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I wake up a little flushed, a bit dry mouthed and very, very horny. Highlights of the red hot dream I just had are swimming in and out of my memory, dwindling frustratingly fast, but the pulsing of my swollen clit is strong, so strong I have to check the position of both hands. Thoroughly expecting the fingers of my right hand to be buried deep inside me, my thumb still strumming my quivering stiff bud, I’m surprised to find them far from the central action. Both arms are by my sides, hands palm down on the mattress, the only giveaway my body hints at are my legs splayed, knees akimbo. I raise my hips wantonly, squeeze my kegel muscles a few times, desperately trying to grasp the last of the now fading orgasm I’ve obviously enjoyed in my sleep. Why didn’t I wake up in time for the big dramatic start, and not just the afterglow!? And why are my sex dreams always about solo fun these days!? Three years of unforced chastity is the most likely reason.
The fizz in my body is flattening rapidly to nonsparkling, so I throw off my duvet, close my knees together and fling my legs over the side of the bed.
“Right! This isn’t getting the child fed! Get up ya lazy goat and get the weekend started!!”
I’d moved to London three years ago, because of my job. The drastic change of pace at the central headquarters of the financial company I worked for meant I’d little time for a social life, hence the sexual drought. This weekend was one of the rare few work free ones I’ve had, and coinciding with a bank holiday I fought hard to get off too, I plan to damn well make the most of it.
The long, grueling hours thankfully didn’t go unrewarded. The hike in pay was what lured me to the bright lights of the big city, but ironically, I never got time to spend it on much other than sky high rent and takeaway meals. My wardrobe was dull and out of date, I hated my work clothes and despised my casual, slobbing around gear. Today was the day I’d rectify that. I’m going shopping. Big time shopping. A spree to end all sprees. Then I’m going to work on finding time and places to wear my new purchases, and hopefully end my drought in the process.
A train ride, two short tube rides and I’m smack bang in the middle of a very busy Oxford street. Intimidated and uninspired by the identikit high street chains though, I shuffle my way towards the funkier, fragrant doorsteps of Carnaby Street. Street art, buskers, little colourful market stands spilling over with silk scarves and naturally dyed cotton bags, with little mirrors and busy embroidered appliqués soon have me smiling, and I can feel my shoulders relax. It isn’t until I feel them collapse into their natural position that I realise they’d been scrunched up around my ears. In a much better mood now, and ready to spend, spend, spend, I stop a pretty girl in a stunning pale blue, ethereal floaty shirt dress, with tiny pearl button detail down the front, a dress I longed to own myself, and felt confident she’d be the one to point me in the right direction to start my revamp.
“Hi, I just adore your outfit, please tell me you got it around here somewhere?”
“Oh! Thank you! A girl can’t hear that enough!” She blushed and hoisted her hand painted leather bag further up her shoulder and spun 180 to point back down the road. “Do you see the store with the giant Medusa head just above the gold shop canopy? Vintage Cavern. That’s the best place in London for dresses, skirts and the most amazing slips and vintage style camisoles. You’ll be spoilt for choice! It’s more like an indoor market though, so best to stop by a cash machine first, they don’t take cards.”
She ends her suggestion with a bit of an apologetic grimace, then smiles gaily and with a jangle of tinkly bangles she throws me a tiny wave and wishes me luck, disappearing into the coffee bar we were stood right outside. I shout my thanks to her and head straight for the cash point and ready myself for a good delve into this cavern I was now incredibly curious about.
It’s wall to wall chiffon, billowing silks, satins and soft floaty linens. I’m in retail heaven. I want one of everything. Before I can get overwhelmed by the choice I tackle the nearest rack to the door, and flick my way through the mismatched hangers, first looking for something in my size before pulling it out to examine, to avoid disappointment. I hate when I fall for the perfect skater dress in a divine pattern, with just the right neckline, only to discover its two sizes too small… having already wowed my imaginary new friends in it, at an imaginary bar…
I’m right in the middle of the Tardis like shop before I realise I’ve spent nearly half an hour caressing and holding up dresses, tops and skirts against me, dwindling my choice down to the maximum five items allowed to be tried on at any one time in the changing rooms. I step through the rich gold velvet curtain into a warren of cubicles, branching out into little corridors with a mind boggling lack of thought into practical use of space. The numbers stencilled in şişli escort white on each door don’t seem to follow in numerical order either. Curious. Assuming there must be a method in this chaotic madness, I head for the cubicle at the end of one ‘branch’ of the warren, the first I can spot with an open door, and excitedly hang up my choices, eager to strip off and start trying on.
