The Lingerie Inspector

It seemed like a dream job at first, this lingerie inspector gig. After all, who wouldn't want to travel to the homes of women who've just purchased intimate apparel from Naughty N' Nice and inspect their bodies for poorly attached bra straps or crotch openings that could possibly chafe? After that million dollar class-action lawsuit involving a faulty set of thong-back pantyhose, somebody had to do it; and Charlie was only too happy to be that somebody.

Even with the badge, it wasn't always easy to get in the door. And good luck explaining to the recent purchasers of Naughty N' Nice undergarments the need to test their brand new items for "compatibility with the individual bodily dimensions of each customer.”

If the ladies often endured the process with unhappily gritted teeth, they weren't alone. Rarely would their husbands, boyfriends, fuck buddies or clients welcome the intrusion without ire. It didn't help that this clipboard-wielding inspector boasted the build of a Greek god and the cool, unflappable manner of Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. Hostile pouts and angrily knitted brows were not uncommon.

"Rules are rules," Charlie would say with the shrugged shoulders of a man just doing his job. Then he'd run his fingers along the gartered thighs of another man's wife, gently inspecting the meeting of fabric and flesh. And sometimes a sigh would escape the lips of a reluctant subject. Sometimes a scowl would curl into a grin as he slipped the underside of his thumb into the front of a ruffle-trimmed cami to insure a proper fit. The ladies would always thank him upon his exit. Always.

If nothing else the job gave him plenty of stories to tell.

There was the curvy suburban soccer mom who – shoehorned into a silky black corset – giggled her way through a tsunami of hip-quivering orgasms as Charlie tested the snug fit of her naughty thong. "You can never be too careful with these things," Charlie said. Wiping tears from her eyes, she agreed.
There was the tall redheaded science teacher whose concern for "the limited room" in the crotch of her sky blue bustier was really just an excuse to press her contact-craving clit against his waiting face. And she would grind and grind and grind until her reddened pussy was soaked and her tilted-back face was flush from a shuddering wave of joy.

There was the recent divorcee who wanted to feel wanted again in a leopard-skin negligee. So she stroked the nape of her inspector's neck as his rock-hard hands ventured north, up her thighs, slipping under the flimsy drape of her brave new purchase and tickling her knees into a childlike buckle, with the honey-sweet evidence of heightened desire dripping down both shaking legs.
And now it’s your turn. Charlie steps into your home, clipboard in hand and he greets you with a grin. Your body trembles a little, hoping you can live up to the others who’ve been inspected…
(Ladies only please)

If you plan on this tale being sexual, you're in the wrong board of Lit.