AUTHOR'S NOTE AND DISCLAIMER:
This story is a work of fiction containing adults in adult situations.
The persons depicted do not exist nor have they existed to the author's knowledge.
This story is not to be read by, read to, or printed and given to any minor under the age of, oh let's say 20.
Situations may be portrayed which may be considered in bad taste, or downright illegal in some places and therefore should not be attempted unless you are a story character and not a real human being. If this piece of fiction offends you in any way, stop reading it and go back to watching Big Bird on TV.
Feedback is appreciated both positive and negative, although I consider downright mean-spirited, nasty feedback by "Anonymous" people the work of genuine chicken-shits. It may not be, but that's the way I feel about it, so I ignore it as much as I can.
The Wicked Doctor X
Being the only guy working in a primarily woman's fashion store can be both a blessing and a curse. Since my store is in an upscale neighborhood, the clientele tends to be a bit less trashy, but at the same time, I tend to see a lot of older women who still think they can turn heads. The problem is that the heads tend to turn away. The most pathetic ones are those that come in painted and stretched to the maximum with short skirts showing off those skinny legs that would be better stuffed into denim than shown for what they were; old and stringy. You don't dare tell them thy look like shit, at least not if you want to keep your job. Hell, it's hard enough pleasing them as it is without telling them the truth and loosing your job for it. Just last week Mrs. Uppercrust came in after a protracted absence and asked me what I thought of her new boob job. Her tits hadn't looked all that bad before, as long as she kept them tucked into those industrial bras she had been ordering. I guess that since her new boobs didn't hit the floor anymore, she must have thought her legs looked good too by default. They didn't. Wrinkled thighs, knobby knees, and stringy calf muscles did absolutely nothing for the poor woman, but by the time she left the store I had made her feel like the Queen of Sheba. That's what I do. Flatter them until they have spent far too much cash, and make them feel like queens. Now at first glance you're going to think I'm as queer as a three-dollar coin. Far from it. Very far from it my friend.
I said I see a lot of those older women, which I do, but this store has more retail traffic than most local fashion stores, so I also see quite a lot of young, very hot, very wealthy, wives, daughters, and business women. All of who are what make my job such a fucking pleasure to come to. My title is Fashion Consultant. I may be the only straight fashion consultant in the free world, but there you are. It pays the rent, keeps me in steaks and a Corvette, and from time to time, gets me laid. A prime example of that happened last Tuesday. End of the day, around four thirty young Miss Rebecca Halveston comes gliding into the store dressed in her work-day finest, a gray business suit that any uptown hooker would have been proud to be seen in. The top was low cut and tight, forcing those beautiful breasts to push up and out into the open over the top of the lacey black bra that could just be seen if she bent forward a quarter of an inch. If the matching skirt were three inches shorter it would have qualified as a swimsuit. Black textured nylons were attached to a black lace garter belt that could be seen when she stretched, or sat down. Gray spike heels matched her suit as if they were made from the same material, and in fact were. Her naturally blond hair looked like she'd taken three hours to coif and it framed a perfect porcelain-skinned face set off by piercing blue eyes that fairly screamed Fuck Me!
Miss Rebecca Halveston works at her daddy's high-tech electronics company as a product planner, or some such crap. She's not one to talk about those kinds of things very much, and she's not one to lord it over those of us who make substantially less in wages than she does either. She's actually a very nice lady. Girl really, if I were to be honest about it. She's only twenty-three but looks about seventeen, maybe. I proved her age the first time she came into the store and bought some of the sexiest underwear we sell, paying for it with a credit card. On the back where her signature should go it said to ask for ID, which I did and looked hard at her age. She grinned when I gave back her ID, I think she knew what I was looking at but she didn't say anything. That grin about did me in. She has the prettiest smile I think I have ever seen, the kind of smile that would make a man walk a mile over broken glass in his bare feet to see. Maybe a mile is bit much, but you get the idea.
Anyway, back to last Tuesday. Rebecca glides in, gives me that smile and asks if I would give her a private consultation since she had a big charity "do" coming up soon and wanted to be looking her best for it. I wanted to tell her that she could wear what she had on and bring the place to a standstill, but I knew that's not what she had in mind.
The store provides for these private consultations with a variety of services offered, including photographs of the subject, which are downloaded to a computer and "dressed" in virtual clothing of various types until the client is satisfied with the basic style of dress. Then it's just a matter of finding what works and the options to accompany it. The part I like the best is the photographing, and I've gotten pretty good at it. The best way to do it is for the client to be in her underclothes. With some clients, that can be a nightmare. With Rebecca, it was an hour of bliss. I posed her in several different positions, sometimes holding a bouquet of fake flowers, just sitting primly, or standing with her arms at her sides. A men's magazine or a fashion magazine would have rejected not one of those photographs. She wanted a gown, and after running through the listings I had on file we finally found one she liked, and I pushed hard for her to get it. Frankly, it was the one I liked the most. I knew she would look great in it even though it wasn't the most expensive thing we sold in the store. Most fashion consultants are expected to push the priciest frock they carry. That's where the money is of course, so Rebecca was convinced of my sincerity when she saw that the price was right.
"Collin, do you have this in stock, or am I going to have to wait a week for it, get it fitted with barely time to look at it much less time to tweak it before the charity do?"
"Miss Rebecca Halveston? Off the rack?" I recoiled in mock horror, my hands to my face like a great poof and she began to laugh out loud.
"Oh cut it out, Collin. Just go get the damn thing and let's see what it needs."
It needed nothing. It fit like it was made for her alone. The gown had sewn-in bra cups, so Rebecca removed her black lace bra while I inserted thick but soft paper liners into the dress, for hygiene purposes. When I turned back to face her, I froze in my tracks. Dressed, Rebecca is incredibly sexy. In lace panties, garter belt, textured black nylons, and no bra, she's indescribable. Those beautiful breasts that I always thought were being driven by push-up bras were as high and firm as they looked, tipped by nipples of the softest pink. Her waist trim and flat, legs that the classic sculptures wished they had. My breathing doubled its pace, and I'm sure my face looked like it was about to catch fire. The thoughts running through my mind shouldn't have been there. She was a client, a customer, way the hell out of my league, and the most stunning creature I had ever laid my eyes on. I must have blurted out something stupid, something inane, or something inappropriate, because her face changed in a flash. The smile disappeared, replaced by a look of determination.
