“You wait right here,” she said, “Get some coffee if you’d like” and she pointed at one of those big stainless coffee pots sitting on a table with some styrofoam cups.
“And you,” she said, taking Margie by the hand, “Come with me.”
I grabbed a cup of coffee and just surveyed the place. It was crowded with rack after rack of clothes. Things tended to be either black, or very bright colors. No pastels in this place. The walls were almost completely covered with pictures of women of all sizes and colors dressed in things that were clearly designed to reveal and enhance while still leaving something to the imagination. It struck me that I had gotten pretty lucky with our first choice of stores.
I could hear giggles and the ocasional “Oh my” as I took my seat and sipped coffee.
The bell at the door dinged and I heard Cinnamon’s musical voice, “Be right with you.”
Margie looked at me sort of sideways as she went into one of the changing rooms. She was giggling.
Cinnamon came by me on the way to follow Margie and right behind her came a tall woman, good looking in that over-made-up way some women seem to manage, who went into the other changing room.
I had to laugh when I heard Cinammon’s voice saying, “No honey, like this,” and then Margie’s nervous giggle.
As I was laughing the other woman stepped out of the other door and did a slow turn. She had on a crop top and the bottom of her breasts was peeking out. The shorts she had on were so short that her gluteal sulcus, that line where the ass joins the tops of the backs of thighs, was on display.
“What do you think, sugar,” she asked in a whisky/cigarette husky voice, “Do these make my ass look big?”
There is, of course, only one possible answer to that quetion, so I gave it – “They make your ass look great.”
She giggled and called out, “Cinnamon, sold.”
As Cinnamon opened the door I caught a glimpse of Margie, squirming into something very bright blue.
Cinnamon came back to the changing room area, smiled, said, “Thank you, she’s usually one of my more difficult customers,” and then she headed back into the changing room.
I heard more giggling and then Margie stepped out and I whistled.
She looked absolutely stunning. She had a bright blue top that buttoned at the neck and the navel and left what was in between exposed. It set off her red hair wonderfully. Her breasts seemed higher but there was no sign of a bra. The black skirt ended above her knees but the fringe added three inches to its apparent length. She had black nylons with distinct seams, and open-toed high heel shoes with ankle straps, which I would later learn to call “Fuck me” shoes.
“You look amazing,” I said and she giggled and blushed.
She disappeared back into the changing room.
Another four minutes of giggling and she emerged again.
And I whistled again.
This time it was a full length pants suit, something I later learned was called a jumpsuit. It had the same basic design from the front, a high collar, almost a turtleneck look, with one big button, and a belt, with the top open between. The pants were big and soft, flowing, almost an ankle length skirt. It was a red so completely red that if you looked at it for a while, when you looked away you saw green haloes around what you looked at. The matching red heels were, again, spike heels, open toes, and ankle straps.
When she turned the back was completely gone. She was skin from that two-inch-wide collar to those dimples just above the cleft of her ass. This time I stood and clapped.
She giggled like a schoolgirl and Cinammon took her arm back into the changing room.
The third outfit was both the most revealing and the most modest. It was a full body stocking, the only skin showing was her face, hands, and feet, the feet in leather flip flops. The material was so sheer I could see the little freckles and moles any woman has. I even noted a pimple on her thigh for later attention. The material was opaque, though, where it covered her breasts, well, her nipples and a circle a couple of inches, and her pussy and ass, almost like a pair of built in, French cut panties.
I did the down-on-your-knees thing, bowing, prostrating myself, my arms over my head, and said, “I’m not worthy,” as I bowed three times.
She burst out in a gale of laughter as Cinnamon ushered her back into the changing room.
The last outfit, the one she wore home, was very simple. Denim jeans were cut off so short her gluteal sulcus was on display. A man’s shirt, long sleeves, was unbuttoned and the tails tied below her breasts. She was three inches taller in big platform sandals held to her feet and calves with a series of laces looking like something from a movie featuring a Roman legion.
“You look stunning,” I said.
She giggled and blushed prettily.
She paid with a credit card and I served as the beast of burden, lugging a double armload of dress and shoe boxes along with a big store bag. I only dropped them once on the way to the car, making her giggle again. I noticed that she was standing tall and walking proud. I liked it.
As I held her hand, helping her into the car, she held on and pulled me close.
“Davey,” she said in a very breathy voice, “If you don’t get me home and into bed RIGHT NOW I’m going to explode.”
I laughed and said, “Wellllllll, I was thinking of going to the museum for a while.”
She punched me and said, “RIGHT NOW!!!!!!”
I laughed and said, “That’s the proper attitude for a whore,” and she giggled.
“I’m what you are making me, honey,” she said.
I made a point of driving the speed limit all the way home and when we pulled into the little garage I made two trips to get all of her new stuff in the house.
When I went in the back door the second time she was waiting for me and threw her arms around my neck, scattering boxes all over the laundry room.
“Honeyyyyy,” she said.
I ran my hands down her back until I was cupping her ass, liking the way it was only partially covered by the denim.
“I think you need a spanking first,” I said, “To teach you some self-control.”
“Honeyyyyyyyyy,” she said again, leaning back, her eyes big, meeting mine.
“Come with me,” I said, taking her hand and leading her into the front room.
“Davey,” she said to my back as I went back into the kitchen.
She was standing where I left her when I went back, carrying one of the heavy kitchen chairs.
Her eyes got bigger as I put the chair, carefully, in the middle of the room.
“Davey?” she asked in a small voice.
I said nothing, just sat and crooked my finger and beckoned her.
“Davey,” she said again, but she took the two steps to get to me.
I smiled up at her as I took her hand and pulled, not yanking, but pulling until she was off balance and had no choice but to lay across my lap.
As I had hoped, in that position the entire bottom of her ass, right where she sat, was actually bulging out a little, forced by the tight jeans and the position.
“You must learn patience,” I said, my hand caressing where I was going to spank her.
“Davey,” she said for the third time, but this time there as a softness and longing in her voice that was unmistakable.