Margie and Me Ch. 07

I grinned then and used my hand to push her right boob up, revealing where the bottom was sweat-slick, and started licking at it. She didn't move.

It turned out her closet was hopeless.

I couldn't find a single thing that would be out of place in the church. She was clearly someone who was reluctant to show off and I thought that was just a shame.

We showered and cleaned up. I didn't shave. I was of the opinion that the Air Force owed me four years of shaves and I was going to collect. It was fun showering with her, and it was hard to keep it from moving from sensual to sexual. But even at 24, I needed some recovery time, so I avoided the temptation she was offering.

When she started opening her chest of drawers I slapped her ass and said, "Nuh-uh. I'm picking what you wear." I nuzzled her neck and added, "Or don't wear."

She had nothing like the short shorts I'd have liked to have her wearing so I settled for some tight slacks and the only pair of moderately high heels I could find.

Pantyhose were still relatively new, and she obviously hadn't taken to them, so I laid out panties, a black garter belt and hose. I found a white short sleeved blouse and laid it out too.

She was watching, and I could tell she was enjoying the attention. Her eyes were shiny and she was flushed.

I made a production of dressing her. I started with the only pair of panties I could find that could even be remotely considered anything but the fabled "Granny panties." Even these were pretty industrial strength, cotton, white, and heavy. I did the garter belt and nylons next, smoothing them carefully and straightening the seams. It took a while but I figured out the combination to the hooks. Then it was her slacks and her shoes.

When I had her stand, fully clothed from her belly button down, and naked from the waist up I thought she was stunning.

I held out the blouse I had found and she didn't move.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she said.

"Nope," I said, and crooked my finger, beckoning her.

She sort of moaned, but came to me and held her arms out.

In that instant I had an insight. An epiphany. A bolt from the blue. A lightbulb went off over my head. Pick your cliche'.

Margie might be twice my age (as it turned out it was actually a bit over twice), but in our relationship I was the teacher.

I put the blouse on her, did the top two buttons, and then tied the tails off. It made for an effective bra. Well, more like a titsack. She was excited at the attention and her nipples were poking out invitingly.

I stepped back and looked.

I liked it.

Hell, I liked it enough that I started getting hard again, and she giggled.

"Do your makeup while I put something on," I said.

I went into the other room and put on some clothes. Nothing special, pants, a shirt, socks, and loafers. I hadn't brought much with me and I figured what I had on was at least two years out of style. I would need to go shopping myself.

When I got back to her bedroom she was sitting in front of her little desk. Unfortunately, she still looked like she was going to church. So I started on her face.

She giggled as I added a little color and arch to her eyebrows, a little point at the corner of her eyes, a bit more rouge to her cheeks, and the brightest red lipstick she had to her lips. The change was startling. I'm good with makeup. Mom taught me well.

I offered my hand and she stood. I walked her to the full length mirror on the back of her bedroom door.

Her reaction was funny. It was like some director in a B movie was telling her what to do next. Her eyes got big. Then she turned a bit, looking over shoulder, and lifted her breasts. Another quarter turn and she was doing that thing only a woman seems to be able to do, twisting at the waist to inspect her ass.

Her eyes met mine then and she giggled.

"Davey," she said, "I look like a whore."

I laughed softly and said, "Kinda."

She giggled again, kind of hysterically, and asked, "What would I be worth, Davey?"

"Depends," I said, chuckling, and closing the distance between us. I did the two fingers-under-the-chin thing my cousin had taught me, lifting her chin so she had to meet my eyes. "In your fantasy are you a streetwalker trying to turn a dozen tricks a night or are you a well compensated companion?"

"Oh my," she said, looking up at me, "A well compensated companion of course."

I chuckled and kissed her.

"Five hundred dollars a night, easy," I said.

She giggled again, and said, "Is that all?"

I laughed and squeezed her boob. "You're liking this, aren't you?" I asked.

"You're the one who started it," she said, "So, is that all?"

"That would be the base rate, I said, "Covering unlimited vaginal sex. Extras would be extra and believe me," and I squeezed that boob again, "They'd all want the extras."

"Extras?" she said, with an exaggerated smile.

"Yes, extras," I said. "Some will want your pretty mouth," and I lightly caressed her lips, "Or some might want to cum right here," and I drug my fingers through the cleavage on display, "Or your sexy ass," which I then patted, "Or a hand," I took her hand, "Or other kinky things."

She sort of shivered.

"You make it sound like fun," she said.

"Wellllllllll," I said, "Let's go see if we can make you look the part."

The changes to Denver that would make what mom called "Skid row" into an upscale area called LoDo, lower downtown, were still in the future. Larimer Street was still the province of the strip clubs and pawn shops. We drove downtown, renewed my faith in God when a miracle occurred and we found a parking spot, and went looking for a proper clothing store that would fit the bill.

