Standing in my panties, I waited
for the sales clerk to arrive. She was
supposed to measure me for a new bra.
I glanced at my watch again,
impatient. I shouldn’t be eager to
depart. The changing room was vast in
comparison to my flat, and was infinitely better than my sister and her three
kids who had recently taken over my small one-bedroom. Once I arrived home, it’d be a non-stop
battle for food, sanity and possession of the remote control.
Leaning my head against the wall,
I stared at my reflection and sighed. My
hair needed another dose of Blonde like a
beauty! and my makeup washed off somewhere between the office and the
shop. The rain and the bus ride didn’t
help. My scrutiny found a thousand
faults, but even so my humor sense of humor kicked into high gear. What a time for my bra to give out!
Barely an hour earlier I was on
the seventh floor of my office, a rather stodgy firm, standing at the end of
the queue for the lift. The entire floor
was eager to get off for the night and we were gathered like cattle before the
gate. Greener pastures waited, and the
first on had pick.
My boss turned and asked me a
question about tomorrow morning’s appointment.
Something about the time.
Before I could reply, the clasp on
my bra gave. Oh yes, my bra! The pressure of my DD’s yanked the buttons on
my blouse and the current state of my saggy chest was revealed in full grandeur
to my boss, an entire line of co-workers and the greenery. Not that I particularly minded the plants
looking on because they were only rooted things and who could they run off and
tell? But the entire floor of my office,
people I faced day in and day out, were witness.
Heavens! I stood there. Frowned at them. Mind a jumble, and boobs hanging.
None of them said a word! Everyone stood there, and stared. Just stared!
I put my hand on hip. Gave them this look, like All right!
Someone can help me now.
We’ve all had embarrassing moments and someone can help me
out of mine.
But there was no reaction. No offer of a coat, a briefcase, or a
newspaper, something to cover the fact that my DDs were swinging free and
saluting air. Okay, ground! But they’re still mine, and I love them!
My feet moved. I’m naked here! Bare. Uncovered. Maybe it was the step I took toward them, or
my raised eyebrows. Perhaps there was
some kind of challenge in my posture, like I was going to charge them with my
Giant Boob Brigade. Whatever it was, it
shocked them. Stilled them into a frozen
state of being.
Wait. Movement.
A hand rose next to perfect Miss
Penelope Cross, office lovely and ideal business woman, as she placed the
latest in mod sunglasses over her
eyes. I couldn’t see her razor sharp
scrutiny housed in those unwavering eyes, but assumed it’s be a comment such as
“Isn’t there a phone ringing? Maybe you
should go check. I’ll wait here, and look gorgeous while you run
around with your boobs hanging out. Go
that way, now. Because you are drawing
attention away from me. Me! It’s all about me.”
Someone giggled. A throat was cleared.
It halted me in my steps. Then, popping this surreal moment, someone
finally spoke.
“Take the morning off Georgie.”
The voice of my boss was flat as he gave the declaration, though it was
accompanied by him staring fixedly at my breasts. His head bobbed in time with my boobs as they
slowed, following the movement of my steps.
As they stopped, so did his bobbing head.
Brain worked on those quick
retorts that only came to you after the fact, but the river bed of quirks was
dust dry. Nothing came to mind as I
opened my mouth, so nothing came out. Now, I was a silent mime doing a series
of gestures as my hands went up and down.
They watched me pantomime as I
took another step toward them. So close
now I could almost touch them.
My boss spun on his heels and
hustled with open arms the rest of the occupants of the floor toward the lift
making the line bunch into a thick clump.
Now, the cattle was a herd and when the doors opened, it began a
stampede. All rushed forward at once,
squished and squeezed like they had been spooked. Noise was thick with nervous discontent, as
they filled the maximum on board. The
leftovers had to wait or head for the stairs.
I turned around after that, and
pulled the edges of my blouse together. Didn’t
want to see who was behind or view their piteous glance. No, I could just head right back to my desk
and put on the emergency sweater, which was the office equivalent of the dunce
cap for it was the item passed from female to female when it was so cold in the
office that your nipples iced over and there was no sign of a thaw without the
bulky, inch thick, figure-killing jumper.
