January 8, 2008
Dressing Room - A Story


You call me and tell me that in one hour I must meet you in a dressing room at Macy’s on the designer suit floor; “Armani,” you tell me. You tell me to wear a short skirt with no panties and high heels. You tell me to ride the train, not take a taxi, and that I must do so while wearing the largest buttplug I have. You tell me I must not let my knees touch, regardless of whether I am sitting or standing, nor may I close my lips except to swallow. You tell me that I will enter the dressing room and I will kneel with my back to the door and wait patiently for you. If the dressing room is full, I will wait outside until it is empty and then enter it. I will not lock the door; it must be open.

I tell you I will, of course, do as you wish, even though it means that I must clear my schedule. I begin to ask a question. You tell me, “Do it.” And the phone goes dead.

I ride the train as you will me to do so. I am very aware of the brevity of my skirt and that one false move will show everyone on the train my pussy. I am afraid that if I sit I will leave my wetness on the seat, but I know that standing I am equally exposed.

I arrive at Macy’s early. I walk around the labyrinthine store, trying to get my bearings. I find the suit floor and walk around, feeling conspicuous for being one of the only women there, and feeling even more so for looking not entirely unlike a whore. My heart beats—I don’t know what you’re going to do to me, images flash in my head, will you fuck me? Will you not? Will you spank me so loud the sales clerk calls the store detective? Will you just look at me and leave?—and when I look at my watch and see than nearly an hour has gone by I go into the dressing room, kneel and wait.

It seems like an eternity before you arrive. You open the door and our eyes meet in the mirror before me. You tell me to spread my knees and lean against the mirror so that my face is smashed against it. You tell me to lift my skirt above my waist so that you can see your little slut.

I do so.

You tell me you are pleased that I have followed your instructions. You ask if I stood or sat on the train. I tell you I stood. You ask me why and I tell you my fear of leaving wetness on the train. You tell me this displeases you. You want me to advertise to the world my desire for you and my desire to be used by you.

You tell me to kneel up. You take my nipples and pinch them cruelly through my shirt. You tell me to take my hands and pinch them as hard as you are. I do. You ask if it hurts and I say yes. You tell me to pinch harder, harder and harder still. I do and gasp.

You tell me to tell you if I am wet. I say I am. You tell me to show you. I run my finger between my thighs and it comes up dripping. I am wet down the sides of my pussy, overflowing on my thighs. I gleam with my wetness.

You tell me to lick my fingers. I do.

You tell me that you are more pleased and that you will allow me to serve you now. You tell me to turn around and unzip your pants. I do with my hands. You slap me. Not with your hands, you tell me, you mouth. I fumble with my mouth and my lips until your belt, your button, and your zipper are undone. I pull down your underwear with my teeth. You tell me to fill my mouth with you.

You press my lips against your pussy.

Your pointy shorn bush and the heady salt-taffy taste of your pussy. You take my hair in your hands and you push my head so that your clit fills my mouth, and your taste drenches my throat. Then you rhythmically begin fucking my mouth. I can feel my tongue burn with your pussy, but I am pleased you are so wet and that you are enjoying using me. I can feel you moving on my mouth and in my mind I imagine you watching my face disappear under your cunt and then looking at my ass and pussy reflected in the mirror behind me.

You are merciless, taking your pleasure with my mouth. My jaw hurts, it grows numb as you press your weight on my, merciless. I swallow again and again and again long drippy gulps of your juice and my spit. I can feel your rhythm becoming more insistent, and I know you are going to come. I am happy to serve you, to be your little slut.

You jerk. You spasm. You dance that mysterious Vitus dance on my mouth. You pull my hair. You press against my open mouth and I am afraid I will bit you as you do. You come and your breath hisses like a radiator. You come and I feel glad.

You ask me how wet I am. I tell you, “Very.” “Very, “ you say, “is not a description.”

I am so wet, I tell you, that I can feel my pussy lips rubbing against each other with my wetness.

“Show me.” You say.

I turn around and present my ass and my pussy to you, and you see me gleaming with my wetness.

“Good girl,” you say, pulling up your jeans and zipping them. “Very good. You may touch yourself now,” you say, “and don’t leave until you come.” And then you go leaving me with my hand, and your permission.


Comments

One Response to “Dressing Room - A Story”

  1. Curvaceous Dee on January 8th, 2008 10:49 pm

    I don’t think anything I’ve read online has turned me on this much in … weeks, probably. That was so very, very arousing!

    xx Dee

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