Exposed by the Cashier
An SPH Experience by ts2054.
I hate buying condoms in person. Always have. Even before I knew I needed the small-sized ones, there was something about that aisle—the bright fluorescent lights, the slow walk to the register, the quiet judgment you imagined in every glance. But since I’d discovered that standard-sized condoms slip off or leave a gaping ring around the base, I’d been ordering Snug Fit ones online. It’s easier. Nobody knows your business. You open the package in the privacy of your own home and try not to let the thought of a snug fit box in your shopping history sting too much.
But tonight I was out of time.
The CVS was one of those 24-hour places, glowing like an island in the empty parking lot. I walked in and made a beeline for the condom aisle. The store was almost empty—just a couple of employees and a few women browsing the shelves, minding their own business. One of the workers, a middle-aged woman with a kind face, was restocking near the front of the aisle where the condoms were. I walked right past her at first, then saw the problem: a locked security case. Of course. The condoms were all jumbled in there, but I spotted the Skyn Snug Fit box—the blue one with discreet lettering. My go-to. They generally stay put. I’ve had maybe one or two slip off in the heat of things, but it’s better than the alternative.
I took a breath, walked up to the restocking lady, and asked if she could unlock the case. She smiled, nodded, and came over. She unlocked it with a little key on a retractable chain, then stood there waiting while I grabbed a box. I tried to block her view, covering the “Snug Fit” label with my hand as I picked it up. Thanks, I muttered, and started to walk away.
“Hold on, sweetie,” she said. “Store policy—since that item’s over $15, I have to carry it to the register for you.”
I blinked. Never heard that one before. But I know better than to argue with a service worker over a policy they’re just enforcing. So I handed her the box, face down, and followed her to the front.
She passed it to me at the counter. “I think you’ve got it from here,” she said with a smile, and walked away.
There was one person ahead of me: an older lady with a basket of stuff. The cashier was a girl who looked about eighteen or nineteen, pretty in that fresh-faced way, with a pierced nose and long brown hair. She checked out the older lady while I stood there, trying not to look too obvious about what I was holding. But as I waited, another woman got in line behind me. She was naturally pretty—the kind of girl who didn’t need makeup, looked like she’d just stepped out of a mountain breeze. Dark hair in a messy bun, clear skin, a simple white t-shirt. She smiled politely at her phone.
Finally, it was my turn. I stepped up and slid the condoms across the counter. The cashier swiped them over the scanner. Nothing. She tried again. Nothing. A third time. “Ugh,” she muttered, flipping the box over. “They always do this. The security sticker’s right over the barcode.”
She laughed, and I forced a chuckle. She started peeling the sticker, but the barcode came off with it.
“I can go grab another one,” I offered.
“No, hold on,” she said, and reached for the little radio mic clipped to her collar. She wore an earpiece, so I only heard her side.
“Hey, Mary, are you still on 12?”
“Can you get a price for the 12-pack of Skyns you brought up here?”
Pause. I felt heat rising in my neck.
“No, they’re the small ones,” she said, picking up the box and reading it aloud. “The ones that say ‘snug fit’ on them.”
I heard a soft chuckle behind me. The naturally pretty girl. She was smiling at her phone, but I knew she’d heard. My face burned.
“Wow, she’s really putting your business out there, huh?” the girl behind me said, her tone playful but not mean.
I turned and gave a tight smile. “Yeah, guess so.”
The cashier got the price, rang me up, and I paid. I grabbed the bag, wanting nothing more than to disappear. As I turned to leave, I made eye contact with the girl behind me. She gave me a warm, knowing smile.
“Hey,” she said. “Remember—it’s the motion of the ocean, not the size of the ship.”
I laughed awkwardly and nodded. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I walked out into the cool night air, the bag crinkling in my hand. My heart was pounding, my cock shrinking even further into the depths of my briefs. I could already imagine what she’d think—that pretty girl, now probably telling her friends about the guy who bought snug-fit condoms while another customer got the details broadcast over the store intercom. I tried to shake it off. I had a girl waiting for me.
I drove to her place, nerves jangling. We kissed at the door, hands roaming, and soon we were in her bed, clothes off. I pulled out the box, ripped it open, and rolled one on. It fit—barely. It didn’t constrict, but it didn’t hang loose either. She looked at my body, her eyes drifting down. I saw the barely noticeable flicker, the way her lips pressed together.
No comment. She just pulled me on top of her.
The motion of the ocean lasted about forty-five seconds that night. Maybe a bit less. I came fast, too fast, and she didn’t. She was nice about it, said it happens, rolled over and fell asleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the whole night—the cashier’s announcement, the girl’s gentle jab, the condom that barely fit, the performance that was over before it began.
I haven’t bought condoms in person since. I don’t think I ever will.
The End.
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