Maybe if the drape had a bit of swing, a belt or try, perhaps if it had
been a nice color it would make a difference, but that would disqualify it as
the office sweater, because it would be nice enough to take home. Our office sweater, Beetle Bee Tynes, was
beyond the ownership phase and into the denial of phase. “Certainly, no that’s
not mine!” until the cold struck. Then,
every woman in the place fought for it.
Except for Penelope Cross whose
every hair was so perfectly straight that each one had to apply for permission
before it could move. Whose slinky walk
accompanied a figure that could wear everything and anything, it was so
perfectly proportioned. Whose body never visited a gym yet did not display even
a gram of cellulite. Penelope was the model for every office pool. She was given choice for lead on projects,
asked to represent the company at social gatherings and the first female
introduced in any room. Was it any
wonder that she didn’t need an office sweater? Her nipples were probably never
perma-frosted.
I tossed the dreaded thing on the
faded flower and stripe cushion of the dressing room bench. “Serves me right for not having gotten to a
shop earlier to be measured and buy new bras.”
The mirror reflected my thick
globes of breast as the nipples tightened to ice. I followed their direction, those nipples of
mine, and there standing in the door was a man.
“Get out! This is the Ladies Section.”
“I’m supposed to be here.”
“In the Ladies...”
He didn’t move. Just stared.
“Doing what?” I stamped my foot, felt like I was ten and in
gym class wishing that I were the first one picked and that my boobs weren’t
going to fall out of the training bra that was way too tight. The theme did not escape my notice.
Hands covered my nipples and
cupped my breasts, and I don’t know what cue that man took it as, but he
stepped in and closed the door.
“I’m going to scream.”
“Please don’t, it’s my first day.”
I pursed my lips. “How can you be the measure person, if it’s
your first day, not to mention, does it escape you that you are NOT a woman?”
“I’ve been practicing. On mannequins”
"Practicing what on mannequins?” My face was flushing red. I could feel the blood surging up my neck
into my cheeks. It wasn’t anger that
pushed it high, but embarrassment. The
thought that if this measure man was some kind of serial killer than I was
going to die in a Ladies Dressing room with my boobs hanging out and all the
world would see them sag. Of course,
maybe they’d cover those bits with a black stripe, and then I’d just look like
I was having a really great cleavage day.
Fuck! What am I thinking of?
He took two more steps. “Measuring. I can tell you the size and cup
of each mannequin in the store.”
I nodded my head, did one of those
once-overs. The man was mid-twenties,
sandy brown hair covered partially by gray hat, glasses and wore the same kind
of pants and shirts that every office bloke in town did. I’m
going to die! Words tumbled out of
my mouth. “That’s a little creepy.”
My head thudded back against the
wall. So much for placating the
psychotic!
The man shrugged. “Yeah, but how else am I supposed to learn?”
I squared my shoulders. If I was going to die, I was going to add
some dignity to it. What was it they
always tell you in emergency courses? Kick them in the groin and poke them in
the eyes. I pushed away from the
wall. “You’re not. You’re a bloke. Blokes don’t measure women for bras.”
“Bit sexiest don’t you think?”
I stared at him. Because psychotics weren’t supposed to be
thought provoking, were they? My anger
pitched that moment to rise, because if this guy wasn’t a serial killer, then
he was either a pervert or a real salesperson.
“When you are standing half naked with your big bits hanging out, then I’ll
accept it.”
“I could get fired.” He gave me puppy dog eyes.
“Piss off.”
He sighed, hung his head and
turned toward the door.
“Is there no one else who can help
me?”
“Only Randell, and he’s helping out
front. Won’t do the measuring either.
Too scared to hold the measuring tape, let alone wrap it around anyone. Our manager, Mrs. Blaugh called in sick.
Listen, I see you’re upset, so I’ll be outside.” He stepped out and closed the door
behind. The sound of him walking faded
down the hall.
I dropped my arms and lifted them
to the ceiling. As I looked in the
mirror at my image a sign caught my gaze, “This room is monitored at all
times. Shoplifters will be prosecuted.” I frowned.
Read the sign again. And crossed
my arms back over my chest.
I carried my breasts to the door and
yelled through the slits. “Hey,
you. Who’s watching through the mirror?”
