A Fashion Fling free porn video

Fashion Fling by Willi Berner A truly true account Part 1 A-Mail 1/24/91, 11:58 Dear Roxy, I missed the good bookstores you recommended on the trip out because I went through the major cities at awkward hours (between 7 and 9 pm). I was tempted to stop and try to find one of those clubs you described and see if I could meet someone. But I was concerned about getting my derriere far enough down the road that I wouldn't have to travel a ton during the day Monday to get to my appointment on time. So, on the way back I hit the first city at about 4:30 pm. Wonderful time to hit any city, huh? Traffic was berserk - inbound and out. I had already interpreted your directions and I could see where I wanted to go so I took the by-pass and that short-cut of yours (using the boulevard instead of the freeway) and was in front of the store a few minutes before five so I figured I'd at least have a few minutes to look around. Had I known how late they were open I wouldn't have driven like such a maniac within the city limits. I just strolled in. The place was empty of customers but my eyes bulged as I stared around at the merchandise. Good god, it was, (just as you promised, dear) as if I had died and gone to heaven. I wandered around from one rack of slinky clothes and foxy things to another for a minute just dazed, fondling this, looking at that, trying to get oriented. A svelte young (like five years younger than me..) man appeared from the back and asked if there was anything in particular I was looking for. I gaped at him and said, "Oh, I don't think so, this is amazing, thouugh, pheeew!....." He just smiled a thin smile and said to holler if I wanted help. I headed for a rack of panties and ruffled underthings. I contentedly fondled and pawed around for 5 minutes or so when another man appeared from the back. A customer, evidently. Nice looking guy about 30 and he was holding a skirt and blouse - nothing unusual - unless you consider red latex unusual. He cashed out (must have cost a fortune) and left. Alone again. Ronni ("with an "i" the clerk had announced) reapproached me as I pretended to casually study a pair of luxuriously ruffled panties. "Those tend to run very small, do you know what size you are?" I gulped. Decision time. Should I tell him they're for 'a friend' or even get more explicit - lying through my teeth - and say they're for my girlfriend. I took the high road. "Last summer I'd have said 32 waist but now I think I better say 34," I sheepishly explained. "Oh, I know what you mean, it gets away from me in the winter, too," he commiserated. "By the way we have a fitting room just for men if you'd like to try those on.....it's very private and it's up to you.....feel free." "Oh, good," I said, trying to act un-astonished, (in spite of your warning that this would happen, Rox-). Then a 50-ish man came in and loudly proclaimed that he was looking for something for his wife. I half listened as Ronni quizzed him, helped him narrow down the field a bit and led him to a rack of maid's outfits. When Ronni quizzed the man about his wife's dimensions the guy explained that his wife was as tall and heavy as he was. Sort of like saying, "I have this friend, see, and he likes to wear women's clothes and he's my height and my color of hair and...." So I head back to the rack of ruffled somethings. Panties. Kind of. rhumba panties, maybe? I'm not sure what to call them. They're black. And they run from the crotch-hugging leg hole up to well above my belly button. And the ruffles run from the leg hole to a point about 6 inches below my belly button. The area from the waistband to where the ruffles eventually begin is a very sheer satin like material. The ruffles and pleats make the bottom half of these (bloomers with short short legs?) very thick and heavy and there is black lace piping around the leg holes. In spite of their mass they only weigh a few ounces. So I'm enchanted by them. I find a large and then move to a rack of panties.. Very brief panties - bright red, bright metallic blue, bright glossy pink - with a little pocket built into the bottom of the crotch, a little pocket just about big enough and round enough and long enough to tuck .... well you get the idea. They have a little pleat around the leg hole that darts across the tummy panel (a strip about two and a half inches wide) and they're high cut, bun huggers in back with a seam up the crack that (believe me I eventually tried them) positively molds them to your tushy. So I pick out a pair of these. Now I'm holding close to 50 bucks of stuff and wondering how I'll ever pay for all of this and alternately wondering if I would be satisfied buying one after trying on both and finding some sort of preference. So I decide to inquire about the "fitting room" but all of a sudden two other customers, (plus the older man who's still looking) come in and I freeze. Gulp. Ronni is busy, at different times, with each of them. Gulp again. I wait until there's a pause in the bids for Ronnie's attention and approach him. "I..., I'd like to see if these fit so I was sort of wondering if I could try them on just for a second to see if they fit..." I stammered. "Ab-so-lutely," he says gesturing and leading me toward the rear of the store. . He led me past an alcove that had two conventional fitting room stalls, replete with long barn sided, saloon type doors to another alcove where there are two stalls with long dark drapes covering the portals. He swept back the curtain of one. "Here you go, take your time, if you find they don't fit just holler and I can get you some that do..." "Thanks, I'll do that, but it probably won't be necessary, it won't take long, I'll just be a minute, thanks..." I continue to be the epitome of grace. He closes me in and I stare at the 3/4 mirror. There's a very familiar looking person in that mirror and he's holding some wild lingerie. Yeeeks. That's me. "Yes," says The Voice, it's you. So go to it." I peel off my tight jeans (I mean peeeeeeel....) feeling very un-chic and strip to my underwear (light blue panties with a split crotch and little red bows on the hips) and suddenly wonder if there's anyone *behind* that mirror (you know, one of those rational, realistic fears: like the Illinois State Police detective bureau happen to be staking this place out today.....Or, someone with a camera......or....someone holding a fist full of hot flesh waiting to get off on my private moment(s). "What are you waiting for," says The Voice in a tone so loud that I turn to see who's there with me. With a slight tremble in my knees I study the bloomer-ettes looking for a clear sign of front and rear. Held one way the ruffles appear to go as high as a normal