I didn't need telling twice.

She was wet already, gasping when I pushed in. The pallet creaked beneath us but held.

"Yes—like that—hard—"

Her accent got thicker as I fucked her, the English slipping into Ukrainian I couldn't understand but didn't need to. The sounds she made were universal.

"There—blyad—yes—don't stop—"

I reached around, found her clit, rubbed while I thrust. She came with a cry that echoed off the warehouse ceiling.

"Inside," she gasped. "Please—fill me—"

I did, holding her hips tight, both of us shaking.

We cleaned up, got dressed, shared a slightly crushed pastry from her reduced bakery haul.

"Is good, yes?" she said, mouth full.

"Amazing."

"The pastry or the sex?"

"Both."

She grinned, wrote her number on the back of my receipt. "I work Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Usually close. You come back, maybe help with more heavy lifting, yes?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

She kissed my cheek, let me out the fire exit. "Watch for the cameras. Turn left, then right, then you're in the car park."

I walked home with a pressure washer I'd never use and a phone number I definitely would.

The middle aisle really does have everything.