tagNonConsent/ReluctanceCustomer Service

Customer Service

byHornyman69WithU©

There was a lingerie store in a mall on the north side of Indianapolis I used to frequent when I'd drive down from the small town where I lived in northern Indiana to shop.

It was Christmas Eve, and I'd already done a bunch of shopping in that mall, making my final stop at VS. Since I had shopped in there many times for my wife, I knew the assistant manager was a drop-dead gorgeous gal who had waited on me several times before. In her mid-20s with thick "dirty blonde" hair parted in the middle and falling a few inches below her shoulders, she had a truly beautiful face, the loveliest hazel eyes, and a killer figure—the kind of girl you just don't forget.

Well, she was working that evening and was the only employee left, recognizing me right away and even remembering my first name. I asked her didn't she just love the customer who comes in 10 minutes before closing looking for just the right thing for his wife. She said she did not mind staying late at all, and, as usual, was very nice and helpful, bringing out several sexy things that I narrowed down to two choices--the same garment--one pink in medium and the other white in small.

I could not determine the right size, so I gave her my wife's measurements and weight. Smiling, she said those matched her own measurements—34C-24-35, 5' 6", 120 lbs.—that she, too, was often right between a small and medium, and that a person in such cases just had to try the garment on to tell which size fit best. Obviously my wife was not with me, so trying it on was not an option.

Now, mind you, the garment in question was extremely skimpy and revealing, a silk camisole with spaghetti straps, a plunging v-neck line, very open lace down the front to well below the waist, and a short hemline which just barely covered the buns. The light pink and white colors rendered both semi-transparent.

I would have bought them both, but they were on sale with an all-sales-final deal that prevented you from returning them for a refund.

I could hardly believe my ears when she said, "I'll be glad to try them on for you. After all, I am the same size as your wife."

It was closing time, so she lowered the store's chain link security door, picked up the two garments, and headed for the dressing rooms. I just stood there, dumbstruck.

"Well, come on back here. I'm not going to parade around out front. The security guy will be by any minute now, and he gives me the creeps."

So I followed her on back to the dressing area, a central space with big mirrors, a couple of upholstered chairs, and a couch, surrounded by individual changing rooms with drape closures.

As I sat on the couch, she ducked into a changing room directly in my line of sight, not bothering to fully close the curtain. Although I undoubtedly wanted to watch her undress, I wasn't exactly comfortable staring, since she was doing me a favor, and I did not want to give her the "creeps" like the security guard.

So I just kind of fidgeted, occasionally taking a quick glance as she undressed. Off over her head came the black turtleneck sweater, revealing a sexy black bra attempting to steady her jiggling C-cups. I looked away before her face emerged from the sweater.

Then I heard the zzzzzip of her slacks, darted my eyes toward her to see that she had turned her back to me, and just in time to see her wiggle her fine bottom as she pulled the slacks down her thighs. Damn! No panties!!! Oh, wrong, they got stuck in the tight pants, so she bent down to her ankles to pull the matching black panties back up--but not before I caught an ever-so-brief glimpse of very pretty pussy lips--then pivoted and sat on the bench to face me and remove the slacks. I quickly looked away.

She stood up and turned with her back to me again, so I locked my gaze back in place. She was unhooking her front-closure bra. Off slipped the shoulder straps to reveal her beautiful smooth back over those tight, heart-shaped buns supported by lithe, muscular legs.

Down over her body fell the size small white nightie. I looked down at my watch before she turned around and emerged to model exhibit A. Wow! Under the bright lights in that barely-there camisole, it left a little to the imagination, but very little. Now this was a whole new dimension to customer service!

"Just a tad tight through the breast," she declared, jutting her firm boobs out so that her prominent nipples strained against the silk. "What do you think?"

I nodded approval but answered silently to myself, "I think my dick's getting hard."

She turned around, looking at herself in the mirrors from all angles. "Fits good around the waist and hips, though."

I noted to myself that a dirty brown burlap sack would look terrific on this girl.

"Oh, silly me, these black panties look dorky under white," she confessed, peeling them off and kicking them back into the dressing room.

I could now see through the thin silk that she was sporting a Brazilian pussy coif. I'm sure my woody was just as plain to her.

"OK, so that's what your wife would look like in the size small," she said, turning around again.