waistline and the other side is only 1/2 to 3/4 as ruffled. This must be it. The ruffles should go real high in the back so that when I bend over and my skirt rides up the lucky viewer will see nothing but ruffles... Wait a minute...whatchyou mean "my skirt rides up" you've never worn a skirt in your life. "Shut up," says The Voice. "Go ahead Willi, put on your bloomer-ettes." The price tag is personalized - Fantasies in Fashion - and it says 'panty' - $20. Okay, that settles it. They're panties. Then, complying with the dictates of my inner voice (of course) I try them on. My hands tremble just a little as I lower the wispy satin waist down to ankle level and with one delicately arched foot I try to find a leg hole in there somewhere. The leg holes are elasticized so it appears big enough to allow little more than my big toe to enter but SURPRISE as I pull on it the whole piece slides up and increasing amounts of my (unshaven, ugh) leg appear coming out the bottom. I'm still wearing my panties. I've already vowed to adhere to the notice posted on the wall that "underwear must be worn under ...." etc, though I'm tempted to shoot the moon, (so to speak) throw caution to the wind and tear off my pink panties and expose ALL of me to the delicious frothy interior of those panties. Alas, I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth and risk the approbration of Ronni or whoever is hiding behind that mirror (probably there just to catch gender nomads like me who are tempted to violate their public health laws. Shifting my perch to the other foot I point a toe and search for the other leg hole - they're extreeeeemely close together - I find it and begin the path of ascension - bliss awaits, I'm sure now. NO! - they don't fit. I can't get the waist (and this is a Large) up past my hips. Shit. I'm crushed. I feel very unhealthy, unfemme, very chubby. My legs and arms and chest - even my waist are fine - but this winter weight that sags slightly across my midriff seems to be an obstacle. No that's not true. I need to lose 20 pounds. No doubt about it. But the un-fit-ness of these black satin lovelies lies in the hips. What am I to do. "How's it going in there, you all right?" Ronni swoops in to the area to inquire, discreetly parting the curtain at eyeball level - I stand there, abashed - bloomers interruptus - while he casually takes me (and my pink, split crotch panties) slowly in. I wouldn't say he was admiring me but I got no indication that he found it distasteful - and only then do I realize that we're 18 inches apart, face to face, and I am wearing nothing but my panties And you know what, Rox? I wasn't ashamed or embarrassed.... I wasn't even particularly tittilated. It seemed ok. Normal. Emboldened by that realization I turned my back, bent over to get the panties off the floor and as I did so I waggled my behind at him. Well, he didn't offer to drag me to the alter if you're wondering about his reaction. Instead he said, "See, I told you those ran small....Let me get you an XL, Ok?" "Please," I whispered, as matter of factly as I could. He disappreared and I was tempted to holler after him "And bring in one of those black satin corsets over by the Maid's paraphenalia." But I didn't. So I turned my attention to the pantie/gaffe. Bending over, I steppped in to the tiny circle of rayon/lycra and pulled them up. Straightening, I gazed in the mirror and admired the way the bright red satin material clung all over - making just the briefest gash of blood red across my otherwise very acceptable hips and my (blush) extreeemely attractive bubble buns. I can feel my nipples stiffen. Swoosh. The curtain was pulled back. All the way this time. And Ronni stepped forward into the fitting room space. He held out a small black cloud of ruffles to me, "Here try these...." Once again his eyes took me in and this time I thought his glance was definitely one of approval. Who cares. I gratefully (and I REALLY was grateful) took them and watched his face. His gaze focused for a second on the juncture of my thighs. Rather bold, I thought. Then, glancing down I was shocked! SHIT, I was leaking. There was a tiny, but growing, spot right where my limp male symbol had snaked out of my crotchless panty and come to rest on the material of the gaffe/pantie. I looked at Ronni then back at my 'error' - it was growing, not a lot, but it was growing. I was oozing right through the unpaid for merchandise. "Oh ggeez, od, I'm sorry, oh please, oh, look I didn't mean, I'm wearing underpants but...." "Correction, doll, you're wearing panties," Ronni interrupted. "Yes, I'm, ....I'm wearing panties, and they don't, well,..." "They're crotchless, honey, what's the big deal. They look very good on you too, I might add, but don't worry about that custom embroidery you're adding.. Just give 'em to me when you're done - even if you don't buy them - we have some cleaner that will neutralize that spot in no time....Believe me, it happens all the time - I mean it's not like you made a full blown mess, that's what some of our clients do, you know. That's different. Just give 'em to me when you're ready." I was relieved. Still felt a little guilty but I took him at his word. I hadn't even tucked my self in yet, which is maybe a good thing or I might not have detected the seepage until far too late. In the meantime, with all the activity and Ronni's comings and goings, I had shrunk into an advanced flaccid state. I carefully slipped my hand down between my panties and their's and caught the remaining bauble of clear fluid with my thumb and forefinger, then slowly peeled their panties off. Then I milked myself, once, real slow, trying to do some preventive maintenance and resigned - at that moment - to allowing who ever was on the other side of the mirror to just watch me cope with my predicament. I tucked my symbol into my crotchless panties and tightened the bows so I'd stay secure and out of the way and resumed my quest with the ruffled panties. This time the panties slid smoothly, with a curious silky rustle, up my legs and over my hips. They looked like full cut briefs, covering me from belly button to the where the crease of my juncture met my thighs. I studied them - These are not to be seen (at this moment, anyway) I thought, these are to be experienced, I thought. "Experienced," I said out loud. SWOOOSH. "So, is that better?" Ronni appeared AGAIN. Evidently we were alone, at least in the rear of the store, because he made no effort whatsoever to close the curtain or be discreet. "Ummm, those look like a fit, whattya say?" I was honest. "I've never worn anything so.....so silky, I guess, so smooth, in my life," I admitted. It sounded like a simple statement, I'm sure. But it felt