There is something inexplicably sexy about the way a Latina walks down the street. In London, you can spot them from a mile away; their hips sway from side to side with the natural rhythm of waves and sea breeze. Their trousers strain to contain the voluptuous roundness of their assets - these princesses walk as if they owned the street. And when they move they do own them, yes sir. Their heads are always held high, their chests pushed out. Their skin looks softer and sweeter than almond butter, how do they do it? I feel I could run my finger over a naked arm and then suckle from my finger their rich flavor. They exude sexuality with every step: maybe it's their cleavage or the deep dark manes that frame their lovely faces. For me it has always been the eyes that pinned me down to the spot and hardly let me breathe. Latin eyes command you to love them, to adore them.
You may call me crass, and I wouldn't hold it against you, but I had to have a Latina. It was the notch in my belt that was missing, and I felt I'd miss something unforgivable if I were to die without being held all night long by one of these women. I believe that good things don't just happen: you create your chances, and when the opportunity comes by you take it with both hands. And so I did.
I worked in a department store, and while that might not sound at all impressive to you, if I told you that it was one London's most exclusive stores and that I was in charge of the lingerie department you may at least see that there were ulterior motives for my career choice. Our customers usually belonged to one of the two groups: tourists or rich, bored ladies. The latter tended to be older, and why I don't discriminate in my sexual demographics, the former were the ones as good as gold for a romp. In the high street you can find all the shades in god's beautiful palette, from exotic Korean ladies with legs that go for miles, to curvaceous Caribbean beauties that taste of piña colada.
More than occasionally, luck would shine on me and an angel in the form of an unhappy wife or a neglected girlfriend would come my way. As a personal shopper I'd oblige to their every whim, from choosing a bra size to ushering them to the farthest changing room and locking it behind us. Sometimes, though, they would be chaperoned by intrusive friends who would be there to show them the line between slutty and seductive, and lecture them on the benefits of plain silk panties over lace thongs. I resented those chaperones - those nannies - for they took over my role, a role which I fulfilled proudly and to perfection. I was still to get a complaint from anyone. Women arrived unhappy, and they left well loved.
It was during one of those classic rainy afternoons that are so common in this corner of the world. An afternoon of drawn up collars and soggy boots trailing in mud onto our marble floors. The sky was dark and the air was gloomy; the atmosphere was dense with impatience and boredom. Afternoons like these make me particularly randy. What's there to do outside? It's better to stay in, huddled under a duvet and making sweet - or spicy - love to a woman. Afternoons like these, when the tourists have gone to seek refuge in their hotels and the old ladies have gone home to run away from their arthritis, are the perfect time for premeditation and action.
The rain tapped against the floor-to-ceiling windows while I was working the first floor making sure that our racks were well presented and our few customers were taken care of. It wasn't my job to tend to any customer. As a personal shopper, I had my hours devoted to looking after the exclusive clientele, the one who would pay triple digits for precious pieces of fabric.
As I made my way over to my favorite section - a black-themed series of lingerie that verged on a dominatrix style - I spotted two women standing in the corner engrossed in a conversation that could have only been of a private matter, judging by the hushed voices and furtive glances. Not wishing to interrupt, for a personal shopper should always be pertinent and suave, I stopped a couple of shelves away from them, folding and rearranging some of the intimate items that needed to be taken care of.
The two women were hunched over a piece of our finest, 'She-Said' series. The tall, blonde one looked too perfect, too shiny - fake, I immediately decided. Fake tits, fake tan, even fake ass by the looks of it. I wasn't interested in all that, not at least that morning and my eye eagerly turned towards the other one.
The other woman was a different story altogether. Slightly shorter than the blonde one, she was of medium height with long and wavy dark hair. Her olive skin shone under the fluorescent lights that hardly favor anyone. Her fantastic legs were curvy, full and long. Legs that could crush you, I bet, with thighs that would pin your face down while your tongue elicited the hungriest of moans from that red, full-lipped mouth. But what got me hooked the most was her ass. She was dressed in the tightest pair of jeans that inspired thoughts so impure that I had to bite my lip to prevent me from groaning. Her ass looked tight and soft, undeniably godsend and designed for my pleasure. Round and full, firm and generally so alluring that I almost reached out to grab it. That woman had to be mine.
"Chris, don't think about it too much, just buy it and you won't regret it," the blonde one urged the dark-haired one.
"But look at the price, Ronnie is going to kill me if I spend so much," the other women whispered.
"He has more money than hairs on his head, stop it. He won't complain after he sees you in it, he won't. Believe me."
"I don't know," the brunette said while hesitantly taking the hanger from its place. She dangled the skimpy - almost slutty - bra in front of her face, her brow furrowed in concentration. "It's just not me."
"Don't be modest! Come on, the least you can do is try it. It's not like we can walk out of here with this rain anyway. Do you want to ruin your shoes? I don't think so," the blonde said and taking the matters into her own hands she took the hanger with the bra and the matching, delicate-looking panties. "I'll ask if they have similar models so you can try more while you're at it," she said and walked away in search of an attendant. Anticipating this I dodged behind one of the highest shelves and waited for her to walk past me.
A moment later, seeing that the blonde nanny was far enough, I emerged from among the shelves and found my beloved brunette now bending down to reach one of the bottom racks, the stitching on the back of her jeans about to burst. God have mercy. I popped the top of my shirt buttons' open, just to make sure to even the ground. A bit.
With the chaperone now gone, I was given the chance to see 'Chris' in full view. Disregarding the world's sexiest bottom, she also had a beautiful face. Full lips, chocolate-colored eyes, strong eyebrows now scrunched up in deep focus.
"And what can I do for you today?" I said in my most helpful yet meaningful type of voice. I made sure to cast one of my signature smiles, clasping my hands together so that my arms would push my breasts up.
She was startled, it was evident that she hadn't heard me approach her, and her cheeks blushed in such a delightful shade of pink that I wanted to lick it off her. Clearly, this wasn't a woman used to shopping racy lingerie, and these unsuspecting creatures are my favorite, by far. They let me guide them by the hand, so candidly that it should be a crime.
I took another step towards Chris my face masked in neutral compassion as I said:
"I know," I said sympathetically, "it's so hard to make a choice. Such beautiful things to buy, and wardrobes do have the annoying habit of being too small."
"Yes, quite," she said with a shy smile while brushing a strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.
"Can I help you? I am a personal shopper for a reason, you know?" I said in all earnest, flashing the very best of my smiles.
She hesitated, which is almost a consent and much better than saying 'no'. I could see the internal battle between modesty and boldness. She wanted to be the type of girl who would buy lacy lingerie - to be the kind of woman who could wear lacy lingerie - but something restrained her.
"What's the occasion?" I asked trying to make things feel as casual as possible for her. I leaned against the rack, relaxing and trying the friendly approach. My smile turned almost conspiratorial.
Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink and still she wouldn't say anything. Instead, she coughed and turned her eyes away from me, clearly looking for the blonde woman to make a swift escape.
"Em—"
"A special anniversary, a birthday coming up?", I offered after I noticed the wedding band on her finger.
"Actually," she said finally returning her gaze to meet mine, "it is. My birthday is coming up."
"Your birthday?" I clapped my hands. "Happy birthday, love! Well, you definitely deserve a treat! But shouldn't he be the one standing here, buying something for you?"
She looked: "My husband is more traditional. He would be embarrassed."
"But, of course, he wouldn't mind seeing you in one of those? Ah, men. Spoiled brats."
