Pound Shop Passion

Poundland was my guilty pleasure. Where else could you get batteries, bin bags, and bizarre off-brand snacks for a quid each? I was there so often the staff knew me by name.

One staffer in particular.

Donna was the manager—a title that came with a lanyard, a clipboard, and the authority to judge your purchases. Which she did, every single time.

"Party rings again?" she said, scanning my basket. "You having a children's party or just depressed?"

"Little bit of both."

She laughed—a big, genuine sound that made her whole body shake. And there was a lot of body to shake. Donna was properly plus-size, carrying it all with supreme confidence. Big tits straining against her polo, wide hips, an arse that blocked entire aisles when she bent to restock.

"You're in here every other day," she observed. "Starting to think you're stalking me."

"Maybe I just really like discount chocolate."

"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "Maybe not."

Our eyes met. Something passed between us—recognition, maybe. Mutual interest disguised as banter.

"I'm on break in ten," she said casually. "If you wanted to... discuss your shopping habits."

"Where?"

"Stock room. Door behind the batteries. Don't let anyone see you."

The stock room was a maze of cardboard boxes and plastic-wrapped pallets. Donna was waiting in a corner, behind a wall of multipacks, already undoing her lanyard.

"Took your time."

"Didn't want to seem eager."

"You've been in here three times this week." She pulled me closer by my shirt. "Eager was established."

She kissed me—confident, demanding, her tongue finding mine immediately. Her body pressed against me, soft and warm and overwhelming.

"Been thinking about this," she admitted between kisses. "Every time you come in with your little basket and your stupid smile."

"Charming."

"Shut up." She was already pulling at my jeans. "We've got fifteen minutes before someone notices I'm gone."

She dropped to her knees—right there on the stock room floor—and freed me from my boxers with practiced ease.

"Fuck. Nice." She took me in her mouth without preamble, and I had to grab a shelf to stay upright.

"Jesus—Donna—"

She hummed around me, looked up with eyes that were pure mischief. Her technique was enthusiastic, messy, perfect.

"Your turn," she said eventually, standing up and hiking her uniform skirt around her waist. "Make it good."

Underneath the skirt: black stockings, a garter belt, and the smallest thong I'd ever seen struggling to contain her.

"Fuck me. You came prepared."

"Always am. Never know when a fit customer's going to wander in."

I dropped to my knees, pulled the thong aside, and buried my face between her thick thighs. She tasted incredible—clean and eager—and the sounds she made echoed off the cardboard walls.

"Yes—right there—fuck—"

Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. I ate her like she was the most expensive thing in the shop, my tongue working patterns that made her legs shake.

"Gonna—shit—already—"

She came with a muffled shriek, shaking against me. Before she'd recovered, I was standing, turning her around, bending her over a pallet of multipacks.

"Condom's in me apron pocket," she gasped. "Front one."

I found it, rolled it on, positioned myself behind her. Her arse was incredible—wide and soft and perfect.

"Don't be gentle," she said. "Haven't got time for gentle."

I wasn't. I pushed in hard and we both groaned. She was tight—tighter than I expected—and the feeling of her was almost too much.

"Fuck yes—that's it—"

I fucked her against the multipacks while somewhere in the shop, customers browsed batteries and bargains, completely oblivious. The absurdity made it hotter.

"Harder—come on—make me come again—"

I reached around, found her clit, rubbed while I fucked her. She came with a scream that definitely reached the shop floor.

"Inside—do it—fill me up—"

I came hard, gripping her hips, buried deep. We stayed there for a moment, panting, connected.

"Well," she said eventually, pulling herself together with impressive speed, "that was worth more than a pound."

"Everything's a pound."

"Not everything." She kissed me—quick, hard. "Come back tomorrow. Same time."

"What's tomorrow's special?"

"Me." She grinned. "Everything else is just filler."

I walked out of Poundland with my party rings, a big smile, and a standing appointment with the manager.

Best value on the high street. Definitely.