The Freedom Ch. 04

Christa giggled a little as we walked through the store. "Everyone is staring at you," she whispered conspiratorially.

"Are you sure?" I replied, arching my eyebrows and squeezed her shoulder, "Seems to me you're the one with the most to check out."

She giggled again, "Well maybe it's both of us then."

What was left unsaid was that the reason other shoppers might be paying attention was very different for both of us. For her, the stolen glances could have to do with the halo of loose golden curls that danced around her face as she moved or the extra shimmy-bounce she threw into every step, the best to emphasize her already undeniable curves.

For me, well, I was wearing men's sweats. I was not the "typical" patron of this establishment. Think Pretty Woman if Julia Roberts was dressed like a homeless person instead of costume designer's odd notion of a prostitute.

However, the closer I got to each dirty look shooting shopper, the quicker their stink eyes changed. The Freedom was flooding the air with its scent and I could see, one by one, each customer go glassy eyed and slack jawed.

"God, you smell so good," Christa mumbled despite herself, bringing her hand to her mouth immediately in embarrassment and adding, "Oh...wow...I am SO sorry. That's, like, not okay for me to be saying. I don't know why I just did that."

"Maybe 'cause I do smell good," I suggested, smirking at her mortification, "Now let's get me some clothes."

For the next 20 minutes, I led her around the store, piling wares into her waiting arms. Dresses, skirts, sleeveless shirts, and lingerie soon crested so high she had to peer around them to navigate.

"Hmm, perhaps that's enough for now," I offered and she indicated agreement with a broad smile, "Take me to your changing rooms, Christa!"

With dramatic aplomb, she whisked me past the strings and strings of chunky wooden jewelry, that seemed wildly out of place given the décor, the clientele, and the clothes, and into a large mirror enclosed back octagonal room.

"This is the personal shopper room," she announced.

"We use it for our most...'esteemed'," she paused there and mouthed "Rich," before continuing, "visitors. With all the stuff you chose out there, I think we can pretend you fit the bill. The red button over there calls me back to take what you don't want, bring you new stuff, whatever."

She smiled wide again and turned on her heels to leave. As her hand grasped the gold leaf doorknob, I stopped her with a pout, "Wouldn't you stay with an esteemed visitor?"

"Umm, well," she hemmed and hawed, blushing, "If they ask, I guess. Honestly, I'm sort of the junior salesgirl here. I've never really had a chance to—"

I waved off her humility, requesting, "That's enough of that. Your chance is today. Now close that door and help me get sexy."

"Oh, I don't think that'll be a problem," she blurted, again bringing her hand to her mouth in surprise at her forwardness, "I mean..."

This time she trailed off, both as I clearly did not care and knowing there was almost no means to explain the exclamation away.

I pulled off the sweatshirt and watched from the corner of my eye as she attempted to look, but not look, at my breasts. I pinched the nipples slightly and watched her eyes go wide. Shrugging, I explained, "Most of these I won't be bothering with a bra for so might as well get an accurate idea how much the nipples will show, right?"

"I...umm...that makes sense, I guess," she responded, confusion slipping into a sleepy grin.

"Because every dress looks better with a little raised nipple action, right?" I teased. She looked away, smiled, and blushed.

"Okay, Christa, grab me the purple dress and bring it on over here and while I try it on, I want to know all about you."

After handing me the dress, she sat back down on the wooden bench that lined the mirrored walls and got off three words before interrupting herself, "Well I am—Oh my gosh, is that a butterfly?!"

I glanced about for a moment before realizing her eyes were fixed between my legs. I looked down and sure enough there was a perfectly styled butterfly shaved into the hair leading to the valley between my legs. If I was capable of being the real me at the moment, I would've giggled myself silly.

See, a few years back, I got the bright idea that I should make a new design in my hair every few weeks that summer. I would start with large designs and go progressively smaller as they summer went. I can't remember if I butterfly was first, but it was definitely early on and it was definitely a disaster. It didn't resemble a butterfly so much as it looked like I had localized mange. Bowing to my lack of razor ability, I shaved the remainder into the thin rectangle that became my hair design of choice until, well, that moment. The Freedom apparently found that distant disappointment and "fixed it." But it would not let me laugh about it.

