New Phone

I have a new phone (my old one having plummeted down a stairwell during some ill-advised horseplay) and for the first time I’ve succumbed to a Bluetooth earpiece, because it was free and because I was feeling left out being the only person in London not to charge around the streets gabbling to thin air like a loon.

I’m not very good at getting free things. I have girlfriends who will blatantly undo an extra button, choose the youngest, most vulnerable-looking sales man, stare gimlet-eyed at him and go, “So what can I have free?” I’m too shy to do this. I think the kindly, middle-aged man who served me gave me free things just to get me to leave before I broke or knocked over anything else in his shop.

Full of the joys of a free thing, I wore it to Top Shop so I could phone D and say, “Hello, I’m in Top Shop!” I expect it’s just because he’s still feeling under the weather that he didn’t join in enthusiastically with the conversation about dresses. In fact I was going to give it up as a bad job (and start jabbering about sun glasses instead) when he suddenly said, “What dress are you looking at now? Describe it.”

“Um, it’s a backless, coral coloured sun dress with shoulder straps and three layers of flounce on the skirt. Why?”

“I want to be able to picture it. Go and try it on.”

The changing rooms were filled with American teenage girls, squealing and trying on armfuls of clothes; filming each other as they paraded up and down in an impromptu fashion show. I squeezed past them and pulled the curtain shut. “I’m in the changing room” I whispered.

“Strip off every stitch and put the dress on.”

I struggled out of my layers of t shirts and jumpers, hopping as I wrenched off my socks, pulling my jeans inside out as I kicked them off, dragging my knickers with them. Then I wriggled into the dress, adjusting its straps and fluffing out its flounces.

“Are you looking at yourself in the mirror?”

“Yes.”

“Lift up your skirt and look at your cunt. Describe it to me.”

I giggled. “I can’t, someone will hear.”

“Do as you’re told, you slut.”

I looked over my shoulder at the curtain, then leaned a little closer to the mirror and whispered, “It’s smooth and secret, its folds hidden away until I slide my fingers between them and spread it open. Then it’s rosy pink inside, swollen and damp, and when I draw my fingers back the hood of my clit is tugged up and the tip of my clit is red and shiny underneath.”

“Hold it open and stick your finger up it.”

I put one foot on the stool, spreading my thighs, and leaned my forehead against the mirror as I looked down and watched my finger disappear between the folds of my cunt.

“Is it in?”

“Yes.”

“Frig your cunt, finger fuck it until it’s dripping. I want everyone in the dressing room to hear your cunt slurping it up.”

I glanced up and looked with surprise at my flushed face, as though I’d never seen myself before, this girl wanking in a dressing room while her boyfriend told her that he was going to call security and tell them that I was trying to steal the dress. They’d send two burly security guards who’d strip it off me and drag me, naked and screaming, across the crowded shop floor and through a door into the stockroom where they’d bend me over a packing case and search me in the most humiliating fashion possible, using torches and truncheons to examine my cunt and arsehole. They’d offer to let me go without calling the police if I sucked their cocks and when I agreed they’d take it in turns, one of them with his hand splayed across my cheek, shoving my face down against the packing case while he brutally fucked my throat, ignoring my tears and laughing when I coughed up thick strings of saliva. Meanwhile the other would spit on my arsehole and force his cock into my tight hole with a series of sharp thrusts, smacking his hand hard across my buttocks each time I screamed, digging his fingertips into my hips as he buggered me, changing ends and grabbing hold of my hair, forcing me to suck his cock clean, slapping my face when I tried to squirm away, while the other plunged his cock into my still-gaping arsehole and flooded my bowels with hot spurts of spunk until it dripped out and trickled down my thighs. Then, when they’d tired of me…

“Please!” I said, too loudly, then quieter, “Please…”

“Do you want to cum, Lucy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to let you. Change out of the dress and go to the counter and buy it. Don’t suck your fingers!”

I froze, looking guiltily at my reflection, mouth open, fingers raised to my lips. With sticky fingers I carefully unpeeled the dress and put it back on its hanger.

Standing in line at the till, I could hear D still in my ear, like wormwood, whispering, “They all know. They can smell the cunt on your fingers. When you’ve gone they’re going to talk in shocked whispers about the whore who bought the dress that reeked of cunt.”

I was so flustered by the time I got to the front of the queue I almost threw my credit card at the poor woman and when she asked me if I wanted to keep the hanger I just stared at her and said, “I don’t know”.

Outside on Oxford Street I took my earpiece off and stood, dizzy in the crowd, listening to my heart thud, feeling the blood pulse heavily in my veins and in my clit and sucking my fingers, absently.

Comments

[Nic]

Sounds like D is starting to feel better :)