Back to the dressing room she strode, and she was pulling the nightie off over her head even before she got there, so I got the best look yet at her perfect bottom, with the added benefit of its being in motion. If her butt was a hotel, it would definitely be a five-star, and she was surely acting like it was check-in time.

This time, she faced me as she slipped on the pink camisole. I got to see her full frontal nudity momentarily--tits in full view, wobbling wonderfully as she moved, and that thin vertical strip of pubic hair like a racing stripe on a Ferrari. Wow. She was definitely one of the sexiest girls I'd ever seen, so at ease with her knockout physique. Obviously, she did not mind showing off her stuff, so I quickly got over my gentlemanly inclination to look away.

Walking back towards me, she said, "The medium's fuller through the top part. See how my boobs have more room to bounce around? But it's not as clingy through the waist and hips, and it's a good inch or so longer. Let's check the length when I sit down."

She sat right next to me on the couch, crossing first one leg, then the other, leaning back, leaning forward, sitting Indian style, and with each move, brushing against me. In this series of motions, I didn't even have to try to see her beautiful breasts, pointy nipples, and luscious pooching pussy lips. By this point, I realized that not only did she not "mind" me looking, she was enjoying showing off. Hell, this was better than a strip joint, for sure.

"You know, the small is a bit too little and the medium a bit too big, but I'd go with the medium," she suggested.

"Yes," I agreed, "and my wife's favorite color is pink, so the medium it will be."

I was still somewhat anxious about this whole situation, and was oddly looking forward to it about to end. After all, though watching this fabulous babe model and strip was indeed great, the nightie was an intimate gift for my wife, a fabulous babe in her own right, and, for Christ's sake, it was Christmas Eve, and I was alone with this bold woman.

Then, out of the blue, she asked, "Do you like me?" positioning her sexy red lips not 6 inches from mine and sensuously tracing the long red nail of her index finger from my chin to waist, parking it about a millimeter north of my turgid cock. The scent of Chanel No 5, my wife's favorite perfume, wafted up into my nostrils.

"Well, of course I like you. You are always supremely helpful, extremely pleasant, with exquisite taste, and today you have resolved the size issue and stayed late on Christmas Eve, no less," I said, attempting to dodge what I feared was her real question.

"Thank you, but what I meant was do you LIKE me, you know, would you like to HAVE me?"

As she said "HAVE me," she batted those big, beautiful hazel eyes and squeezed her boobs together with the insides of her upper arms to make deeper cleavage, still wearing MY WIFE'S pink camisole.

"You are such a nice man, so patient, respectful, thoughtful—and extremely attractive and sexy, too. Any other man would have certainly jumped my bones by now, and had he been as sweet as you, I would surely have welcomed it. I know you are married, but wouldn't you like to stay here with me alone on this couch for a little while longer?" she implored as she took my hands into hers, placed them against her boobs, and leaned towards me with moist, open lips.

OK, perfect situation--locked in complete privacy inside a lingerie store on Christmas Eve when my wife 90 miles away at home knew I'd be out late shopping--with a horny-as-the-devil to-die-for girl who did not even know my last name or had anyway to track me down. I realized that every time I'd been in there, I'd subtly flirted with her and mentally undressed her. I guess I had not been so subtle, after all, and now look at the predicament I was in. What to do?

"Yes, I would, but I'm not going to because it's the wrong thing to do. You're a beautiful young woman with a terrific personality, and I do appreciate your assistance today--way beyond the call of duty--but if you'll Christmas-wrap this up in a hurry, I'll be hitting the road," I said as assertively as possible, squeezing her oh-so-fine breasts just before I let them go and backing my head away as her lips moved even closer to mine.

"It seems like all the good ones are already taken, but I'd settle for just borrowing you for a little while, or, better yet, a long while. I can promise you would not be disappointed!" she said, quickly shifting to straddle my lap and pull the camisole off over her head in one deft move.

OK, so now I had a completely naked 25-year-old hottie on me!

"Don't you think I'm sexually desirable?" she asked, using both hands to squeeze her tits and then tweak her always-rigid nipples up to even harder points.

I could momentarily not speak or get out a sound at all. Then she dragged her fingers down her taught tummy to her crotch, traced the edges of the dark brown pubic hair landing strip, and parted her puffy labia to reveal the glistening red interior of her vagina and a moist, swollen clit.

