The Department Store Girl

[Donchristofero]

Something unusual happened to me a couple of days ago when I visited my local South London department store - Brixton as it happens - to buy a present for my wife to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary.

It's been a good ten years, we love each other dearly and we have three wonderful children. Our sex life is pretty fulfilling and we like to please each other though lately I'm aware that some - let's face it, a lot - of the excitement has gone. But we ain't doing badly for a couple in their early forties so I'm pretty relaxed about it.

That's why I found myself standing in the lingerie department of what was frankly not the most classy underwear department in London. Time to spice things up and feminise that slutty - and still ever so pretty - Thai wife of mine!

Damn, I muttered to myself as I gazed at rows of gaudy fake silk underwear, and pretty tatty nylon accoutrements, this isn't so much Anne Summers as Anne Bummers. Even so, it's all in the imagination innit, as the younger generation say in this part of the world, so I ploughed on gently stroking the £10.99 reduced final clearance satin basques, panties, bras and other erotic objects.

A pretty set of Burgundy red lingerie caught my eye - a kind of satin-type material shift that was coupled with a garter belt and I have to say a rather sexy lacy bra with black trim. Not too bad I thought as I held up the satin shift, which seemed to shimmer in my white English hands like some materials - such as black tarmac - do on a scorching hot summer day when the sum comes out to play and tease.

It was as I was gazing with some reverence at my bargain £25 set of cock-hardening goods that the store or counter girl - seemingly appearing from nowhere - entered my world. "Hello handsome" she rasped in a slightly smoky but familiar south London twang "what have you got there then, something for weekend?," she twinkled in an amused and possibly over familiar manner to a potential customer.

I looked up at her and oh my she was a pretty, confident young thing with still, catlike eyes (accentuated by her make up) that outlined the dark, smooth skin of an afro Caribbean women aged in her early to mid twenties.

"For the weekend?" I muttered dumbly as I ran my eyes over finely chiselled features, perfect ebony skin framed by her long, straight and red died hair that fell almost to her waist - "A wig or real?" I wondered very quickly about her long locks - before I was able to picture her in her full curvaceous form.

She had made the most of her department store uniform which consisted of a low cut white blouse, and tight shiny black pencil skirt just above the knee that was set off rather fetchingly by pleasingly high red stiletto heels and black opaque stockings or tights.

A prominent but not too obtrusive gap between her top front two teeth gave her the appearance of a cheeky, sexy, female, black version of Terry Thomas. Sounds weird but the overall effect was intoxicating.

"Well here we are, you're wondering if my hair is real or not and I'm wondering if you're here to buy lingerie for your partner or try them on yourself," she finished with a dirty laugh, a cross between Barbara Windsor and Beyoncé I thought to myself though I really have no idea how the Queen of Pop laughs. I just know she looks fucking hot.

"For me!" I laughed recovering my poise, "What on earth would give you that idea, do I look like some kind of half price Eddie Izzard?"

"To be honest, yes" she replied boldly "you've got the legs for it with those skinny jeans you're wearing and a fuschsia pink top but you can carry it off and oh look how priceless, now you're blushing and there was me thinking that you're a man of the world" she howled.

I was slightly perplexed I must say. Startled and intruiged by what seemed to be a black force of nature goading me in a badly lit lingerie department in Brixton.

"Ah, well, no you see," I blustered mildly "anyway, my legs are pretty hairy, they'd look terrible in stockings..."

"I never mentioned stockings did I, you're holding - well caressing actually - a set of ladies lingerie but the stockings and tights section is to your right, sir" she miaowed at me as she pointed vaguely in that direction with a hand encased in heavily encrusted jewels.

"But if you're worried about you're hairy legs, I could recommend my aunt Lakisha's beauty salon, which could oblige you with a full body wax for about 50 quid and it's only about 10 minutes walk from here. Anyway, let's take you over to the stockings and tights section first, as there's a few things over there that I'll think you'll like." And with that she set off in that direction expecting me to follow.

Which of course, I did, like an obedient poodle.

 

[CeasarBoobage]

While the into sure seems like this story is heading for a cross-dressing theme, there is yet another possibility.

Sure, his skinny jeans caught the eye of the red-headed black woman, but her assumption of how his legs would look in hose was not quite correct. He knows of this boutique that she's speaking of, and once he makes his purchase, she clocks out for lunch before they both walk over. To her surprise, he doesn't make an appointment, but instead introduces her to his wife who is in the midst of her own grooming appointment, and she regains her composure in time to request that he join his wife so they can get matching pubic hairstyles.

In her rush of excitement, the sales lady not only wants to see what happens in the salon's small grooming room, but she also wants the added commission of having the couple come back to her section of Brixton and adding more to their sexy clothing collection. Even though she has never done anything like this, the lady can't believe that she is now subtly directing her aunt's employees for how to trim the wedded couple.

After the couple showers briefly to tidy up, the hubby holds out his recent purchase, watching with the sales lady as the lovely wife tries on the outfit. Before the mood could be broken, the sales lady further surprises herself as she takes the couple's cell phones, taking random pictures and videos as she directs them to perform various sexual acts. To help them feel comfortable she also strips down, laughing as the couple glances down to her red-dyed sculpted bush, noticing with a twinge of excitement how they were both looking at her pussy from a foot away while both her hands were filled with a cellphone in each.

After an intense lunch hour, the three people head back to Brixton's, and the sales lady lets the couple use her employee discount for a price break on several more outfits. They had promised to come back every few weeks, and she knew that her commission would show just how happy the couple was that she had helped out on the eve of their anniversary.

 

[Learin]

 

[CWatson]

This is very rambly, which is made worse by serious problems with punctuation. You have some extra commas where you don't need them, and a lot missing where you do. Stream-of-consciousness writing is all well and good, but at some point you need to take a red pen to the work and make sure it all makes sense. Commas, and other punctuation, are like traffic lights: they organize your thoughts and help them get where they're going with a minimum of casualties. At the moment, your story lacks much of that organization, with the predictable result that many people are going to be thrown (or perhaps smashed) off your train of thought before it gets to where it's going. The Reader should never have to spend more effort understanding your story than you did writing it. (And yes, counter-example in James Joyce, but guess what? A lot of people think he was a pretentious blowhard. And he was still a lot more talented than any of us are.)

As to the story itself, I think it could be very interesting if handled well, but I say that mostly from a feminist point of view, and that's probably not where you were planning to take it. That's not meant as a criticism, just an observation. I'm always looking out for ways to write something more than just penises and vaginas, and people have accused me of being a pretentious blowhard as well, so you can take my thoughts with a grain of salt. All I'm saying is that men are often shamed for wanting to act even the least bit feminine, and if you spent some words on that fact, you could have a thought-provoking read as well as a hot sex story.

Free advice, worth what you paid for it.