Why Dressing Rooms Have Benches

I ran my hand along the fabric of the skirt, feeling its silky texture – imagining how it would hug my hips and give hints of what lay beneath. Certainly worth trying on at least. I hooked the hanger over my index finger, next to the slinky grey silk camisole. They were both more revealing that I was used to wearing, "What the hell?" I shrugged inwardly and decided it couldn't hurt to at least try them on.

I locked myself into the stall with my finds, hanging my purse on the hook attached to the white-slatted door. I checked the skirt and camisole for snags – the worst thing about finding something great is realizing something is wrong with it, and it was the only one my size left. I slowly unbuttoned my lavender shirt – I had come shopping on my way home from work. The white camisole beneath was stretched over my aching breasts, my nipples tight in the cold of the store. I tossed my shirt onto the bench – why was there always a seat in a dressing room? – and reached for the hem of my undershirt. I sighed happily as my breasts were freed, even though the cold air in the stall made me shiver.

Glancing at my profile in the mirror, I laid the white camisole on top of my shirt, and reached for the fly of my slacks. Someone else entered the dressing room, and I held my breath. I hated when other people could hear me undressing – such a private act. Whoever it was chose a stall at the end of the row, and I slowly breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Sliding the pants down my legs, I noticed how my grey cotton panties had darkened at the juncture of my thighs, and my face flushed in embarrassment. "Embarassed of who, yourself?" I chided myself … shaking my head.

Assessing the curves of my body, I smiled inwardly. It used to be that seeing my body under the harsh lights of department stores depressed me. I had lost weight since then, and the lights accented the taught musculature lurking under soft white skin. I drew my hands under my full breasts, cupping them together, and smiled seductively at my reflection. Not bad at all.

The soft scrape of the silk camisole over my nipples was heavenly as I pulled it over my torso. I surveyed the results – the grey sheen brought out the mysterious grey of my eyes and set my red hair aflame. My skin looked warm and creamy next to the cool color of the silk – I lifted my arm to look at the price tag – noticing how it pulled enticingly over my pert nipples. I had to have the skimpy little textile fragment. "Ok, now for the skirt" I thought to myself, unhinging the clips on the hanger.

As I pulled the soft, smooth cotton up my thighs, I heard the outer door to the dressing room open again. I rolled my eyes at my reflection, and cringed as I heard the door in the next stall squeak open. I listened for the click of hangers, signaling that its occupant found it suitable – but instead heard a stifled giggle. I sighed, and zipped up the back of the skirt, turning back to the mirror. The skirt hugged my hips just as I imagined, flaring slightly a few inches from the knees – leaving enough to imagination. I was distracted from my assessment by the sound of movement in the stall next to me. "Why did she have to choose the stall right next to me?" I pondered, aggravated. Something was different though – something didn't seem right. The stall suddenly felt crowded, even though I knew I was there alone. I bent down to fasten my sandal, trying to check out the effects of my movement on the skirt at the same time. Suddenly I was frozen by a low moan from the next stall. It was quickly followed by a quiet shushing sound.

Without moving, I slid my eyes to the floor in the next stall. Only one pair of shoes – was I imagining what I was hearing? I surveyed the shoes – feeling a pang for the poor girl wearing them – they sure were big! I realized my sandal was quite securely strapped to my ankle, and twisted back up, watching the flash of cleavage visible down the neck of the shirt. There was a sharp intake of breath from the next stall, "Don't suck in unless you plan to the whole time you wear that, sister" I thought to myself – and was immediately ashamed at my cruelty.

Reabsorbed by my reflection, I imagined myself out with friends. Perhaps at a local bar-eatery – sitting on a high stool with my legs crossed just enough to give a glimpse at what lay beneath. Suddenly my mind jumped forward – and the skirt was bunch around my thighs as someone tall with dark hair pressed against me, exploring my mouth with his tongue. A small sigh of pleasure escaped my parted lips, and I jumped as I heard it echoed – suddenly I was back in the dressing room stall. "Shit, I'm starting to imagine things" my mind annoyingly slow to leave the stranger in my fantasy.

I heard a soft grunt from the stall next to me; someone was making dressing and undressing quite a work out! I unzipped the skirt, and could have sworn I heard a low guttural sound close to the wall. The skirt slipped from my grasp, and pooled around my sandals. Now I KNEW I wasn't hearing things – as soon as the skirt hit the floor, I had heard a sigh. Stealthily I leaned down to pick up the skirt – and this time saw a very feminine pair of feet in chunky sandals next too the large, now obviously masculine shoes I had seen before! My mouth dropped open in shock – and as if it had a mind of its own my right hand snaked its way underneath my damp panties.

"Oh God" I thought to myself "I'm masturbating in a public dressing room!" Somehow the appalled admonishment was not enough to stop me. My middle finger found my clit, and it was all I could do not to cry out. Dizzy and overcome, I sank down onto the bench, unheeding of my waiting garments. I imagined the girl in the next stall gripping the mirror image of my bench – her boyfriend quietly ramming into her … his left hand covering hers on the bench – his right hand rubbing her clit just as I was rubbing mine. Impatient, I thrust first one finger, then two … curving them toward that special spot, eager to catch up with my silent seductress. I couldn't tell if the slick wet sounds were coming from them or from me. The musky scent of sex seemed to fill the air with pheromones.

I don't know how long it was before the dressing room seemed to exhale in a collective sigh of relief. I changed back into my street clothes, the mere scrape of them against my skin sending electric pulses through my erogenous zones. I waited until the door next to me creaked open again – silently envious of its occupants. Had they known I was in here all along? When I finally felt sober enough to leave my stall, they were long gone. A mother pushed her stroller through isles of summer shorts. An elderly couple frowned at the revealing styles on display in the juniors section. And a young man was gently tying the ballet straps of his sweetheart's shoes on her calves. His gaze was fixed at the level of her skirt. As I watched, she reached her hand to tangle it in his hair. I realized I was staring, and fled for the registers.

I bought the grey camisole and the black skirt, eager to wear them again.