“I am,” said the voice back.
“Well stop!”
“Your choice. Either I watch through the mirror or measure
you, but you have to decide. I can go
either way.”
“I bet!” My chest was icing over from the cold. I glanced at my watch and it was growing
late. Even if I did take the morning
off, I’d still have to go into work at some point. Embarrassment rarely ranked a half day for
me, so best I take advantage of it. Didn’t
really want to spend it all sleeping, or at the very worst, having to go to
another store for a measure and new bras.
How bad could this guy be?
“Fine. Come in.”
The rustling from the other side
of the mirror was punctuated with a thud, a groan and an “I’m okay. Just a bruise.” The series of thumps that
followed were more disconcerting and by the time, the man opened the door, I
was backed up against the wall again, a breast held tight in each hand.
“Okay.” He stalked toward me with
the measuring tape held in front of him like he was going to strangle someone.
I gulped. “You’re setting off the creep alarm again.” I
nodded at his outstretched arms.
“Right. Sorry.”
He dropped them to his side. “But
I’ll need your help.”
“What?”
“You’ll have to step away from the
wall, if I’m going to measure you.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
I stepped away and the loss of security made me shiver. “My old bra is over there on the chair.”
“On the office sweater. Did you have to wear it in public?”
“Yes, total embarrassment! Especially as I stepped on and off the
bus. Wait, how did you know about the
sweater?”
“I work in the same building. Shipping.
See you every day when you arrive in the mornings.”
“Shipping’s clear across the other
side of the building and downstairs of accounting.”
“Certainly is, but I pick up and
drive Miss Cross and Mr. Kevins to work.”
“No way! They get to use the Mercedes.”
“Yes, and I’ve driven it.” He rocked on his toes. “I’m Lawrence Timbec.”
“Georgie.”
“I know.”
“You do? What do you know?”
“You are Georgia Peach Bennett,
26, single and desperately in need of a new bra. Yours exploded in front of the lift this eve
on the seventh floor in front of all your co-workers.”
“It didn’t explode and I was the
last one in queue. For some reason,
everyone happened to turn at the right time and see me all undone.” The last bit came out slower, and I felt a
flame dance along my forehead. I cleared my throat. “Can we get on with
it? I don’t enjoy standing here half dressed. If there was any fairness in the world, you’d
have to be half showing too.”
"You’re on.” He reached for his shirt and whipped it over
his head.
It was my turn to stare. This pushy measure man, this sales guy,
Lawrence Timbec from my office, was actually buff! My mouth dropped open as I stared at a lickable
six pack abdomen. My eyes traveled to
the horrible red and purple striped shirt that dropped to the floor and back to
his beautiful belly. Nary a speck of
hair covered it. “You shave?”
He smiled. “Yeah.
I compete at my gym sometimes. It’s
easier to be consistent. Waxing just
plain hurts.”
I licked my lips. I wanted a sip of those abs.
His eyes narrowed as he watched my
mouth. His head cocked to the side.
“What’s the rest of that sandy
brown hair like under that hat?”
The gray cap was jerked from his
head revealing short bristling spikes.
Beautiful! More blond then brown
without the hat and it complimented his warm skin and tight muscled body.
My nipples bloomed beneath my
fingers. I longed to give them a tug,
before their looseness gave way to a tight aroused ache.
“How about you let me measure?”
“Huh?”
“The bra. Let me do a measure.” His voice seemed sexy now.
I leaned forward and he stepped
toward me. “Aren’t I supposed to have a
bra on?”
“Yes, but I can figure it
out. Let me adjust your hands.”
He moved my fingers so they held
my breasts from beneath. He measured
around my back and wrapped the tape tight across my nips. With mouth open, I swallowed.
“One more. Just hold here.” The words were hitting my skin, like his
breath and it was all I could do not to push my skin forward for a touch of
those lips.
Hands were adjusted to cup from
the front forward as he pushed in against me.
Skin rubbed skin and my eyes drifted closed.
“Not too bad, right? I’ll be back in a moment or two.”
My eyes blinked open in time to
see him pick up the shirt, pull it on and rush out the door. It banged against the frame. I murmured, “Right, not bad at all.”