And there it was. The sign on the window read "For His Eyes Only" and the window display was pure haute' hooker. Here eyes were big as she looked at the mannequin dressed in what looked to be a red teddy with some fringe to emulate a skirt.

It was one of those narrow downtown storefronts you see in any older city. Maybe 30 feet across the front, there was a pawn shop on one side and a used furniture store on the other. As I say, not the best part of town.

I took her hand and gave a little tug. She had a sort of deer-in-the-headlights look as we walked in.

The sales girl would have looked comfortable on a street corner. It was impossible to tell if she was pretty or not under the layers of makeup. Pasties covered her nipples and a lacy skirt barely covered her big ass. I liked the look.

"Well, well," she said in a wonderfully musical voice, "What can I do for you?" she asked, looking us both up and down.

"I want to show my lady off properly," I said, "And what's in her closet would be more appropriate for church. A bible thumping, Pentacostal church at that."

The sales girl giggled and Margie blushed.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Cinnamon," she said and I couldn't stop the laugh.

"Okay, Cinnamon," I said, "I'm going to accept that is what's on your birth certificate. Now I would like you to take Margie here under your wing and start showing me things that would let me show her off properly."

She looked me up and down and then led us both back to an area in the back of the store with a couple of doors and a couch of dubious origin.

"You wait right here," she said, "Get some coffee if you'd like" and she pointed at one of those big stainless coffee pots sitting on a table with some styrofoam cups.

"And you," she said, taking Margie by the hand, "Come with me."

I grabbed a cup of coffee and just surveyed the place. It was crowded with rack after rack of clothes. Things tended to be either black, or very bright colors. No pastels in this place. The walls were almost completely covered with pictures of women of all sizes and colors dressed in things that were clearly designed to reveal and enhance while still leaving something to the imagination. It struck me that I had gotten pretty lucky with our first choice of stores.

I could hear giggles and the ocasional "Oh my" as I took my seat and sipped coffee.

The bell at the door dinged and I heard Cinnamon's musical voice, "Be right with you."

Margie looked at me sort of sideways as she went into one of the changing rooms. She was giggling.

Cinnamon came by me on the way to follow Margie and right behind her came a tall woman, good looking in that over-made-up way some women seem to manage, who went into the other changing room.

I had to laugh when I heard Cinammon's voice saying, "No honey, like this," and then Margie's nervous giggle.

As I was laughing the other woman stepped out of the other door and did a slow turn. She had on a crop top and the bottom of her breasts was peeking out. The shorts she had on were so short that her gluteal sulcus, that line where the ass joins the tops of the backs of thighs, was on display.

"What do you think, sugar," she asked in a whisky/cigarette husky voice, "Do these make my ass look big?"

There is, of course, only one possible answer to that quetion, so I gave it - "They make your ass look great."

She giggled and called out, "Cinnamon, sold."

As Cinnamon opened the door I caught a glimpse of Margie, squirming into something very bright blue.

Cinnamon came back to the changing room area, smiled, said, "Thank you, she's usually one of my more difficult customers," and then she headed back into the changing room.

I heard more giggling and then Margie stepped out and I whistled.

She looked absolutely stunning. She had a bright blue top that buttoned at the neck and the navel and left what was in between exposed. It set off her red hair wonderfully. Her breasts seemed higher but there was no sign of a bra. The black skirt ended above her knees but the fringe added three inches to its apparent length. She had black nylons with distinct seams, and open-toed high heel shoes with ankle straps, which I would later learn to call "Fuck me" shoes.

"You look amazing," I said and she giggled and blushed.

She disappeared back into the changing room.

Another four minutes of giggling and she emerged again.

And I whistled again.

This time it was a full length pants suit, something I later learned was called a jumpsuit. It had the same basic design from the front, a high collar, almost a turtleneck look, with one big button, and a belt, with the top open between. The pants were big and soft, flowing, almost an ankle length skirt. It was a red so completely red that if you looked at it for a while, when you looked away you saw green haloes around what you looked at. The matching red heels were, again, spike heels, open toes, and ankle straps.

When she turned the back was completely gone. She was skin from that two-inch-wide collar to those dimples just above the cleft of her ass. This time I stood and clapped.

She giggled like a schoolgirl and Cinammon took her arm back into the changing room.

The third outfit was both the most revealing and the most modest. It was a full body stocking, the only skin showing was her face, hands, and feet, the feet in leather flip flops. The material was so sheer I could see the little freckles and moles any woman has. I even noted a pimple on her thigh for later attention. The material was opaque, though, where it covered her breasts, well, her nipples and a circle a couple of inches, and her pussy and ass, almost like a pair of built in, French cut panties.

I did the down-on-your-knees thing, bowing, prostrating myself, my arms over my head, and said, "I'm not worthy," as I bowed three times.

She burst out in a gale of laughter as Cinnamon ushered her back into the changing room.