like an admission. Does that make sense to you Rox? I need you to understand what was going on here for me. "They just cling.....well, in all the right places," I added, patting my derriere through the black haze of ruffles and picking at one of the lacy leg holes, making a tiny unnecessary adjustment, unsure what else to say. "May I?" Ronni asked, gesturing toward the leglet. "I just want to straighten this for you." I thrust my hip toward his hand. "Please," I said, "I've never worn anything like this before and I,..." His fingers pinched a little piece of the lace around my leg and lifted it up deeper (and more tightly) into my crotch, exposing more of my (unshaven, ugh) leg. He stepped back and put one hand to his lips, holding his elbow with the other hand in a stage-like pose of studying. "I think you'll like them better," he said, swooping forward again, "if you just," his hand darted out and pinched the material near the waist in the rear, "pull them up a little bit," he pulled and the waist slid ever upward exposing that 6-8 inch wide panel of gauzy satin, "here and then," his hand went down to the ruffles around my tushy, but instead of pinching material he patted the lower ledge of my cheeks firmly, "they fit nice and snug down here." He let his hand rest on my bum and our eyes met in the mirror. I looked away - then back - his eyes were still on mine. "Do you like?" he quizzed. I wasn't sure what I was being asked, so I twisted slowly, trying to remember how you acted when you're flirtatious, and tried to think of something ambiguous to say. "Hard not too," I finally blurted. "Charming, dear, you're just...charming. Do the front, now." I pulled the front panel up to a similar altitude and watched as the ruffles flattened out against my tummy, and the black lace around the leg holes jumped up and drew a sharp, girlish contrast to the (very very ) white skin of my inner thighs. I was still tingling from the contact. Any contact, impersonal or otherwise, was so absolutely new to me. I mean this was the first time anyone (except Kathy and that other woman ) had seen me in panties. And you know how sensitive I've been about being a virgin in that way. This was, (light goes on in Will's head) the first time a man had seen me - regardless of his orientation or interests - so his patting me in such a familiar way was (of course) also a first. I skipped over the pat in my mind. Not ready or willing to assign any importance to it. This was a clerk helping a customer, right? So having come to terms with that he put his hand on my ruffled bottom again and patted two or three times in a very slow cadence as he said, "You can feel how much different it is down here, cantcha?" "Oh yes," I said, failing I fear, to conceal the sigh that drove my words. But maybe that sigh was just in my heart's ear. At any rate I was quick to agree with him. I glanced sideways into the mirror and noticed the incongruous image of me, broad shoulders, well-muscled calves and thighs - standing almost naked except for (unseen) pink crotchless panties and the fluffy ruffled black panties (Roxy: I think I can begin to understand your fascination with bloomers and petticoats, now! But at that moment I felt like such an interloper, although I was being moved to oozing by the sensations induced by the garment) The upper, black satin panel just clung to my lower ribcage and tum tum like silk saran wrap then at the waist the ruffles give the appearance of a seperate garment, like a two piece ensemble - silk upper panel and fluffy lower ruffled panties. The feelings clashed with the image but I could see what was causing the feelings. I could also see that Ronni was getting a kick - a half smile - out of my slack jawed study of the reflection. "Go ahead - touch them - they feel good to the touch, too," he urged in a voice that was - in contrast to his other entrances - a half whisper. I looked at him - at my image - at him -at my image. The person in the mirror tentatively touched his palm to the upper most row of ruffles and tested their buoyancy. "Turn around and get a load of the rear view," he said. The guy in the mirror took a half turn and planted one hand on a hip, moving one foot forward at a 45 degree angle and throwing his elbow back slightly. My tummy had been captured and set apart from the rest of me by the silky panel - restraining me and cutting me, visually anyway in half. As I inhaled it fell slack, when I exhaled it pulled me in, caressing and massaging my skin with its majestic silky magic. And even better than all of that was how the ruffled panty embraced and hung on every square inch of me. I could feel the ruffles - as if they were bending in some imaginary wind - as I pirouetted proudly in front of the mirror, in front of my little audience of one. My tight little Irish bubble buns, looked like they had been inflated, gently, uniformly, all around by the ruffles. I felt like the Easter Bunny with a luxurious ruffled tail that encircled me, waggling to and fro, accentuating my every movement, scrubbing my skin with the soft, padded material that backed the ruffles. Too late did I realize that my symbol was doing its own reacting and was on the move - again. I could feel the stiffness as it made its way out the front door of my panties and jutted out and up until there was a conspicuous, ruffled ridge running on a diagonal from the juncture of my thighs toward the waist of my new panties. And although not yet visible, I could feel I was oozing - again. "Delicious isn't it, may I ask your first name?" Ronni interrupted my reverie. "Sure, it's Will or Willi..." "With an 'i' or a 'y' or an 'ie' ?" "Yes. I mean, with an 'i'....." "Delicious isn't it, Willi?" he repeated. "I've never had, I've never worn anything like this before....," I said for about the 50th time, still dazed and surprised by my own reaction. "Yes, and it's beginning to show," Ronni joked. Geez, did he mean my words and gazes or had he made out the outline of my fullness as it rose and lost it's battle with the silky material that kept it pressed hard and hot against my pubis and stomach? "I mean, I have panties that I wear, you know, like everyday Warner's and these Frederick's kind of things...but, this is the first....," my voice trailed off as my eyes caught my reflection again. "Well, can I wrap these up for you, or did you want to wear one of the items,...." Ronni said, bringing me back to earth for a moment. I really didn't know what to do, buy both, buy just one, buy neither? The latter seemed out of the question. I was going to get at least one of these items, maybe both. "To really appreciate the full effect of those you should probably wear a nice short skirt. Do you have a nice short