The Fashion Show

I was the menswear buyer in a department store on the east coast of England and, at 25 years old, one of the youngest in such a position in the entire country. More a case of being in the right place at the right time than any inherent genius I like to think, but, what the heck, I took advantage of all the opportunities it presented to steal a march on all my rivals. It also meant that I had access to the latest fashions and, with "private" deals with my suppliers, was able to dress expensively for little cost. Nowadays most such arrangements are outlawed by company rules and ethics, but this was 1972. I was also told, by many women that I was and attractive proposition to any women who fancied a fling – young or old – but that was partly due to the clothes, the position, the higher than normal (for my age) salary as well as the exposure to many, many women that working in a department store afforded me. As I was also on the fashion side of the business, as opposed to the housewares, electricals, or furniture sides and that required some, albeit it minimal, liaison with the ladieswear fashion buyers and managers and as such, my immediate boss was the store fashion co-ordinator and merchandise manager - one Sally Braithwaite – with whom occasional review meetings would be held as well as budget sessions and all the other paraphernalia that business management required. Sally was a woman of indeterminate age (at least that was my interpretation as a mere 25 year old) but if I was forced to guess, I'd put her at about 50. Nonetheless, with the same relative advantages as me, it would be no surprise if I told you she was always immaculately turned out, beautifully made up and always in the height of fashion. She was universally known as and referred to as "Mrs.B".

On the same level as me in the management hierarchy, were the many specialised product buyers – hosiery, lingerie, separates, outerwear, dresses and accessories as well as the concession managers – the fashion houses trading in the store under their own names and that were the designer labels of their day. Names such as Alexon, Eastex, Dereta, and Windsmoor were the prominent ones. They were all represented at Sally's planning and general management meetings by the Alexon manager, Louise McLean. As the only man amongst them and in our less formal sessions, gatherings and even social occasions, I was constantly the subject of sexual innuendo. I know that nowadays, that sort of discrimination is unacceptable, especially if in the sexually reversed roles, but back in the 1970s it was not seen as harassment neither was it unwanted by me - I loved the attention and found it flattering from a bunch of women who were professional, well presented and , overall, pretty attractive. They were also mainly older than me, which gave them a certain maturity of thought and I knew that each one who flirted had carefully weighed up the potential consequences of that action and thus remained firmly in control of the situation.

Twice each year, we organised a fashion show. One of the old-fashioned catwalk types, that presented the new seasons' collections to our account customers, the great and good of the community, the press, our suppliers and shareholders and generally anyone the directors thought they'd like to invite. The biggest of these events was the spring collection and that included presentations of swimwear and wedding clothing. The bulk of the show was ladies fashions (of course) and the bulk of the audience were potential customers for ladies fashions. But we always included a token showing of menswear – both as a statement in its own right, as well as a support to the female models - the sort of scene where a "bridegroom" walks down the catwalk with his "bride". Or the woman in her business suit accompanied by a man in his office attire - that sort of thing. For the last two years, the (only) male model had been me and if you ask why, then it is quite a simple answer: I was young, the correct shape and size, available at no cost (!), directly involved with the merchandise and good looking enough to pass muster as a model. Oh! And I enjoyed it!

The planning was done by a team of 4. There was Sally Braithwaite as the task manager, Louise McLean representing the concessions, me for the men's input and the store deputy general manager who was the logistical organiser and this year we first met just after Christmas to lay down and bring all the plans to fruition for a February spring fashion show/seasonal launch. At this meeting it was Sally – Mrs.B. - who insisted that I, for the first time, take part in the swimwear parade. This was all part of her new professed brief to co-ordinate ALL the store's fashion and that, she exclaimed, meant that I would have to parade my body, in the latest men's bathing trunks, for all the world (or at least all the locals and store employees) to examine. The "fashion", if there was one in mens' swimwear was what you'd now call "budgie smugglers" – tight briefs with coloured panels or motifs, so you can imagine the nudges and winks I got from the female staff on that one. As a result, I planned a bit of a spoof presentation. I asked one of my suppliers to run-up a reproduction of an Edwardian all-in-one men's bathing suit – the sort that has short sleeves, a buttoned front and squared-off shorts- type legs and with broad, horizontal stripes. The committee thought it a great idea and urged me to also adopt an Edwardian scrolled, waxed moustache and a straw boater hat.

