This all happened quite a few years ago.
I parked my little Honda in one of the spaces designated for laundry/cleaner patrons, gathered up my dirty shirts and a pair of too-large slacks, and started inside. The plate glass windows flanking the door were half opaque, obscured by signs telling about all the good things they could do for you there: shirt specials, one-hour service, alterations, even shoe repair. Shoe repair? Must be a drop-off point for some cobbler shop somewhere else in the city. A chubby friendly girl behind the counter asked about starch – none. I asked if they could replace a couple of shirt cuff buttons one of their competitors seemed to have used a hammer on; I was told they could. Then I noticed the trim lady all in white, evidently the manager, Asian features, black hair in a bun.
“If you become a regular customer, we will replace broken buttons for you for free,” she said.
“I’m only going to be in Austin for a couple of months,” I said. “But I’m certainly looking for a reliable place I can bring everything to.”
“We do excellent work. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied.”
Though she spoke simply, I got a thrill from her unique style of eye contact. I found it hard not to smile at her. Her voice was straightforward enough, with only a little Asian lilt, but her questioning eyes were magnetic. She was about forty, I guessed, close-fitting uniform, slender figure. Nice. Her name badge read ‘Lily.’
“I also have an alteration,” I said. “These pants need to be taken up a bit.”
“That’s unusual,” Lily said. “Mostly we’re asked to let them out. Come with me, to the fitting room, and I’ll mark them for you.”
As I followed her swaying hips down the linoleum walkway. towards the back of the establishment, she asked, “What brings you to Austin? And for such a short time?”
“I’m going into the Navy. I was teaching in a private high school in Arizona, got tired of that, and started working as a cowboy at one of the ranches out there. Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite turned twenty-six when I quit teaching and so I got myself drafted.”
We entered a no-nonsense room. She closed the door, handed me my pants, and indicated the curtained changing booth. I went inside, sat down, and took off my boots.
“Drafted into the Navy?” she asked.
“Not exactly. Into the Army, but I made a deal with the draft board that if I could get accepted into Naval O.C.S. I could transfer. So I’m visiting my mother here in Austin for a couple of months before the next Naval O.C.S. class begins.”
“O.C.S. is what?” she asked.
I pulled off my jeans and pulled on the slacks. “Officer Candidate School. I’d rather give orders than take them.”
“I don’t blame you for that,” she said. “So what made you lose weight? And how much?”
“Cowboys have to work a lot harder than school teachers,” I said. A considerable understatement: up at 4:30 to feed stock, then working cattle, building fences, or haying until dark. Going until 8:30 or 9:00 in those Northern latitude summer evenings. “Maybe twenty pounds,” I responded to her second question. I pulled on the slacks, buttoned the waist, zipped up the fly, and stepped out of the booth holding up the slacks at the waist.
She gently laughed at the sight of me.
“You certainly do need to have those slacks altered,” she said. “Otherwise the girls could pull them off you, no problem at all. Just like that!” She bit her lower lip and motioned, a downward jerk of her small fists. No ring, I noticed. Nice fingernails, painted white. Then my gaze went from her lovely hands to her equally lovely breasts. Were her nipples possibly erect? I couldn’t be sure.
“You think so?” I joked. “Maybe then we should just forget the whole thing...”
“Too late,” she said. “You’re in too deep for that.” There was that magnetic gaze of hers again. I might have blushed, just a little.
From a small wooden table against the wall, she picked up her tailor’s chalk and, from an open box, a row of straight pins. She placed the pins between her lips. Very nice lips, bottom lip a little full. Everything I noticed about this woman was attractive; voluptuous, even, considering her slight frame and her gentle friendly manner. She went to work on me – on my pants, rather – marking the waist and then, smoothing the fabric over my buns – gentle but very friendly -- making marks and placing pins along what was to become a new and tighter seam.
She took the last few pins out of her mouth momentarily, swiveled me around, her hands on my hips, so I was again facing her. She asked, “Do you want the crotch raised a bit too?”
“A bit,” I croaked. I hoped she wouldn’t notice that my penis was slightly stiff under her gaze and her solicitous hands. But when she took a fold of the crotch material in her left hand, she also gathered up a small piece of foreskin with it.
Then it happened. My cock pulsed and jumped just as she was about to insert a pin; that pin was inserted, not into and out of the material, but into the material and then into my dick!
Lily took the pins out of her mouth and dropped them on the table. “Oh my God,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She looked into my eyes. “I hope ...” She looked down at my crotch. Then she said, “Oh, I think it’s bleeding ...”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Accidents happen. And my blood clots quick.”
“No,” she said. “We have to take care of it.”
She stood up, went to the door, locked it by pushing in the button in the knob. She came back to me, looked me in the eye, and said, “I’ll do my best to make it all OK again.” With that she unzipped the fly, reached into my pants, through the fly of my boxer shorts, took hold of my penis, and, with some difficulty, brought it out into the open. There was a small bloody spot on the left hand side of the shaft, about two-thirds of the way down. It was already starting to clot.
She knelt down before me, my cock still in her small hand. She kissed the tiny wound, then held my penis horizontal with her left hand, holding it right under the head, and with her right hand swiveled me to the side. She moved her right hand to hold the root of my cock, where the hair starts, her fingernails gently grasping the urethral bulge. She licked the shaft and along that lower bulge.
“That is what dogs or cats do when they get a splinter in their paw,” she said. I felt like I was going to faint, but perhaps that was just because most of the blood in my brain had departed for my swollen cock. Cowper’s fluid, pre-cum, was starting to flow.
“Now look at what I’ve done,” she said. Those eyes were again looking into mine. “And I don’t seem to have any Kleenex in here.” Her right hand then swiveled me around again so I was front on and her left hand moved down to encircle and support my cock. Not that much support, by this time, was needed; I had a monstrous hard-on. She sucked ever so gently on the head of my dick, tasting the pre-cum, sucked again as more oozed out, swallowed, and licked her lips.