skirt that'll go well with that,' he asked as my will power slowly overcame financial prudence. "A skirt? No, I only have panties and, well, I don't have a skirt, any skirts...," I said. The tone was one of admission this time, make no doubt about it. "Pity. With legs like that I should think you'd really benefit from a skirt. Would you like to try on a skirt and just see how it complements that? We've got a nice assortment out front." "Oh, no, I couldn't. As it is I'll have a hard time affording these," I said, patting my tushy and indicating the ruffled panties. "I didn't ask if you wanted to buy a skirt, I asked if you'd like to try on a skirt," he said, smiling that half smile again. I was casually weighing the merits of the purchase. And just as casually I was turning down an opportunity to do that which I've never done before - dress up in real clothes that fit - at my leisure - right here. Right now. I was weakening but still polite. "No I couldn't I've taken up enough of your time as it is, I'll probably only buy one of these," I explained. "Is your head ringing so loudly that you can't hear me? I didn't ask you if you wanted to buy a skirt. I get paid for being here no matter what you do. My time is free as far as you're concerned. Do what you want, don't feel any pressure from me, but the offer is good: just tell me what you'd like to try on and I'll deliver it to you, right here," he finished, tapping the floor of the fitting room almost impatiently. "Well, it's tempting, I would like to see how these go with,...with something..." "May I suggest a very short skirt, we have some in a patent leather look, high gloss, very smart, not really leather but very convincing," he was Eve offering me The Apple. I was staring at him, uncomfortable suddenly with the face to face contact. With that I looked in the mirror again and turned around to admire the southern view of myself as I was facing north. "That would look sharp under one of those black and white rayon maid's uniforms, the one's over in the corner...and you could see how full those ruffles are." Stop it. Stop it. I've gone as far as I dare - for now. "Just tell him you want to try the short skirt and be done with it, cut the histrionics," said The Voice. {Roxy: You're starting to think......or have already concluded, that this is just some stoned, masturbatory fantasy, aren't you Rox?! Well it's not and I trust you enough to know that I'm not pulling your silky leg one bit. I will tell you if at any point this account launches into fantasy. Trust me. Till such time as I alert you to incoming fantasy material -- Read on. Read on.} "Would you like to see the short skirt - we have burgundy and white for sure, - or the black domestic's uniform.? He forced the issue. He knew I had been admiring (fondling, actually, the short burgundy number) I was being asked to decide. Once and for all. The burgundy sounds nice said the image in the mirror, turning once again and waggling his hips from side to side. I sat down on the stool, dazed, relieved, anticipatory. Was this just so much foolishness? No amount of clothes is going to make look as feminine and beautiful as you, Roxy. I don't have the body. Incongruous. Self defeating. You're not someone who'll like you in skirts for skirts sake, you are a class A personality, you're going to want to look good, or alluring, or desireable, at least to your own eyes and this is going to fail and you're going to feel far less good than you did when you were just contemplating the ruffled thingie and the panty/gaffe. Why don't you cut your losses and consolidate your gains? You won't look good you'll look like a man in women's clothes... SWOOOSH Another entrance. Ronnie's arms were draped with material. He stuck out a hand and offered me the burgundy skirt. I took it. The inside was lined with a black satiny material. The burgundy was like crushed velvet, very soft, very tactile even to look at. It had a built in belt and a zipper that went down one side (the front? the back? the side? I didn't know.) Wait a minute. If the belt goes in the front that means the zipper is in the back. OK, you're square about that. Now, ... "I thought you might like these, too, to get the full impact," he said handing me a pair of black stockings with some kind of pattern (alternating clubs, spades, diamonds and hearts - like the playing card suits) down the side or back (side , as it turned out...) "They've got elastic in the tops and there's these little velcro tabs, see," he said, turning one over and showing me how the tab would expand or contract the tops a little bit. "So you don't need a garter belt if you don't want one,...or if it comes off..." "Oh, I don't think I'll need those, the skirt will be plenty thanks, don't let me keep you...." I mumbled, turning the skirt over and over in my hand. "It's as soft as it looks," he said, lifting a pleat and holding it inches from my cheek, "feel it." I leaned forward an inch and let it rub the hairless skin of my cheek. It was like a powder puff. A burgundy powder puff lined with glistening.black satiny material. "Yes, I see," I said in a very academic, distanced way, as if we were discussing the fuel efficiency of a new car. "Well I'll just leave these here in case you change your mind." And in a trice he was off down the narrow corridor again, "Holler if you need me....or whisper, I've got good ears!" I looked at the skirt It couldn't have been more than 12 inches in length from hem to waist. It had about four pleats across the front and the shiny black material was sewn in a narrow strip inside each pleat. I loosened the zipper and dropped the creamy confection to my ankles, stepping over and into the pool of cloth. Now remember you're not going to be particularly pleased about how this looks, I urged myself, trying to adjust my expectations so far downward that I might, might, even enjoy the outcome - though that was pretty hard to imagine. Don't worry, you won't even be able to get it over those hips, I reminded myself thinking of my earlier defeat. I grasped the belt and straightened up. Sure enough, the waist caught momentarily on my hips - see, you're too big and awkward and ungainly and big hipped and large and unwieldy and.... - then without even struggling they gave and the narrow waist had found a home on the lower third of my hips. Right where I liked to sling my jeans. I quickly fastened the belt (I had to use the first hole in order to get any use of the belt) as if I did this every day. Trying to "as if" myself into relaxing and just going with this new electric flow that I had plunged myself into. The skirt fit flat across my tummy and jutted out halfway to the hem resting on the ruffles, it seemed. I lifted