"Yup," I affirmed, a distinct—if wholly fake—memory of just doing it a few days earlier flooded my consciousness, "I like to make things interesting for any and all visitors."

Christa got off the bench and walked toward me. Without asking, she reached out and ran her fingers over it, feeling each the varying levels of hair that had made the design possible. Distantly she commented, "I just keep it hairless...this is much cooler though."

Her fingers trailed off, just glancing over my bare mons before pulled back her hand quickly. "Sorry," she demurred, "That's a bit of a boundary violation there."

"Hey, I wouldn't have done it if I didn't want it to get attention, right?" I kidded and saw her visibly relax once more. Instead of sitting back down, she hung close to me as I slipped into the dress.

"So about me," she said, returning to the earlier question, "Umm...let's see...well, I'm Christa. I'm working here to save up some many so I can go to that makeup and hair design school, you know the one?"

I did not but nodded anyway. In contrast to the more aggressive seduction of Mark, The Freedom was guiding me through a slow, comforting play here.

"Parents can't help you?" I asked, turning my back to her so she could zip me up.

"No, we're...not in a great place right now."

"Oh?" I prompted.

She nodded and explained how she was born and raised in a small town that I'd certainly never heard of in the southern tip of our state, how her parents did not see the need for her to go to college because they thought she should just take over the bookkeeping at the family's shoe store, relieving her mother, just like her brother had relieved their father as head salesman a few years earlier. She told them no multiple times, they kept saying they'd consider her hopes, kept right on not doing so, and so on. Finally, three days before college applications were starting to be due, the parents put their foot down, everyone blew up at one another, and Christa went to live with a friend. She got accepted a few places but when she found out what she need to take out in loans, she decided to just move up here and work instead. Finally, two years later, she decided she had wasted enough time and started to save more earnestly, eyeing that beauty school.

"It's not the best," she admitted, with a resigned shrug that looked almost comically on her youthful, firm, bouncy body, "But it beats doing math all day in my stupid hometown."

I spun around, the hem rising up and out, buoyed by centrifugal force.

I requested her opinion.

"It looks great. You'll probably want some underwear though if you plan to spin like that a lot so people can't see your..." she trailed off, blushing fiercely once more.

"My pussy?" I offered, playful smile curling at the corners of my mouth.

She broke into a big grin and nodded.

"Huh," I joked, "I rather thought that that was part of its charm."

I turned my back to her once more and gestured for her to unzip me. She wordlessly complied. As I felt my skin exposed to her I also felt her drag one finger slowly down the center of my back. Seeing her face in the mirror, it looked as though all her concentration was being brought to bear on that act.

"Is my back ok?" I whispered.

She startled back to the room, blinking, and assured me that, yes, it was before making some lame excuse involving an errant thread.

As I put my arms though and began to button a tight sea foam dress shirt, I renewed my questioning, "So, did you leave a guy back home?"

"No, no," she shook her head, "Just a prom date who got too handsy."

"I know the type," I paused, "Well, I'm usually the type, but you know, people don't seem to complain much. So you got a man now?"

"Nah...I've seen a fella here or there, fooled around some, but no one special and no one right now."

"A girl then, perhaps?" I wondered aloud, somewhat provocatively altering my stance.

Her eyes flitted down to my just parted slit before dragging back to face. She quickly denied, "Oh no. Never. I mean absolutel—"

Her gaze danced down again before she resumed, "Not that it's— Well, I just have nev—"

"You're very cute when you are trying to be tolerant," I promised her, "And to answer the question you were struggling not to ask, I'm no stranger to taking what I want from whomever I want it."

She involuntarily shook for a moment and glanced away in shame at how exciting she found the comment. It was a lie, of course. Before my mom had injected me with that liquid lust, I could've counted my sexual partners on one hand and they were all guys. The Freedom, though, laid out for my mind a panoply of new memories, of threesomes and foursomes and more, of being a dom, of being a slave, of girls and guys and toys, toys, toys.

"Let me guess," I continued in on her, "Lot of church going growing up?"

She nodded, still not looking up.

"Hey, that's okay. Nothing wrong with church or not being into ladysex. Only wrong if you are into ladysex but you let church tell you you aren't."

She made eye contact at me via the mirror, nodded and offered a little smile before returning to her seat.

