B gets hungry

“Oh dear,” squeaked B as she raised a baby-soft hand to mop her flushed brow. “Run out of bangers again”.

Her fridge, empty but for half a jar of Nutella and a bendy carrot, gave a menacing creak as she slammed it shut with a petulant pout.

B’s kohl-rimmed scowl then swiftly joined up the dots of an action plan that saw her ample charms pitched through the sliding doors of Cheapies faster than she could say her shoe size.

“Six, please,” she was heard panting seconds later at the impassive assistant behind the cooked meats counter. The young man’s cold, clammy hand yielded a neat, pleasingly plump packet. B took it with a little more vigor than she would have normally cared to admit to, but today was different. Very different.

She maneuvered her stiletto-d mass through the peak-time Cheapies crowd and joined a queue behind a sneezing pensioner of indeterminate sex. B clasped the sausages to her heaving cleavage. A tingling feeling spread through her whole body, intensifying into throbs of want in her palms against the paper packet. She tightened her grip.

A fingernail found its way through a tiny hole in the paper, soon to be joined by another, and yet another, scratching, wriggling, teasing the packet undone. The pensioner in front sneezed again and turned round to B: “Scuse, but…”

But B’s face by then had half-disappeared into the greasy mess in her hands, chewing, swallowing, chewing, swallowing with wild abandon, big, fat tears of relief rolling down her bulging cheeks, until every scrap, every morsel had been savoured and dispatched into her grateful, gurgling gut.

The pensioner closed his (her?) mouth, turned, paid for their lot and left. The avuncular cashier extended a bony forefinger thumb and gingerly took the slimy shreds from B’s still-trembling hands. “Beep,” heard B. “Four sixty please.”