the front hem and waved the skirt up and down (...at the imaginary person behind the mirror). Here, get a good picture of this, the conspiracy freak inside me hollered to no one. As I waved I was treated to repeated, delicious snap shots of slices of the black ruffled panties. I assumed a dancer's Third Position, carefully angling my naked feet and looked at the way the skirt draped across my full, taut bum. I like it, said The Voice. I agreed with the The Voice. No one else may like it. But right this second, I like it, I thought. Then I noticed that the zipper was bulging apart and exposing the black satin panel of my bloomer in the rear. I reached back to engage the zipper but my contortion and the way the skirt fit so snugly on me kept me from getting a good hold on it. SWOOOSH. "How's it....oh, look, it's nice, lemme get that," said my clerk turned valet. He put one large hand on my bare shoulder and used it to angle me 45 degrees in his direction. The other hand engaged the zipper and pulled. I could feel the skirt ride up slightly as he pulled, but then it closed and I was zipped in - encased in, bound in - the skirt that looked like it might better be worn by a cheer leader. The front door buzzer groaned loudly farther back in the store. "Gotta check that, don't go away," he said disappearing as fast as he had arrived. I returned to my flouncing game, waving the front panel of the skirt from side to side, up and down. Bending stiffly at the waist I slowly lowering my upper torso until I could see one...two ...four bands of ruffles on my bum. The skirt was short. The hem came to rest a good 8 or 10 inches above my knees. I put my hands on my hips and and waggled in a little dance. This is, well, it's neat...I thought, unable to come up with exactly what it was that made it neat. It didn't matter that second It was just plain....neat. I wonder if those stockings would hide those knees and some of the mars on my calves. I could hear Ronnie's stage voice dramatically describing something to someone out front. He's busy, said The Voice. Go ahead. You've got time. There's nobody here but you. Boy, I wonder what Roxy would think. I wonder if s/he'd be turned off. She's so petite and sleek. You're not. She's trim and lithe. You're all muscle and bulk. She's got this down to a science and it's part of her spirituality. You're just slumming. She'd never wear burgundy over black. Tacky tacky. All your fears about her not finding your body as attractive as you do would be realized if she walked in right now. She wouldn't be able to see your tawny hair or ice blue eyes, the fine nose and those rosebud lips, she'd just see a guy who needs to lose 15 pounds around his midriff, dressed in a loud frilly combination of finery. {Roxy: Swear to god, pumpkin, thoughts like this just coursed through me...it seemed to provoke all my fears at once, with no focus, just a carousel of recurring thoughts.} I sat down and reached for the stockings. Part 2 The stockings Ronni had given me weren't brand new. Someone had worn them and stretched them at least once. Well, that's o.k. these are just demonstrators. I curled one up into a ball and poked in my toes then unrolled the stocking. It was going to be way to big, way too long, I could tell. I smoothed and unrolled some more, over my knee - up my thigh, I was running out of material. The top came to rest 3 or 4 inches from the leg hole of my ruffled panty. I stood and put that foot on the stool, smoothing from the ankle this time, all the way up to my crotch. They stretched taut - the veritable second skin - I pinched the material and twisted the stocking so that the pattern rose in more of a straight line up the outside of my leg. The top of the stocking came to within an inch or so my leg hole now. I could tell from the skin tones peeking through the stocking that this was about as taut as I could make it. Well Roxy's not going to walk in right now, so relax, see - that stocking really does help. I turned my head an looked at the mirror. The guy there had a big foot (his toenails needed trimming if the stockings were going to be spared a puncture. But he had surprisingly thin/narrow ankles that tapered up quite nicely to calves that were strong and resiliant looking. The skirt hid the widest part of his thigh and the effect - all in all - was not unpleasing. Downright decent. I hunched at the waist and pulled the other stocking on without sitting - then repeated the smoothing process, this time unclasping and cinching the velcro tabs tightly so that the skin of my upper thigh rose a few millimeters up to the top of the stocking. (And the blood circulation in that part of my leg dropped about 10 per cent) Well, you've come quite a ways from staining that gaffe to here, I thought. I reached down and patted the front ruffles - yep, still there, - just resting. (Later I found that my symbol wasn't resting at all. Just quietly oozing and oozing and oozing.) Now I concentrated on the guy in the mirror - but just from the toes to the waist. Well. Not half bad. I pirouetted and watched the skirt rise and took two short steps toward the mirror - purposefully trying to get the skirt to ride up against (or back and forth against) my ruffles. It worked. There was a scrumptious friction between the two materials. And the way the skirt waggled and swayed - just in those two or three short steps - was beguiling. SWOOSH The curtain gaped open - again. "So how's it going? Oh good you did try the stockings..... Yes, I should say those are quite an improvement over your...au naturel look. You like? Of course you do how silly of me to even ask," Ronni prattled on and on and on. "Let's see," he said, patting my behind then lifting the waist of the skirt a tad, kneeling quickly to twist a stocking at a critical point, aligning the pattern, poking here, there, talking all the while. I stood stock still while he ministered to me, watching him then me then him then me then him in the mirror. "Wait wait wait wait wait....." his voice trailed off as he disappeared down the alley again. I pranced a little in place, lifting my knees and skipping from one foot to the other. It was almost like a cheerleader or majorette kind of get up. But it was also a foxy combo for someone cruising a lounge or dance club. Someone with a more passable or convincing overall presentation. Still, here, now, this was frivalous, wonderful, frilly fun. "Ok ok ok ok.....here go, slip this on," Ronnie's voice preceded the swoosh this time as he turned into the stall for the fifth or sixth time. "No, really, I can't even consider getting...." "Hush, hush, give me your arm," he said, having already taken control of my wrist in his big ham hand. He pulled my arm up and out