I hooked myself into a strapless corset, grabbed a pair of midnight blue silk bikini panties, and slid my feet into them. About halfway up my thighs, Christa swore, "Shit! Stop, stop. No one can try on underwear. It's, like, a health code violation, I think."

"Oh come on," I argued, "What do you want me to do? Not see how this looks with panties?"

"It's just...just the rule."

I slid them the rest of the way, pulling them tight enough that they wedged nicely between my wet lower lips. She balked.

"Relax," I commanded her, "I'll give them to you when I'm done... as a souvenir."

"But," she began object and then wilted. In a way this was just as much torture for her as not letting Mark help that sorority conquest and instead making him watch her succumb. Christa was clearly proud of her job and enjoyed it and yet I was making her watch me disrespect the rules and was turning her on while doing so.

"Do you like?" I asked her, gesturing to the ensemble.

"It's...very nice. Whoever you wear that for is very lucky," she allowed.

I wiggled and shook the panties down to the floor and tossed them to her. She looked annoyed.

"I promise I'll buy for them with whatever else I buy. But you get to keep them."

"I told you I'm not into girls though."

"I know what you said."

Rummaging through my stack of clothes for my next outfit I pretended not to notice how she balled up them up into her fist and slipped them into her pants pocket.

As I was adjusting a floral print sundress, I saw a thought flicker across her face. A moment later she tentatively raised, "You aren't going to pay for any of this, are you?"

"Now what makes you say that?"

"You...you show up here in clothes that obviously aren't yours. You have nothing on underneath them. I see no wallet, no purse, no credit cards, no cash."

She stood, visibly agitated, and continued, "I can't believe this. Did you just think you'd come in here, show off your body, distract me, throw me a pair of wet panties that I can sniff while I touch myself tonight—"

"So the junior salesgirl does have a bit of interest in the fairer sex?" I joshed her.

She ignored me and kept going, "And I'd just let you leave with a bunch of free merchandise? Is that what you thought?"

"I didn't think that, I knew that. I'm leaving wearing a dress of my choosing with a bag filled with whatever else I want. And you won't stop me."

Christa exhaled sharply and bumped against the bench, sitting down heard on it. Color drained from her face and was began to breathe in short, quick bursts, "Oh god," she muttered, "I'm gonna lose my job and my apartment and have to go back—"

"Shh," I cooed to her, coaxing her so she was straddling the wooden slab. I kneeled behind her and began to massage her shoulders.

"You don't understand—"

I cut her off, "Don't worry. No one's going to get fired, I promise you, okay?"

"But...how?"

"Look, you and I are going to enjoy ourselves. I'm going to try on clothes, we'll talk, and whatever else we want. Then, when the time comes I'll leave with what I want and I promise you, no one will fire you."

"I don't understand how you think that'll work."

"No, you don't Christa. So just sit here, enjoy your massage, and tell me why you is it that you want me between your legs so bad but feel like you can't ask for it."

"I told you, I'm not interested in girls!" she asserted, a little too quickly and harshly. The lady doth protest too much.

"Okay, okay...if you say so. I'm sure you must have had some inappropriate crushes though."

"Why? Did you?"

"Oh, definitely. My high school basketball coach," I never played basketball in high school, "my older sister's best friend," I was an only child, "the Mayor,"????????, "the list is almost endless."

"You're...you're pretty bad, aren't you?"

"What do you think?" I whispered, flooding her ear with my hot breath.

"I think you get all kinds of people in trouble," she replied, a noticeable hitch in her breathing.

"You say trouble, I say fun."

"Same difference where I come from."

"Speaking of which, stop stalling," I ordered her.

"Mmm...my pastor, okay?" she moaned in acquiescence.

"Really?"

"Well, only sort of mine. His first Sunday was the day after my 18th birthday. I know that because I remember showing up that morning and seeing him outside in just khakis and a button down and thinking, 'Wow, happy birthday to me.' Then, when he took the altar dressed in his robes, I was mortified."

"Did that stop you from fantasizing about him?"

"Well..."

"That's a no then."

"I tried. I did. But I started to dream about him."

"Tell me..." I said, licking her ear with a quick dart of my tongue.