“Heavens, Georgie, what are you
thinking? He’s the measure man and you’re
here for bras not a quick sex up.” I
stared at myself in the mirror. “But it’s
been eight months since the last Yippee!
came from my lips and I’m due.” If only
my reflection would answer back.
The door banged open and was
pushed closed by Lawrence’s foot. He carried
armfuls of bras in a rainbow of colors and a range of textures.
“I gathered everything in your
size. Wasn’t sure if you were the
peekaboo nipple type, so I added those as well.”
Eyebrows shot into my hairline and
I had to remind myself to be cool. “I
think the regular type would do me.”
He set them on the chair and
sorted through the selection. “I think
you should start with the blue satin because it’s the color of your eyes.”
I bravely dropped a hand to take
it from him.
He stared for a moment. Then turned around. “Sorry, yeah.
Should give you privacy. Though
you should know how perfect they are, you are.
I mean, ahem, I see Miss Cross when she and Mr. Kevins are busy in back
and she’s all pad. If, I were her and
had pert ones like that I’d wear tight tees, let them be free and gorgeous as
they were meant to be instead of pushing them into something they aren’t. Guess that’s sort of like you wearing a size
too small when your beauties deserve trophy halls for your glory.”
“Trophy halls?”
He turned. “Lovely.
Really.”
I admired myself in the
mirror. It was incredible. I should have gotten measured sooner. It was like having a boob job and body lift in
one, with a simple and really well-done bra!
“Here, try this one.” He tossed a red lace bra and I caught it to
me.
I undid the blue satin and hung it
on the door knob. I watched myself put
on the red one. I watched him, watch
me. “Your turn. You said yourself it was only fair. Half your clothes off.”
He reached for his shirt.
“Bottom half. All the way down.”
He gulped. Fingers shook as they worked his belt out of
the buckle. The thick piece of leather
hit the floor with a thunk and he lingered for a moment before he pulled the
zipper down. He pushed boxers and pants
down in one to reveal a hearty hard on.
“How long have you been hard?”
“Since the first time I saw you.”
“In the mirror here.”
“Stumbling over the threshold of
the building, with your skirt flying high and knickers with the word ‘FRIDAY’S
GIRL’ splashed in the center.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve wanted you since, and a
hundred times over and never knew how to get your attention.”
“Right under my nose the whole
time.”
“I’d like to be.” He smiled, and took his glasses off. Pulled his shirt over his head and pushed
everything to the side. Lawrence Timbec
walked toward me like he was a pirate on a sea ship and grabbed. The little
clothing that remained was thrown to the wind.
I was Catherine O’Hara in The
Black Swan right before she said “Jamie Boy!” for the third time, and he
kissed me. No, timid touch of lip and
touch, but a soul devouring sweep of mouth and teeth.
He lifted me and my body reacted
with lightning speed wrapping my legs around him and holding on for dear life.
His cock was trapped against my belly as we mauled each other.
My back hit the wall, then his,
until we landed on the floor of the Ladies Dressing room having pulled the
entire pile of bras from their nesting place.
Hands rubbed and rushed like we were heat. Until I pushed back, held him off and stared
at him. I wanted more than a quick
jaunt, a fast one that would have me wondering why. I wanted something long, hot and languorous.
Slowly, I let him lower back
toward me. Let the glisten on my skin
guide him to where I wanted to be touched.
I rewarded him by lifting into the
stroke of his hands, melded into the pet of caresses, and sighed when he found
the best spots. Attention from his
tongue distracted me as he lapped at my skin, licked along the nape of neck to
tip of nipple, from the backside dimples near my rump to the soft spot behind
knees, and over and on every stop I never even considered an erogenous zone
before. Fingers tempted and tantalized
my skin, gave nerve endings new life and license to express gratitude, as mouth
and hands warmed me, wetted me, and opened me wider to him.
Emotions and instincts worked
together. There was no debate as eagerly
I thrust my hips toward him. The measure man kept skirting around the one place
I wanted him to attend more than anything.
“Please.” I rubbed my skin
against him. “Lawry, please.”
“I like it when you call me Lawry.”
“In my head, I call you the measure
man.”
“How am I doing?”
“You need to go lower.” My words came out on a huff of air.