and slipped it into the arm hole of a gauzy rust red long sleeved blouse. Half way on the arm hole balked as it encountered my bicep. Ronni nimbly popped open a button and pulled the blouse up and over my head, lifting my other arm and guiding it into position as he wriggled the blouse down my back side. My face was momentarily covered, inside the blouse, it smelled like jasmine and I could see everything about me - it was so diaphanous that from inside it just looked like I was wearing rose colored glasses. My head refused to go through until he popped a button on the back. It was slick, smooth, rayon-ish, too slick to be silk, but so sheer that it was like being washed by an angel's breath. "It's supposed to be form fitting, so don't be put off about it being a little snug....it's designed for people like you - it's meant to be worn by someone with wide shoulders and, ah, fully developed arms, shall we say." (Roxy: Ronni spent a lot of time talking in the third person plural, something that I find an affectation in most people, but he was so ebullient about his work - at least on this afternoon - so disarming in his style and presentation that I was not put off one bit.) A determined tug and the blouse finally gave way to my head. The sleeves, blousy and puffy at the shoulder, narrowed quickly down and pinched in at my wrists. I fastened the buttons that capped the wrist- grabbing sleeves. There were no lapels, the material just rose up over my breasts and right on up to a double thick collar that was elastic and clasped at my neck (just below my adam's apple). Ronni unrolled the collar, so that the collar rose another inch. It wasn't double thickness it was just gathered. It had gold piping and it stopped just below my chin, leaving a tiny band of white neck exposed. Four or five buttons in back created the only slack available in the collar. There was gold piping around the hem, too. Ronni said it was worn in or out, depending on preference. I left it out allowing the blousy fullness at the waist to cover some of my winter waist That way the skirt looked even shorter. I came in the store to look around. I decided to buy some panties or something else in that price range. I ended up trying on some things. Now here I was in patterned stockings, a short short burgundy crushed velvet look skirt, black frilled panties, my original (now long since buried, pink panties) and this stunning rust colored blouse that allowed the committed viewer to see my aureoles and tiny vermillion nipples. Ah yes, my nipples. The blouse brought new life into my nipples. Not only did they harden and rise because of the visual stimulus - they also rose up eagerly seeking to brush back and forth against the gauzy material of the blouse. I shifted from side to side, gratuitously, as a way of creating more nipple/blouse friction. Ronni noticed. "You didn't seem like you were - well accustomed - to wearing a bra, although we have some darling cami's out there if you think..." "Oh, no, this is wild enough for me. I've never, " "Hush, ..... I know. It didn't take long to sort that out. But you seem like a kind soul and kind souls are hard to find these days; although a great deal of our clientele are people I really like....Just enjoy. Come here, next door it's bigger and you can sit" He showed me the stall next to mine. It was bigger and it had an upholstered chair in it. "Just relax a bit and let's catch our breath," he said pulling the chair out for me. I started to sit, caught myself, and remembered to sweep my skirt under me with one hand before I did. "Very good, veerrry good..." he laughed. "Sit tight hon, I'll be back, just a sec, ..." I crossed my legs and draped one arm over the back of the chair, enjoying the conspicuous display of my tense nipples. I brazenly fumbled under my skirt with one hand, wedged two fingers under my ruffles, found my symbol - flaccid, soaking wet, drooping contentedly - inside his pink cage, making no effort to get out the front door that was permanently open to him. (Dripping wet, mind you, Rox) I heard Ronnie's voice approaching and primly clasped my hands in my lap. "So whattya think," he asked, returning to what must be a pet phrase. I figured I'd never see this kind soul again so I was candid. "I didn't come in here with the intention of doing all of this, I can't afford..." I started. "I know, I know," he too quickly assured me. "No, I was saying that as a way of listing what I know and what I don't know," I explained. "My friend said I would be agog if I came in and that you all would be very friendly and supportive. I'm from out of state and I'm just passing through. I've enjoyed some finery, I enjoy lingerie," I corrected trying to keep it clean and straight. "But I don't often get a chance like this and I haven't often taken advantage of that chance, so this is pretty unique experience for me." He watched my face as I talked, very attentive, listening (or giving a convincing portrayal of someone listening) very closely. "Staying long?" I explained my stay was more a matter of hours than of days. "You said New Hampshire?" I said yes and added that there " just wasn't anyplace in NH that was like Fantasies in Fashion." He smiled as I spoke. It was obvious to him I think how uplifted I was by my experience that was, for the most part, due to his persistent encouragement. I thanked him for all he'd done. He assured me there weren't many places ANYWHERE like F. in F.. Which came as no surprise to me. He offered me tea and although I basically don't like tea I accepted just to prolong the experience my nipples (and other choice parts of my body) were struggling to cope with. Pheweeww. I didn't know I had so many erogenous zones. I felt like I was the Erogenous Will. Eighth wonder of the world. Yesssirrreee folks step right up and see the only human being who is totally erogenous from the tip top of his blonde haired head to the peak of his toes....one walking talking erogenous zone.....step right up. I got my tea in a paper cup and watched myself sipping it, crossing and uncrossing my legs. Realizing that sitting as a woman was a lot different than sitting as a man (or even as a gender nomad disguised as a man). After a few minutes of marginal chit-chat Ronni handed me a silk scarf and a silk hankie. "Here, try on this scarf. What size shoe do you wear?" I went into my weak protest again but once more was delighted that he was trying to up the ante and was making no "ok you have to leave now" noises. I explained that I had a very high instep which meant 10 or 101/2 in a narrow shoe and 9 1/2 to 10 in a more forgiving style. "I don't know what that is in terms of a woman's size." He assured me that he knew how to convert the two and