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.

Sounds like D is starting to feel better :)
Posted by: Nic | 20 May 2009 at 08:37 AM