It was at the first dress rehearsal that the awful truth dawned: the bathing suit, made of cotton fabric and not tight-fitting lycra or spandex, served to show off my "wedding tackle" with no modesty at all! It scalloped my balls and cock into a neat package that left nothing to the imagination. Before anyone jumps to conclusions, I would hasten to point out that with the hustle, bustle and sheer stress of actually presenting the clothes, a model has no time at all to dwell on matters sexual, even 'though the backstage areas can be full of half-dressed women. Nonetheless, all the participating (female) models, Mrs.B and Louise McLean all thought it hilarious and started all the innuendo and teasing known to them, to try and make my cock respond to its natural instincts. I refused to comply and as I've already said, it's so stressful an occasion that I didn't need to try too hard to think of other things.

The show was, as usual, a success judging by the applause and subsequent back-slapping. The usual PR triumph indeed and as I undressed from my final scene "wedding" best-man outfit, Louise sidled up to me and whispered that the entire female audience couldn't wait to meet the "man with the swimsuit package". She also added with a circumspect smile:

"It was sooo sexy. Maybe we could arrange a private showing later?"

True to what I suspected, the ladies in the audience, fuelled by cheap white wine, were all to ready to come and chat with me as we mixed with them in the after-show party. How flattered I was.

A week later, Mrs.B arranged a de-briefing meeting and got Louise to tell me the time and venue. She had also said that everyone was talking about the amusing beachwear scene and would I bring the Edwardian one-piece with me.

I got to the meeting in Mrs.B's office – a large office befitting the senior fashion manager – and was told by Louise that the assistant general manager would not be attending as we wanted to discuss solely the merchandise impact. We ran through mundane stuff like the early sale figures for the featured merchandise – was it all prominently displayed and presented, the final costs and various suppliers' contributions – and then Mrs.B, immaculately dressed as usual said:

"David. I didn't really get to see you in the beachwear scene. I heard all about it of course, but I was a bit busy talking to the chairman's wife at the time. Could you go and put the costume on for me now please."

She waved towards the rear of her office:

"There's a bathroom in there for you to change. We'll lock the office door for privacy".

You didn't argue with Mrs.B.

Louise, always fanciable, winked at me as I moved to the bathroom door and I felt my cock start to harden. This was the private showing was it not?

By the time I emerged, my cock was definitely growing and showing in my one-piece. No matter. The entire female staff had been ribbing me about it (and flattering me), Louise had been drooling and surely wanted to see more, but what was Mrs.B's part in this? Was she a secret voyeur? Did she have normal thoughts about young men? Of course she did.

I presented myself to them. Me next to Louise and in front of Mrs.B's desk, behind which she sat.

"This is the famous bathing suit Mrs.B." I said twirling around for her, stopping with my rear facing her (and my front in Louise's face) before turning all the way around so that Mrs.B could get the full benefit of my hardening and lengthening cock.

"What's the fabric like, Louise" she enquired.

Louise put her hand on my bottom and gently stroked it before slipping a finger under the edge to rub the fabric between her finger and thumb.

"Feels like pure cotton" she said.

By now I was fully hard and there was no escape from my tumescence for Mr.B. They'd planned all this hadn't they and that knowledge made me all that harder. She looked intensely:

"You'd think they'd incorporate a pouch wouldn't you Louise. There's quite a bit to accommodate isn't there?"

Louise reached around to cup my balls in her hand. She gently squeezed before running her palm up my shaft.

"Indeed, Mrs.B. What don't you have a closer look"

"Come here, David" said Mrs.B swivelling her chair sideways.