toddled off. I wrapped the dark burgundy and gold scarf around my neck and tried various positions, knots, attitudes, stylings. The hankie - well, I was at a loss as to what to do with the hankie. The skirt had no pockets. The blouse had no pockets or vents or anything. So I just put it aside. Ronni came around the corner, whistling, "knock knock knock" he sang out as swept (the only way I can think of to adequately describe his comings and goings) into the stall. He had a pair of sling back heels, black with wicked looking crisscrossing straps to hold the toes. And the heels looked like they were about nine inches high. I later measured with my finger and I think they were your beloved three-inchers, Rox. Under his other arm he had a box that held a pair of heels, slightly taller, that had the look of a cowboy boot-let. They had a gold chain across the instep that wrapped around behind the heel, and the sharply pointed toe of an Acme cowboy boot. But they only came up to the lowest part of my shin and from the ankle to the shin they narrowed quickly. I didn't see how I'd ever get my fat instep into them but - of course - they had a zipper up the back that was obscured by a tight narrow flap. He knelt, unzipped one boot and shoved it onto my foot. It was too narrow, no matter how he tried, so he soon gave up and tried the sling back. It - well, because of it's design it presented no problem to my fat instep - so it slid on and fit like a glove (although I swear to god, Roxy dear, I've never worn gloves on my feet before, honest!) He cinched up the buckle got the other one on and stood back, inviting me to rise. Sure thing. No problem. WHOOA! No sooner was I upright than I was tottering left, teetering right, reaching for the side wall and finally giving in to gravity and sitting rudely back down again - quickly! "It takes some practice," he mocked in an understated tone that made me laugh (for the first time since entering the store...). "Imagine that your weight is going forward but only imagine it..." he said as I unsteadily rose for the second time. (How many times did Christ fall? Just wondering....Not that I identify with the guy....). In a few seconds I got the gist of his advice and was able to veeerrrry carefully maintain some resemblence to equilibrium. I pivoted on the shiny slippery soles. I couldn't believe how the shoes lifted and pushed out my bum. And the line, from my tushy down to the back of my heel, seemed to go on forever. It really made the patterened stockings look looooooonnnnnnnnnnnng. Of course it made me taller and I start out at an altitude of six feet - without heels. I bent over at the waist keeping my upper torso straight and once again admired the ruffles that became exposed.. Ronni laughed and applauded quietly. "Sit down," he invited. I did. "Now cross your legs" I did. "No , higher up on your thigh. Make it cross over as high up on your thigh as you can. It should squeeze your undies in real tight at the very middle." I looked puzzled and sort of shifted a little but didn't accomplish what he was suggesting. He lifted my passive leg up an inch or two and set it down again so the under part of my thigh was waaaaay up toward the top of the other thigh. It made a steep jutting column of that passive leg. The geometry was breath taking. The natural length of my leg was enhanced by the sling back and the way the shoe narrowed to a sharp point. In counterpoint to that was the 3 inch heel creating a dramatic perpendicular to the leg line. "Now throw your chest forward but don't move your back." I tried it. "No, don't move your back, just press your nipples against your blouse." I did it. I did it. "Now put your palms on your hips." I was a good toy boy. I did as I was told and suddenly realized that he was shaping me into a very vampish pose. Chest out, hands on hips, legs like daggers. He reached down and rearranged the hem of my skirt, drawing it back and exposing more of my black upper thigh. "Now study your lips....I mean really study your lips, their color, their texture, the way they create a line - don't be self-conscious..." "Your lips look dry, moisten them." My tongue slipped out and when I realized what I was doing I slowed down. The point wasn't just to wet my lips. It was a matter of style. The point was to moisten my lips in keeping with the rest of my current / new self, the self in the mirror. I watched my tongue narrow to a small fleshy spear and do a slow motion dance just barely touching and moistening my lips. "Now purse them, like you were getting ready to put on lipstick...You've done *that*, haven't you," he asked, stepping back and putting on a mock quizzical face." My eyes sought out his face. "No," he quickly answered, "I'm not going to offer you lipstick, I just want you to study your lips as you make like you're going to lacquer (his word) them up. I pursed my lips, relaxed them, then pursed again. The toy boy in the mirror was blowing kisses at me. And I was flattered! He had me rock my passive leg, waggling my foot at the ankle, urging me to study the shoe. He kept after me to study, study, study.... "Don't touch the material of your blouse, but cup your breasts." "Touch your nipples, BUT only so lightly you're not even sure you've touched them, close your eyes, feel your nipples and fingertips meet through the material of your blouse. Open your eyes. Study your nipples. Watch how your fingers move. Close your eyes. Hold your breath." He was relentless. "Draw tiny circles around your nipples - Study your fingers, your nipples, your eyes, try to avoid too much contact with the material, though. That's it. Study your nipples." "Press your palms against your tum tum. Be firm. force the tum tum inward, don't relax your chest, nipples out, watch your hands, study your waistline, study your lips, look deep into your eyes." On and on it went. It seemed like a long time. It was probably only five minutes. I was getting turned on - to me! (I tried to imagine you were watching me, Roxy. That I was sitting across from you and doing this aerobic touching program for your benefit. I tried to imagine you were sitting there, in that blue cocktail dress, with a gold chain around one ankle and three inch pumps, With your sweet tiny breasts jutting out, just barely swelling the top of your dress. The long tapered line of your neck. Long dangling silver ear rings. I tried to imagine your smell. I got hot.) I had my eyes closed and was drawing (at his bidding) tiny circles on my nipples with the very epicenter of my palms. "just your palms. tiny circles. just palms. smaller circles. smaller." "I gotta go out front," Ronni whispered in a voice half the size of his "study, study" voice. "I gotta take care of some business." (ok ok so go, I thought, rudely, I'm fine here....but he went on) "Just listen. Don't open your eyes. I'm gonna be gone at least ten, no make that fifteen minutes. If you get warm enough and want to kind of clear the air just be sure and use this." He draped the silk hankie across my eyes and the bridge of my nose. "Understand? Just use it if you want to and we'll take care of it when you're done,....when you're less tense." I froze. My hands stopped moving. "Don't open your eyes. Just do what you want. Whatever that is. Whatever you decide." His voice trailed away and I could hear his feet scuffling the carpet in the hallway. Was this a trick? Was there someone behind the mirror? What did he mean? I have no reason to doubt him. He has only been helpful. Why not, one more time, take him at his word. Do nothing. Or, do something. You choose. 