The first skirt and cami top are definite winners. I’m loathe to take them off again, they feel so good on, and flatter my hourglass figure so perfectly I could get away with pretending they were made to measure. Shaking my head to dispel the beginnings of another fantasy with my imaginary friends, where I’m bragging about my imaginary personal dressmaker, I reluctantly take them off and try on the sheer button through tea dress, reminiscent of the one that lured me here, now almost an hour ago. It’s so sheer I’m regretting not hunting out a full length slip to go under it, my boring white jersey bra and sensible briefs do nothing for my silhouette in it. Opening the door of the cubicle I stick my head out in the hope of attracting a member of staff to go do the hunting for me, but there’s no one about. The door to my right creaks open and a hippy chick older lady strolls out, juggling an armful of outfits with a big satisfied smile on her face.
“You ok there love? That’s a pretty dress, would be better without those big drawers though!”
She laughs, her brash cockney drawl drawing an embarrassed smile from me, mortified to be caught, practically in my undies.
“I know!! I should’ve found a slip for under it, was hoping a member of staff would be milling around to help, but looks like I’ll have to do a quick change back into my jeans and go search myself.”
I roll my eyes comically, crossing my arms, belatedly covering my body and backing into the cubicle.
“What size love? Just a cream or nude slip, yeah? I’ll find someone on the shop floor to go get you one, or ask at the till when I’m buying these, alright? Yeah. You are cubicle number 12, yeah?”
She’s so vocal, forthright and hard to refuse so I thank her and tell her cream or nude would be perfect, in a size 12, ta very much. I duck back into the cubicle and close the door behind me.
Nude. Better without those big drawers. Nude…
If I’m fast I can wriggle out of my M&S matching set and just quickly see for myself what this dress looks like without anything below it. Just out of curiosity. Horny curiosity. I wiggle out of my knickers, kick them off and unsnap my bra through the sheer chiffon, pull my bra strap down my left arm, then off out through the capped sleeve of my right arm, unable to resist a whispered ‘tah dah!’ to accompany the dramatic little flourish.
Wow. I’m not exactly a narcissist, never been tempted to fit a mirrored ceiling above my bed or anything of that ilk, don’t think I’ve even been undressed in front of a mirror at home before, but right now, right in front of this dressing room mirror, i can’t take my eyes off my own body. The spotlights above catch the luminosity of my pale Celtic skin, bathed in the wispy dove grey chiffon fabric, flowing over and caressing my curves. It’s highlighting everything from the wide hips either side of my overly applely bum, my nipped in waist and the gently tear dropped globes of my ample chest, domed with embarrassingly big dark rosy nipples. Always begging to be seen, poking as they do, through bras, shirts and sometimes even the woolliest of jumpers. My ex boyfriend called them ‘part time puffies’, as they sit proud, like rounded golf ball halves until manipulated, or caught in a cold breeze, then they transform into big long stiff poker tips surrounded by a circle of raised dimples. Instead of feeling embarrassed by them right now I’m entranced, not to mention very turned on. Flashbacks from my waking dream come at me and I watch transfixed as my hands creep up towards the domes, eager to twist them into stiff…
“Hello there!! You needed a slip? I’ve only one in your size, it has a tangle of fine straps though, but I can help you with… ”
The door I forgot to bolt is pushed slowly open from behind, nudging me into the mirror I was vainly ogling moments before.
“Oh! Hello, it’s you!”
“Oh hello, you found us then!”
We both talk over each other as our eyes meet in the mirror. I’m looking at her but I can see the blush rise on my own face out of the corner of my eye, as I remember my state of undress.
“Oh wow, you have an amazing figure! I know a few private member clubs around here where you could wear that dress exactly like that.”
She laughs warmly and dispels my nervous anxiety with her lack of judgement at my near nakedness,. Flattered by her compliment I relax enough to thank her and suggest I’d better try it with the slip too though, for versatility. Fully expecting her to quickly show me which end was up in the tangle of spaghetti straps she was indicating, and leave me to it, I’m surprised to find çapa escort her looking at me expectantly. I turn toward her, eyebrow raised in query and she carries on so matter of factly that I find myself falling in line and following her unspoken orders.