"I just shaved this morning. See, so smooth and soft," she said, sliding the pad of a finger across her clit then around the perimeter of her luscious vulva, which was getting ever wetter.

Plunging a finger inside, she whispered, "I've got a tight little pussy, and she's sooo lonely," using her other hand to gently scrape her long nails down my raging hard cock from head to balls through my worsted wool dress pants.

Just as I was finally able to choke out, "I really gotta...," she grabbed my tie for balance and rared back to show me one of the prettiest poop holes I've ever seen. Circling the tiny pink wrinkles of skin with the pussy-juice-moistened middle finger of her other hand, she interrupted, "And if my pussy's not tight enough, you're cordially invited to give this a go. I won't just LET you do it; I'd LIKE you to."

Trying to take charge of the situation before it got completely out of hand, I picked her up by her buns, stood up, turned around, and dropped her back on the couch. Kind of pouting, she again fingered her now very wet pussy, then sucked the juice off the finger, making a loud slurping noise as she slowly extracted it from her pursed lips. "Oh, and, of course, I do swallow."

I have never encountered a woman so determined to have sex with me, and I was either going to be unfaithful to my wife or get out of there at once, so I bolted out of the dressing area to literally make a run for it--gift for my wife be damned--only to face the chain link security door. All the way down to the floor, it would not budge. I thought she had put it down to signal that the store was closed and to keep out the "creepy" security guard, but now it donned on me that she had intentionally trapped me to have her willful way. This chick--increasingly reminding me of Glenn Close' character in the film Fatal Attraction—was quite possibly downright dangerous.

She emerged from the dressing area with the turtleneck back on but nothing else, and the pink camisole in her hand.

"Hold your horses while I ring this up and gift-wrap it for you," she casually said, walking behind the counter that obscured her bare lower half so that she appeared perfectly normal.

I eyed the acoustic tile overhead for a possible escape route.

The nerdy security guard sauntered up, and, though he was about as intimidating as a tadpole and not as smart, I was nevertheless relieved.

"Oh, hi," she smiled from behind the counter, "I'm just finishing up with this last customer, and then I'm outta here, and I DON"T need you to walk me to my car, but do hurry down to the employee exit to make sure it's still open so I can get out, OK?."

She had effectively dismissed him before I could say a word, and he disappeared as instructed. My momentary relief reversed to near panic.

Not wanting to give her my name by paying with a credit card, I had, including loose change, just enough cash on me to pay for the nightie. She came around from behind the counter and—still bottomless—strode towards me as I tried not to look at that stripe on her mons pointing like an arrow down at her glinting-wet pussy smacking its lips with each step. I took the box and a giant step backward away from her as she punched the code on the keypad, and the door slowly began to rise.

As soon as it was up a few feet, I ducked under to make my getaway, looking back one last time at her. She pointed her ass at me, pooched it out to reveal pussy and squinch hole, and smacked a butt cheek hard with an open hand. "I like the spanky-spanky. You look like you need a good whipping, too, so you better stay and play with me. I'M A VERY GOOD BAD GIRL!" she shouted, with a crazed gleam in her eyes, laughing frighteningly similar to The Joker on the old Batman TV series

I took out like Carl Lewis, but, carrying a big bag of gifts and in my dress shoes on the slick mall floor, promptly wiped out, yet I never looked back, scrambled to my feet, and got the hell out of there and back home.

The next morning, my wife and I exchanged Christmas presents. After she opened the pink camisole, she slipped it on, looked fabulous in it, and we made our customary passionate love beneath the Christmas tree. She noticed some bruises on my knees from the fall, but I claimed I didn't know how they got there. Afterwards, she thanked me for "being so thoughtful and remembering every detail—scenting the camisole with Chanel No. 5." Needless to say, I didn't tell her how that aroma actually got there!

I shopped at that same mall several more times but was careful to never go even near the lingerie store again. Once, I was in another part of the mall and spotted her, fortunately at a distance, walking down the other side. I quickly ducked into Banana Republic and hid behind a rack of leather jackets—getting peculiar looks from the employees--until the coast was clear.

Certainly I was not the only guy she'd tried to seduce, and I often wondered how many men that "very good bad girl" had lured into her lair. At any rate, that Christmas Eve was the closest I ever came to fooling around on my now ex-wife, and surely expanded my definition of "customer service."

Now that I'm divorced, I'd welcome such customer service!

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