'When you're less tense,' he had said. Hmmmm. That only meant one thing to me. I was still for a long moment. Inhaling and trying to identify the warm musky odor of the hankie. I couldn't. I puffed some air out of my dry warm lips and felt the hankie slide down into my lap. I lowered my hands and found it, wrapped it around one hand. Then with my eyes still closed I stood very carefully and turned sideways. I slowly opened my eyes and looked at the image. It was looking back. The eyes of the image were dilated and slightly glazed. I licked my lips. So did the image. I turned my back to the image, bent over at the waist and stared back through my legs at the image. The image looked back, having adopted the same position. I put my hands on my bum and rubbed the ruffles through the silky lining of my skirt. My free hand was sweaty and I dried it on the crushed velvet material. I lifted my skirt and waggled my ruffled bum in cadence with the image. I ran my hands down the backs of my legs feeling the warm flesh under the silky skin of my stockings. I had a momentary flash of non-specific panic and stood up - adjusting the curtain so that there was no possible gap. Assuring what privacy I could possibly control. Who needs privacy? You've just cooperated in getting dressed with a man you'd never met till five o'clock. I brought the hankie hand up the front of my right leg and reached under my skirt watching the image do the same. I gently scrubbed my tummy and the lumpy jucture of my things with the silken hankie. I was still sopping wet, but in contrast to my earlier limp state my symbol had become swollen. With my free hand I loosened my pink crotch and let my member rub against the luxurious interior of my ruffled ruffled panties. I swayed, watching my shiny high heels and letting my symbol flop from side to side, caressing the bloomer. Crouching down I used the hankie hand as a buffer as I tweaked my nipples and rubbed my breasts, cupping them and molding them from side to side. My blouse dangled free at the waist. I inserted the hankie hand and let my nipples (they seemed hot though I'm sure this isn't possible in real life) feel the cool texture of the shiny hanky. I looked at my image, the flushed face of the image crouched just inches from me, pursing and licking its lips, opening its mouth and licking the wide new circumference. I studied my nipples and let my hand drop down into my lap. (Rox: I tried to imagine you in your blue satin dress, the one with the spaghetti straps and the fluffy short, skirt. I rub the hankie against my tummy and imagine that it's your blue dress and that what I am feeling is the crinoline underneath the blue shell. I imagine my fingers digging into your bum, pulling you closer to me. My lips dance lightly across your shoulders, compared to the rest of you, your shoulders seem absolutely naked..totally vulnerable. I nuzzle the nape of your neck, open my mouth and exhale hot air across your neck, down your front, across the slight swell of your breasts. I pluck at my symbol with the hankie, through the ruffles, imagining that it is your hand probing me. I lift the rear of your skirt Roxy and feel for the top of your dark blue panty hose. I find the warm, smooth panties and cup your buns then rub the backs of your thigh alternating between warm unadorned flesh and dark blue hosiery. I clasp my symbol eyes open and study my nipples. They are your nipples. They are hard. Electric. Your hand strokes my maleness through a layer of hankie and ruffle. Your hand slips into the leg hole and wraps me gently in the hankie before beginning the most intimate massage possible. I continue to watch your nipples. I want to bite them. You've barely begun to touch me when, with little or no build up or warning, I climax, spurting intense liquid bullets of clear fluid. You continue to milk me, whispering hot, unintelligible things into my ear and nipping at my lobe - I shudder and am shocked that the spasms continue although I'm dry. The sodden hankie flies up and down and up and down my symbol. I have come and become hard again in almost the same instant. You continue to pull and tease me with your satin wrapped fingers. I understand your words now. "I'm coming Willi, I'm coming, oh godgezzus ohhhhhh," and your hand ceases to stroke and you collapse - right through the mirror - into the harbor of my chest. Your head falls on the smooth, gauzy panels of my blouse, your lips are masked in a thin film of moisture, sparkling, showing the pink highlights. I take the hankie from your hand and daub at your face with a dry corner. You pull at it. "Let me lick it, pleeease," and your lips search out the damp corners, licking and suckling quietly as we both fall lax and spent. Exhausted.) I opened my eyes and there was the image, red faced, flushed, almost wild-eyed. I had soaked the hankie - or part of it - I teetered to my feet and sat heavily on the chair, needing at least a long moment to get myself together. Never more aware of the silky material casing my legs, the bright white overhead lights sparkling off the toes of my heels. The gauzy blouse feeling like sandpaper on my overworked nipples and breasts. I must have sat there for five minutes before Ronni discreetly announced his arrival. "Better?," he asked, slowly parting the curtain and stepping quickly inside, clasping the material of the drapes quickly behind him. I lifted my face and gazed at him through heavy, half-lidded eyes. I cannot speak. My knees tremble slightly. Slowly a smile creases his face. "I thought so,......" he said, squatting to pluck the damp hankie from my hand. (Rox: Thanks for the 'referral'. Next time I head through that region I'll plan my time (and budget) much more carefully. I want to get this off to you, so I'm going to pause here. I'll tell you more about the other episode in my next upload.). Big huggs, Willi