Measured

As I make my way through the Covent Garden crowds I see you waiting for me. So like you to arrive early. You might think that your average looks make you blend into the scenery, but just the sight of you is making me shiver already. The goose bumps are probably visible on my arms and bare legs below my soft blue cotton dress, if you look close enough. Which you do.

You take my hand, give me a cordial kiss on the cheek and, with little chit-chat, lead me off towards the Seven Dials. No chance of me pulling out of this, then.

You set a relaxed pace through the busy streets, apparently in no hurry, but we still reach our destination sooner than I might have liked. You hold open the door for me (naturally) and I step into the small, dark store.

My eyes adjust to the light, and I start to look around. There are only one or two other customers - perfectly normal-looking, middle-aged women who look as comfortable surrounded by these clothes (a generous word) and toys as they would buying avocados in Waitrose. You also seem perfectly at ease browsing, and with an encouraging push on the small of my back, leave me to explore in my own time.

The store may be small, but they have an impressive breadth of choice, ranging from sweet, pastel coloured satin bras and knickers, to bewildering leather and metal affairs which I wouldn't even know how to put on.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see you leafing through some books, an amused look on your face, then I find the items we had in mind. They are even more beautiful and revealing than I had imagined from the pictures online, and I start to doubt that I will do them justice. The fine, embroidered material is almost completely transparent; the black silk straps and boning doing little to afford any modesty. Trying to look less out of my depth, I start picking out my size when the sales assistant comes to join me.

In contrast to the customers, the assistant stands out by a mile. Frankly, she would stand out in any setting. A little shorter and more petite than me, she's dressed demurely in a crisp white shirt, tight pencil skirt and shiny black heels. Only the line up the back of her stockings and glimpse of a calligraphied tattoo under her collar suggest anything other than a particularly attractive librarian or receptionist. Her skin is pale, her dark hair is piled up in a loose chignon. I'm trying hard not to imagine pulling the pin out of that chignon and releasing her hair to her shoulders when I realise she's asked me a question and that you are walking over to join us.

"I think she's a size 12" you reply, helping me out, as always. Your hand returns to my lower back, and the light contact is enough to make me a little unsteady on my feet. Good job you're here to keep me upright.

"The sizing on these designs are a bit more complicated - they have to be a close fit." She is smiling charmingly as she runs her hands through the hangers. "Do you know your measurements?"

She looks straight at me, smiling, and I'm sure there is a hint of amusement at my blushes. I don't have to reply for her to know my answer.

"Not a problem, I can measure you myself." Directing a playful smile at you, she continues, "So long as you don't mind?"

You smile back, with definite amusement. "By all means, be my guest." You give my back one last pat, then a gentle shove in the direction of the changing room, and make yourself comfortable on the velvet banquette opposite.

She draws the curtain, and places her tape measure over her neck while she helps me undress. She chatters away, probably to try and help me relax, complimenting me on the dress that she is busy unbuttoning. I step out of my shoes and sweep my hair over one shoulder to keep it out of her way, wondering what effect this is having on you outside. You can probably only see my bare feet and her stockinged legs, and I hope you're not disappointed.

Buttons undone, she brushes the blue straps over my shoulders and the dress drops to the ground. Unusually for me, I'm wearing simple white underwear, which I imagine looks very prim in her eyes. My face is bright crimson by now, and I'm only grateful to have my back turned to her so she can't see.

"Raise your arms, please," she orders, politely. I do as I am told.

She stretches her tape measure around the fullest part of my breasts and runs her hands around to meet at my spine. The tape puts no tension around my chest, yet I'm finding it hard to breath.

She takes note of the measurement and releases the tape. Her hands move lower, to my waist this time. I am naturally ticklish, and have to fight hard not to squirm as the tape finds my narrowest point.

She moves the tape down again to rest on my hips. As her hands move around me and she leans in to see the numbers, I'm all too aware that she is essentially staring at my ass.

She makes a satisfied noise, and lowers the tape again. "Now, can you turn around for me?"

I do, hesitatingly. Facing her, I can smell her floral perfume and can see a tiny peek of nude lace through the buttons of her shirt. I can tell from her playful smile that she is enjoying my discomfort. I imagine you are too, sat outside.

She drops to her knees in front of me, tight skirt not allowing for much movement. She leans forward to bring the tape measure to my ankle, affording me a flattering view of her curved ass in the mirror behind her. I wonder if you can see what I'm seeing under the curtain. She strokes the tape upwards from the outside of my ankle to my hip. "For the stockings," she informs me.

After taking the measurement, she lowers her hands, and my breath starts to return to normal. A little part of me is almost sad it's over. A very specific little part of me. However, I'm mistaken, and she picks up the tape again. The inner ankle this time. I swear, I have never known stockings to require two measurements, and I start to wonder if she's prolonging this for her own enjoyment. Or mine.