He gave a quick lick on my
belly. “Haven’t been briefed on briefs
yet.”
My chuckle came out more snort,
than laugh, but he seemed to like it as he kissed full on. I lost the capacity for thought.
Fingers stroked wide those fleshy
lips and his tongue delved. I arched
into his mouth and his teeth scored the hood of my clit. The tongue came back playing: side to side, up and down, and around and I
arched into an eight style, an infinity loop that had me grabbing at air. Its
shrill charge sang through me. “Lawry, yes, there. That’s it.
Don’t lose it. Please.”
The tongue danced along my clit,
licked and stroked that iced rhythm that was worked and punctuated by a gentle
rasp of teeth. Skin felt like it was
lifting off as a finger sank into me. My
body tightened around it, joyful to have something to hold, something to grip. The walls shuddered around the digit and
before I spasmed again, he sank in a second.
I rose toward him, a pulse and push of hips to meet the thrusts.
I sank myself on his fingers as
his mouth praised. This man who had had
a hard-on for me from the first time he saw me.
Who was showing me precisely what he felt, even as he talked of beauty.
My hands sought purchase and
grabbed into the bras. I drew them
toward me. Covered myself in lace and
satin. Dug my fingers into their structure
and seams. Even as I thrust myself over
and against long strong fingers. Impaled
and teased, tongue and hand, until I came with a sharp sheered edge that sent
chills racing through me and jerked me hard against him.
Awash with wet, I shook.
He pulled himself along me, not
allowing recovery. Grabbed a foil packet
from his wallet and slid it along his length.
The penis was near purple with its flood and it was barely seconds
before he hovered at my entrance. “May I
please?”
It was sweet. The words polite. Even with his bold actions and I stroked a
hand over his cheek. “Please.” My voice sounded unsteady, even to me.
The head pushed in a couple of
inches. He braced himself on his arms
and panted.
I could not resist smacking a hand
against his rear.
My breath whooshed out as he sank
himself to the hilt.
“Georgie, I’ll come.
Easy.”
“Then, make it worth the strain.”
“What are you saying?”
“Fast and furious please, measure
man. Time for me to do the measuring up.”
His mouth dropped open, and I
brought that gaping orifice to me. My
tongue licked along his lips and teased the tip of his tongue. Fingers found the inside edge of his ear, a
well known sensory spot for the prostate, and danced along in feather strokes.
Lawrence groaned. He surged
and withdrew.
Inside me, the lick of sensation
was sending ripples of muscled edge over and back through my body. Legs wrapped around his waist so he could
drive deeper and hit that clit spot I loved, over and over as he struck a
rhythm. Like the rise of a wave that
grew in height until it threatened to destroy or devour anything in its path,
it built, welling higher and longer. The
wall loomed over me in its joyful exuberance until it crashed over me, swept me
under and brought a wash of contractions.
My body sucked and pulled, dragged
on Lawrence’s cock like it was a straw and I was so thirsty for a
drink that I could barely manage. Fingers dropped between us, and still my body
pulled, a mini wash, a cascade of small waves crashed through my body as his
fingers wrung the last bit of pleasure from me.
“You’re multi-orgasmic.”
“Thick dick and fingers dragging
did it.”
“How did -”
“It was a perfect.”
He kissed me as my fingers found
those incredible abs, played over them.
Someone pounded at the door. “You’re
fired, Mr. Timbec.” A sneeze.
Then another. “Did you hear me,
Mr. Timbec. This is Mrs. Blaugh. You’re fired.
Finish up in there and get out.”
Lawrence looked at the door and frowned.
I soothed the wrinkles over a
bra. “You heard her. Finish up, Mr. Timbec.
I’ve more bras to try and you’ve got some more measuring to do.”
He sighed. “I hate losing another evening job. It took me ages to get the hang of this one.”
I smiled. “Be proud.”
Kissed his lips and sought his hands.
When I cradled those beautiful palms in mine, I said. “You give a perfect measure. You should be very proud.”
He laughed and rolled me, so I was
on top. “I’ve been told to follow the
instructions of the customer. So, Miss,
how may I pleasure you?”
“Let me see, first let’s see that
peekaboo bra again. Shopping and sex,
should always go hand in hand.”