My hands shake a little as I tackle the buttons, opening them quickly to the waist before letting the dress fall to the floor in a silent wafty flourish, and hold my arms out to receive the slip, totally aware of, but totally ignoring my state of total nakedness. She pops it over my bent head, pushing my head further down as she tuts gently and fusses with the straps at the back of my neck. I can feel the heat of her skin, and smell the lemony soapy scent emanating from her cleavage, mere centimetres from my face. I have just enough time to admire the bronzed b cup boobs jiggling between the buttons of her dress, no bra I think, when she makes a triumphant sound before pulling the slip down my body, the hem skimming my knees on one side whilst caught mid thigh on the other.
I spin to look in the mirror and we both laugh as we realise the straps are tangled up on one side, causing the unintentionally asymmetrical hemline.
“Here, just pop your arm through these two, wait… no, these two, and I’ll just pull this over your head, oops, raise your arm…”
She successfully pulls my head and arm through the correct web of straps, and as she steps back to admire her handiwork with a sigh of relief her forearm brushes my right breast, causing an involuntary ‘oh!’ from me.
“Oh I’m so sorry, erm…”
She blushes, darker than me only moments ago, and jerkily her hand comes up as if to swipe apologetically where her arm had ‘assaulted’ me. Her fingers accidentally stroke my already stiffening bud, causing it to poke through the light silk fabric, the lights from above casting a shadow, drawing even more attention to my giant erect nubbin. She pauses, mouth open with a forgotten apology on her lips, her fingers hovering at my breast, mesmerised by the action she caused.
Before I can engage my brain I hear myself whisper huskily, with a soft laugh,
“Don’t leave the twin out, it’ll get jealous.” And jester toward my still puffy nipple with a shunt of my shoulder, putting the soft spongy dome within a hairs breadth of her fingers.
Without shifting her gaze she gently prods at my nipple, so gently she’s barely grazing it. Now she’s flitting her eyes up to quickly gauge my reaction, which I give with a micro nod. She looks back at her hand and it’s like time is suddenly suspended in an alternative reality bubble. I’ve never ever had any notions about girls before, not even during those curious, tender early teen years, emerged instead in religious scripture and academic studies. I was a total nerd. This little bubble, within the tight four walls of this cubicle, has enveloped both of us, so much so I’ve forgotten who I was, stop questioning my preference and I’m now totally IN THIS.
“Rub it with your thumb, yes, harder… mmmm, pinch it. Just grab it, yes, twist it. Twist my big stiff tip, mmmmm, fuck… yes, both of them, just like that. God, you are good. So good.”
“They are really sensitive?” It’s not so much a question as a statement, she can see and feel exactly how sensitive they are. I moan yes anyway, as quietly as I can. Immersed as I am in this horny, almost unreal tableau, I’m still conscious of our near public environment.
“My nipples are super sensitive too. I can’t even bear to wear a bra covering them.”
Before I can tell her I’ve noticed her braless state already, she tugs me by the nipples toward her and pings them in release and immediately presses her lightly clothed breasts against mine. She allows my stiff nubs to dig into her soft skin.
“Mmmm, feels so good, but hurts a little… the friction from my dress…”
I flash my eyes at hers, in consent, and our hands crash against each other as we both reach for her tiny top button.
“I’ll do it, you get that slip off. Now!” We are barely keeping to a whisper now, no longer caring so much about who might be out there, overhearing us.
With only the minimum fuss I manage to shrug the slip back over my head, and forgetting to feel embarrassed about my nakedness I reach for her bottom button and finally we meet in the middle. I brush her hands away as I slowly open her dress, like I’m unwrapping a thrilling surprise gift. What a gift. The sight of her dusky brown skin in all its lithe, gently muscled glory has my mouth watering. And my pussy dripping. She’s thinner than me, her breasts are smaller, her nipples neater in size, but only by millimetres. I can’t believe she was able to hide these two perky little poles in that sheer dress.
“Thank god for breast pockets eh? If it wasn’t for those double flaps over these bad girls id take an eye out, right?” She laughs and winks saucily, then surprises me by pushing me onto the round velvet padded stool in the corner of the cubicle. Immediately mecidiyeköy escort she joins me, straddles my thighs as she sits facing me. She pulls at her own long nipples, held firmly between forefinger and thumb and pushes them into mine. Without words we measure them side by side. Mine are longer by about half a centimetre, but hers are by no means short, standing proud at a good two and a half centimetres from her perfectly round boobs.