The last outfit, the one she wore home, was very simple. Denim jeans were cut off so short her gluteal sulcus was on display. A man's shirt, long sleeves, was unbuttoned and the tails tied below her breasts. She was three inches taller in big platform sandals held to her feet and calves with a series of laces looking like something from a movie featuring a Roman legion.

"You look stunning," I said.

She giggled and blushed prettily.

She paid with a credit card and I served as the beast of burden, lugging a double armload of dress and shoe boxes along with a big store bag. I only dropped them once on the way to the car, making her giggle again. I noticed that she was standing tall and walking proud. I liked it.

As I held her hand, helping her into the car, she held on and pulled me close.

"Davey," she said in a very breathy voice, "If you don't get me home and into bed RIGHT NOW I'm going to explode."

I laughed and said, "Wellllllll, I was thinking of going to the museum for a while."

She punched me and said, "RIGHT NOW!!!!!!"

I laughed and said, "That's the proper attitude for a whore," and she giggled.

"I'm what you are making me, honey," she said.

I made a point of driving the speed limit all the way home and when we pulled into the little garage I made two trips to get all of her new stuff in the house.

When I went in the back door the second time she was waiting for me and threw her arms around my neck, scattering boxes all over the laundry room.

"Honeyyyyy," she said.

I ran my hands down her back until I was cupping her ass, liking the way it was only partially covered by the denim.

"I think you need a spanking first," I said, "To teach you some self-control."

"Honeyyyyyyyyy," she said again, leaning back, her eyes big, meeting mine.

"Come with me," I said, taking her hand and leading her into the front room.

"Davey," she said to my back as I went back into the kitchen.

She was standing where I left her when I went back, carrying one of the heavy kitchen chairs.

Her eyes got bigger as I put the chair, carefully, in the middle of the room.

"Davey?" she asked in a small voice.

I said nothing, just sat and crooked my finger and beckoned her.

"Davey," she said again, but she took the two steps to get to me.

I smiled up at her as I took her hand and pulled, not yanking, but pulling until she was off balance and had no choice but to lay across my lap.

As I had hoped, in that position the entire bottom of her ass, right where she sat, was actually bulging out a little, forced by the tight jeans and the position.

"You must learn patience," I said, my hand caressing where I was going to spank her.

"Davey," she said for the third time, but this time there as a softness and longing in her voice that was unmistakable.

The spanking I administered lasted almost a half-hour. I KNOW how to properly spank a woman, something my Kimiko had taught me.

The first stroke was a very light pat, right where she sits on her right cheek.

Then I caressed, softly, until she relaxed, lifted my hand, waited for her to relax again, and the second stroke was the same but on the left cheek.

And so it went - caress - wait - relax - raise hand - wait - relax - smack.

Each stroke was slightly harder than the last one.

By the 10th stroke, her ass was taking on a lovely red color.

By the 20th the womanscent of her arousal was in the air.

By the 30th she was flinching with each stroke and by the 40th she was crying.

It wasn't until 57 that she came, the sudden darkening of the denim between her legs and the accompanying sound that can only be written as "Unnnghhhh" signaling her release.

Another five strokes and she came again, this time even more powerfully, her back arching under my hand, her head whipping back and forth, slinging mucus and drool, the dark stain on the denim shorts spreading more, covering her ass completely.

I let her rest then, draped across my lap like a cat, her body shuddering with sobs. Her legs were kicking weakly. Her nose was running and a silvery string of mucus ran to the floor. She was drooling and another silvery string of thick mucus-laden saliva hung from the corner of her mouth.

I lightly rubbed her back while she got herself together.

"Jesus," she breathed very softly, "Just fucking JESUS!"

I laughed and rubbed where she was so red.

"Jesus," she said again softly and started to roll off my lap but I caught her shoulder.

"Tell me you're mine," I said.

"What?" she said.

I smiled and stroked her cheek, brushing the line of her tears.

"Say the words," I said.

She held my eyes for a long second, I could almost see the proverbial wheels turning while she was thinking.

But I won.

She drew in a long shuddering breath and said, very softly, "I am yours."

The love we made then was slow and lingering and, well, loving. I kissed up and down her body like we were in junior high school on our first date. The kisses were soft and tentative and gentle.

At first.

I spent my time at each breast, covering it with kisses, finding her nipples, and suckling like a hungry baby. I licked the undersides, loving the taste of salt sweat as well as the weight of them. I kissed her pussy lips, licked hungrily, and lapped at her release as I gave her orgasm after orgasm until she was panting weakly.

By the time I entered her with my erection she was crying softly with her excitement.

"Say it," I said.

"I am yours," she said and came again.

I held her through her release and then as she relaxed I said, "Say it again."

"I am yours," she said, her voice rising in pitch, and cumming again, almost watery in her release this time.

I held her through that orgasm too.

"I am yours, I am yours, Iamyours, Iamyours, Iamyours," she was whispering as I filled her to overflowing.

She took a deep beath, whispered, "I am yours," once more, and was asleep before I softened and slipped out.