I walked around the desk. She sat upright and put a hand around my back and moved it down to my bottom where it remained as her other hand cupped my balls.

"Not very good at concealing excitement is it, David?"

She used her fingernails to scratch, through the fabric, the full length of my vertical shaft.

"What do you think we should do now" she enquired. "What do you think Louise? Shall we reduce this monster to normal proportions" she mused. "Shall we stroke it for another few minutes and see what happens. Shall we try and make it even bigger I wonder. What do you think David?"

"Mrs.B." I said. "I'm literally in your hands, You may do whatever you think best for me and for you. It could get bigger if I could see more of you." I said dangerously – but I think I now had the measure of the situation.

"What would you like to do, David? Would you like to see my breasts? Or what I'm wearing under my skirt? Or all of those? And by the way, What happens here, stays here"

With that she took my hand and placed it on her blouse front.

"You find a way in"

I felt around and found a placket front over the large, soft protuberances – no good for unbuttoning with one hand. She removed her hand from my cock and obligingly undid the blouse, pulling it from her skirt and removing the jacket that covered it. She then pulled her skirt part way up her thighs to reveal the lacey tops of stockings and put one finger under the skirt and, although I couldn't see that far up, I suspect she stroked the front of her knickers.

"Come around here, Louise" she commanded and Louise joined us and removed her jacket and unbuttoned part of her own blouse.

"I think we require him laying down, don't you agree, Louise?"

They pushed aside the few bits on the desk.

"Unbutton him Louise and pull those down"

She pulled the swimsuit down to just below my navel and then propelled me towards the desk. I lay down as Louise eased the swimsuit below my cock, allowing it to lie across my belly.

Louise then went around the desk as Mrs.B. stood up and they both set about manipulating my cock – stroking and squeezing – one on each side. This was f***ing heaven. I reached to both sides with my arms and I found their skirt covered thighs. I stroked and squeezed myself, feeling their suspenders and well rounded bottoms.

"Louise," said Mrs.B, "go into the bathroom and get some body lotion will you. He'll like that".

She came back with a plastic bottle and poured some into her hand, grasped my cock and began again the rhythm of milking, this time with some exquisite lubricant. Mrs.B. Stood back momentarily and pulled apart her already opened blouse to reveal an enormous bra. She said nothing and did no more, but I suspect she knew the effect just that glimpse had on me. As my hand continued to grope Louise's thigh, Louise pulled her skirt higher and lodged it around her waist and as I lay sideways I could see the wonders of suspenders, stocking tops, suspender belt and knickers revealed. They both resumed their milking as I approached my climax.

"I think I'm going to come soon" was all I could manage. I didn't know their agenda. Would they stop so one or the other could mount me? Did all they wanted to do was to see me ejaculate?

"Come on baby" said one. "Let's see it" said the other.

I just consigned myself to whatever was coming....and it didn't take long.....a massive spurt, followed by lessening jets as the content of my balls flooded across my chest to murmurings of content from the two ladies and a slowing down in their rhythm.

They sat down as if exhausted whilst I lay panting on the desk.

"Some swimwear that" said Mrs.B. "Now go and clean yourself up".

I rolled sideways and half fell off the desk and disappeared into the bathroom. When I emerged, they'd both gone, so I left with my swim costume, my meeting papers and went back to my department and tried to make out as if nothing had happened.

Later that same year, two significant things happened. Louise, whilst slightly tipsy after a store farewell party, asked me to take her home (to husband and staid, boring, home life, as she called it) and on the way diverted me to a well know lover's lane place for an in-car fuck, whilst Mrs.B with a sudden motivation that entirely escaped me, invited me to her office, locked the door and demanded that I fuck her doggy style as she bent across her desk with her skirt hiked up around her waist and knickers around her ankles. That followed with the previous admonition that "What happens in the office, stays in the office". No more conversation than that.

Who was I to complain? I was 25, single, and enjoying all that life pushed my way.