“I challenge you to a duel!” she laughs as she takes swipes at my tits with hers, making comic swooshing sounds.
Catching on, I grab mine in the same manner and try not to soak the velvet stool in excitement while pure pleasure shoots through me as I brandish my long stiff buds and ‘sword fight’ hers with them.
The muffled laughter soon turns into deep moans as we both derive as much pleasure as we can stand from play fighting with our nipples. Wanting more, needing more, I let go of mine and grab her sweet pointed chin with one hand and press my lips to hers. She wriggles in my lap, releases her nips with a little whimper and wraps her arms around my back, he legs sliding up to straddle my waist, pressing me into her as we eagerly devour each others mouths. Lips mash together, teeth bite lips, tongues get sucked deep, i moan long and hard into her mouth as she tips her body back, taking me with her.
Then I feel it. Her change of position forces her pelvis to press against mine and in doing so I feel a too brief, too light a rubbing of her pubis against my clit. Had she meant to do that? Did she know how much I loved it?
My legs feel like jelly now but I grab her bum and press her down against me, balancing us both with tensed calves and thighs gripped to hold her tight. Yes! This position is good. I angle my pussy up and try hard to grind it against hers, I keep bumping but not always hitting the mark, but when I do… sweet heaven. With my groans of pleasure muffled against her mouth I thrust and thrust. I’m starting to feel that hot, tell tale glow emanate from inside out, I can feel the start of an orgasm build and work hard to keep the pace.
Suddenly she is off me. She sprung up so fast I don’t have time to react. My legs are still splayed, my mouth slick with her saliva.
Oh god, she totally regrets this.
“Get up so I can dump that stool outside in the corridor, we are going to need all the space we can get in here, come on, quick.”
Struck dumb I do as I’m told and stand. We both look down at the stool, the peach velvet now dark and wet in spots where our mix of juices have dropped on to it. She laughs and says, “So that’s how those marks get on these!?” and bends to grab it, spins to the door and opening it just enough to squeeze the stool through the gap. Before she has the door closed, bolt firmly in place I’ve my hands on her ridiculously tight ass, curiosity making me drag my nails over the warm brown skin. She was either born this beautiful shade or sunbathed naked. No time to ask about such things now though.
“Get on the floor, and let’s see if we can give this carpet wet spots to match the stool.”
“Would be a shame not to at least try and even things up, right enough” I add, laughing at the thought, but also completely turned on by it, and determined to give it a go.
We clasp hands and both fall to our knees on the floor. We kiss and then start to mirror each other’s strokes, my hands on her breasts following the path hers take over mine. She flattens my nipples under the palms of her hands, and just as I do the same to hers she drags her hands up towards my collar bone, allowing my nipples to spring up from where they’d been folded against my soft breasts. As I stroke up her body her nipples do the same, the satisfying pop up effect mesmerising and incredibly satisfying. I will never ever be embarrassed by my long thick nipples again. I love them. And I love hers. I can’t get enough of this, my head is whirling, my breath panting and when she pauses to quickly lick her own palms and place them back on my tits I think I’m going to melt into a big orgasmic puddle. The hot wet lack of friction is perfect. I lick my palms and do the same to her nipples, rubbing them over her tits, pressing her nipples down, releasing them, rubbing them.
I follow her as she gets off her knees and sits down on the carpet, I sit facing her, one leg thrown over hers while she wiggles the other one of hers under mine.
“Hmmmm, saliva dries so quickly… I wonder what we could use that’s a little silkier, slicker…” and I’m not sure if she is even trying to keep a straight face, but she fails miserably. I don’t even pretend to feign innocence and immediately reach between my legs to run my fingers into my sopping pussy, but she grabs my wrist and pulls my hand to her lips. I’m confused, did I get this wrong?
She pecks my finger tips with her lips then plunges my hand down to her own pussy. Just as my fingers dip into the warmest, wettest soft velvet I jump with horny shock, feeling her fingers delve into mine at the exact same moment. Too quickly they are gone again and she’s rubbing my pussy juices over my left nipple, so I reluctantly drag my fingers from her wetness and slip and slide them over one of hers.
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