She runs the tape upwards with the lightest touch of her index finger, far more slowly than I think is strictly necessary. You can certainly see this from where you are, and I dread to think what you're imagining. The tape goes up and up, past my freckled knees, along the paler skin of my thigh, and rests on the very tender, soft flesh at the top, practically touching my cotton knickers. My nervousness has faded, replaced, irrevocably, with longing. This is most likely apparent to her in the heat she must feel where the tape is resting.

She withdraws her hands, eliciting an involuntary gasp from me. "Ok, I think we're ready to start now," she says, a wicked look in her eyes, then leaves to get the right sizes. I breathe deeply, trying to regain my composure, but I notice that the curtain has been left ajar and you can see me, practically naked, from the angle of the mirror.

I'd love to know what you're thinking...

She flashes an innocent smile at you as she returns to the changing room. I get the impression she is a little flushed herself, which perhaps explains why she neglects to close the curtain completely.

She stands behind me and unfastens my bra. It occurs to me that I could just as easily undress myself, but that would be missing the point entirely. I hold eye contact with you in the mirror to steel my nerve, but it seems to have the opposite effect. She brings the straps over my shoulders and lets her fingertips graze the side of my breasts. At first I'm not sure if this is accidental or deliberate, until she catches my eyes in the mirror. Definitely not accidental.

You can see perfectly well what's happening, and I wonder if you'll come and intervene. You seem satisfied to let her carry on with her job for the time being, although I get the impression you're sitting a little less comfortably than before.

Her hands drift to my waist and tease the knickers over my hips and down my long legs. I can feel her breath on the back of my legs and it is making me tremble. I am completely naked now, but with two pairs of appreciative eyes on me I wouldn't change that for the world. I just hope to fuck no one else comes in the now empty store.

She is knelt by my feet, looking intensely at me then you in turn through the mirror. Her hand retraces the path the tape took, even more slowly this time, and with a little more pressure. I can no longer control my breathing. Looking at you, I think this feeling is mutual. Her fingers reach the top, pause, but mercifully don't stop. She runs them beautifully along the curly blonde hair she finds there, no doubt noticing how wet I already am. She teases me a while longer before dipping one, then two fingers inside me, and pushing them deep. My head goes back and I let out a barely stifled moan.

This goes on for a while - hard to say how long, because I lose track of time. Her slender fingers slide in and out of me, knowing just where to press to make my muscles pulse in response. I am so transfixed watching her that I almost forget where I am, until a sound at the door makes me jump about three feet in the air. She retrieves her hand, smiles broadly at me and gets up to leave.

"Stay where you are, this won't take a second," she says cheerfully, licking her fingers as she slips through the curtain to deal with the customer.

I look back at you, and can see you're enjoying this as much as I am. Seizing your opportunity, you get up, close the curtain behind you, and kiss me forcefully, pushing me back against the wall of the changing room. I can feel that piercing of yours sticking into me through your black shirt, and it excites me even further. Your stubble grazes my face, then neck, then breasts as you devour me, your urgent hands squeezing my ass almost till it hurts. The pleasure of seeing you so out of control is almost as satisfying as the physical sensations thrilling through my body.

I'm about to reach down to deal with your rock hard cock, when the shop door clangs again. We hear her lock the door and turn the sign from open to closed. You let me go, momentarily uncertain what to do with yourself. With one last kiss, you return to wait impatiently outside.

She enters the room, curtains wide open behind her this time. She must be able to see the red marks you have left on my skin, and feigns a stern look in your direction.

"The policy here is that men can look, but not touch. You're welcome to make yourself more comfortable though, if it becomes necessary."

You nod back at her. I've never seen you so compliant. Fascinating.

She returns her attention to me, and can see that I'm thoroughly warmed up. She walks towards me, and pushes my shoulders so that my back is against the wall once again. She drops to her knees in front of me, and watches my expression with curiosity as she delicately parts my legs, then lips, with her fingers. My heart is racing, and I have to brace my arms against the wall to stay on my feet.

She brings her sweet, red mouth to my cunt.

I can't suppress my moans any longer, as her tongue licks in strokes and circles between my legs. The unbelievable pleasure is making it hard to keep my eyes open, but I see you watching, your hands unbuttoning your trousers, and pulling out your poor neglected cock. Watching you rub it in long, slow strokes is almost holding my attention, until she slides her hand up my thigh once again.

Her fingers know exactly where to go, and their pressure, combined with the licking and sucking on my clit is tipping me over the edge. I move a hand to her hair, and putting up no resistance it comes undone and falls to her shoulders. I grasp it, groaning, and look over to you for permission. You nod, and I let my muscles start their sweet contractions.

I cum, hard, noisily, and for long enough to watch you do the same.

As both of us are left panting for breath, she stands up, straightens her hair, and leaves us to recover in our own time. I notice the lingerie still on the hanger. I guess that will have to wait for another day.