"Same dream all the time," she gasped out, "I forgot something at church but don't realized until later in the day. I drive over there. I knock on the door, no one answers, but the door is unlocked. I go in, announce my presence, still nothing. Shrugging, I head for back of the room where we have coffee and donuts after church on Sunday because whatever I'm missing I know is there. I see it and am about to grab it when I hear a noise."

She stopped there, the sounds of conjoined heavy breathing filling the room.

I broke first, "And?"

"I don't know why, but I follow the noise. And I see my pastor is standing in this room, the door's open, but he's back is to me. His arm is moving, very fast, and he's talking to himself. I know right away he's...you know...jerking off.

"After that's the only part of the dream that ever changed. The first time I had it, I just watched for a moment then ran away, second time, I watched and touched myself. Each time, I got closer and more brazen. Eventually I could see over his shoulder and hear him. He had a photo of me, I was just wearing like a nice shirt and skirt, average church clothes. But he was saying the most foul things to the picture as he touched himself."

"Tell me what," I pushed her.

"Like, 'What a fucking tease!' and 'I know you love cock, you whore.' Not very inventive, but it totally turned me on to see him, essentially, demeaning me via my photo."

"Did the dream ever go...farther?"

"Eventually, I was able to stay in it to see him cum all over my picture. Then, the next time, I get right behind him and took over, demanding him cum all over the photo. The last time, I even spun him around at the last minute and he came in my mouth, on my forehead, down my cheek...just his hot load everywhere."

"Did you ever cum while dreaming?"

"No, but every time I woke up from it, I had to grind myself off on my pillow. I can't believe the friend I was living with never caught me."

"Was the pastor married?"

"Yes, that's what made it worse. His wife was a genuinely nice woman. I liked her. But when I say him preach or ran into him around town...I hated her so much. She got to touch what should've been mine, I used to think."

"Did anything ever happen?"

"Well..."

"Ooooo, you bad girl! Tell me."

"The night before I left, I just went to thank him for everything. At least, that's what I told myself. He gave me hug and I swear I got woozy. Then, like that, he was off to some other church business. I felt...I don't know...empty? Pissed? Both, I guess. So, for who knows what reason, I went into his office to take something. I just wanted a memento, I guess. As I was looking around for something though, I heard him coming down the hall talking to someone. I slipped under his desk to hide. I held my breath and closed my eyes so tight, just trying to will myself invisible.

"He sat down and he and whoever started to talk about gluten free bread for communion or some nonsense. With each moment, I started to relax. The desk was big enough underneath that I could be there without his legs touching me unless he pulled his chair all the way in. So I opened my eyes. And found myself staring directly at the crotch of his pants. Why his cock was close enough to touch.

"The longer they sat talking, the more this wild idea flourished in my mind. I had to reach out. It would be...it would be wrong to pass up this moment of providence. They switched topics to the budget and I could not take it anymore. I had to do it.

"So I did. I scooted forward on my knees and pressed my whole hand flat against the front of his pants. He kind of jumped, but did nothing else so I just left my hand there as I felt the heat and hardness grow and grow.

"Soon it wasn't enough to just feel it. I had to see it too. So down went the zipper and out popped his cock, short, but thick. Very thick. I gently encircled in my fist and began to pull it up and down, the head disappearing and reappearing behind his foreskin. Above me he groaned slightly and assured his conversation mate it was indigestion. The other guy begged off then, saying he'd let the pastor go use the bathroom.

"The pastor pushed his seat backwards, hard, and glared at me with a mixture of anger and desire. I whimpered as he slipped out of grasp. 'What do you think you are doing, young lady?' he demanded. Before I could respond, the door audibly swung open and I heard his wife's voice greet him. Even faster than he pushed away, he shoved me and himself back underneath the desk. "His cock was just there now, inches from my mouth, still hard, rising slightly with each beat of his heart, practically drooling pre-cum. If you think about it, what else could I do?"

"You didn't?!?!" I moaned, all pretense of a massage gone, my hands now unbuttoning her pants and undoing her zipper.

"I did. God help me, I couldn't stop myself. I licked him, from base to tip. I licked his balls, first right then left, then right again. Then the shaft again and then...in my hungry, hungry mouth. I could hear his wife talking about this plan or that and I didn't care. In fact, it turned me on. I kept thinking that she might go home with him, but I was the one with his cock in my mouth. She was married to him, but every time he slept with her now, I'd be the one he was imagining fucking.