The Fuck It List - Ch. 01

Michael had said yes to more than his practical nature thought he needed for the next six months. His new devil may care attitude thought that he'd saved his whole life for a rainy day and that right about now, he should consider this a deluge.

The polite knock on the door broke his concentration and the debate was left unsettled. "Mr. Fleming?" Mark asked.

"Yes?" Michael didn't open the door. He was mid-strip and at the moment only wore boxers and socks. He definitely needed to upgrade his underwear while he was at it. Hopefully, he would have opportunities for it to be seen, he thought with a slightly grim smile.

"I brought you the tweed jacket and those tee shirts we talked about," Mark told him in a low tone. It was just above a whisper, almost a murmur, meant to keep all the clientele insulated from one another. "I'm going to hang them on the outside of your door."

"Thanks," Michael murmured with a dry gulp.

"When you're ready to come out, Annette is going to help you with anything else that you need. And I already told her that you're going to want your packages delivered to your home."

Mark really had taken care of everything. Fuck, he'd been handled, hadn't he? Swindled, duped, he was a sucker and if either of his ex-wives had brought home a treasure trove of clothes like this, if he'd ever been home to see it, there would have been hell to pay.

Michael reached for his sweatpants and slid them up. He snapped the waistband in place and opened the dressing room door. He wondered if he wouldn't just tell Mark to forget about the whole damn thing when he saw her and everything froze in place, even his heart.

"Hi," she had a breathy voice that was young and sweet and far sexier than Michael was prepared for.

The name tag that was pinned to her blue, cotton blouse was a black, plastic bar that said "Annette". The placement of the name tag made it impossible to ignore that the early fall temps must be a bit chilly for her and her nipples were budded in the front of the fabric. Annette was slender and the blouse was tucked into a navy blue skirt. It was pleated and full and down to her knees. Annette didn't wear stockings with the outfit, she just had white, canvas tennis shoes on with anklet socks. She looked to be a girl playing dress up in an older woman's clothes and the effect was irresistible.

Michael realized that she was waiting for him to greet her. He wasn't ready yet though. He had to stare at that one dimple smile. Her pink, puckered, glossy lips hesitated. They were open just a little, as she waited to speak. She smelled like bubblegum and it was delicious. She was blonde, but strawberry blonde which sounded like a mouthwatering dessert at the moment. Annette had a trail of freckles across her nose and cheeks and her hair was an unruly, thick mess of curls that touched the collar of her blouse. She'd tried to pin them into submission with bobby pins here and there and Michael wanted to pull them out as he watched her hair fall into her face, wild and free.

She looked like Marilyn Monroe before she had become the platinum icon. Before, when she had just been Norma Jean, much less sexy and overdone; just wide-eyed and natural.

He suddenly remembered, the word was adorable.

"Hi," Michael finally responded and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep himself from touching her bare arms. He wanted to feel the white down that he knew was even softer than a cashmere sweater.

"Sorry, Mark had to leave," she said with a shrug and pointed her toe in the sneaker. "They don't want to give us insurance so none of us are full-time." She bit her bottom lip as if she just realized she'd said too much and then broke into a pouty smile. "It looks like you're starting over."

"What?" Michael was lost in the sights and scents of her. He was too distracted by her cream-colored arms and her curvy calves and the indentation at the bottom of her throat where her girlish perfume seemed to radiate. He bet it was cheap and came in a pink bottle and he wanted it all over his new clothes. The scent would carry his memory of her. It would permeate the tweed and the cashmere and all the other grownup clothes that a girl like her couldn't possibly know or care about.

"I mean, you've got a lot of clothes in there, Mr. Fleming," she pointed with a small finger inside the dressing room. Her nail polish was blue and chipped and he wanted to bite the tip of her finger and then suck on it. "Like you're starting your whole life over."

He nodded in agreement, and now he was officially buying all of it. "Yeah, I kind of am." He agreed and couldn't help that his eyes settled on her rosebud nipples. He wondered if her bra wasn't white, see-through, and cotton that it left her so exposed.

He was hard and suddenly realized it was obvious if she looked down. He blushed and thought that normally, even the Michael that he was two days ago, would have shut the door immediately. He would have turned away and shut the door and pushed down his unrelenting cock to strangle it back into his boxers. He would have left the store as fast as possible, humiliated by his desire. "Annette?" He said her name quietly like they were already intimate. Like he would have said her name as he beat off to her in the night.

"My friends call me Net," she said with a twisted, one-dimple smile that she couldn't have known was bewitching.

"My friends call me Michael," he said with his own smile and leaned in close to let her warm flower scent wash over him. "Do you think you can help me with underwear and socks?"

She giggled. She probably had never seen a man his age without a shirt on, let alone thought about his briefs. Again, Michael realized that in a past life that would have been enough embarrassment. Not now. Now there was a very detailed list that was tucked away in his nightstand drawer that spelled out just exactly what he'd like to do with this budding, young blonde bombshell. "Sure, I can do that. You're not married, right?"

She turned her face up and smiled and her warm bubblegum breath caressed his neck. That was all it took; just her breath left him with goosebumps and an ache. His cock lurched in his pants and danced for her. Michael dripped precum all the while and knew that he'd leave a telltale wet spot in the front of his pants any minute now. For the first time ever, he thought that she should see it. She should know what she was doing to him.

"No, I'm divorced," Michael told her with a laugh in his voice that suggested that he was glad of it.

"I can always tell. Married guys have their wives buy their underwear."

And with that, she left him with her scent and the thought of her milky white, young body. So young, young enough that she was simply radiant and none of it was contrived. She was just new. Michael knew that she'd feel like satin under the blouse and her pleats. He imagined that he'd touch the backs of her knees and hold her hands and that was almost entirely too much. If he had five minutes alone in the dressing room, he'd happily cum as he held the scent of her in his mouth and swallowed.

It had only been a minute or possibly two when Net knocked on the door. Michael was quick to open it. He hoped that she'd come inside instead of standing out in the hallway and he blushed with pleasure as she did just that. They were alone together, a whole door between them and the rest of the world. She'd returned with packages of underwear in all colors and types. She had socks as well, quite the assortment and it was too much for her small arms to keep wrapped around.

"I just got you some of everything," she whispered like they were co-conspirators. There were her nipples again, hard and full and swollen. Michael could only imagine that they'd pulse as he held them, one at a time, between his lips as he painted the eager tips with his tongue.

"Thank you," he couldn't help but close the gap between them. He wondered if she could feel this crackle of white-hot longing between them. "Can I," Michael bent and came into her sweet body. His arms slipped up around her small shoulders as the load in her hands shifted. "Can I kiss you?" he whispered the question. He didn't know where he'd gotten the balls to ask but he didn't stop to think about the possibilities. His face was so close to hers that he could taste the bubble gum and hoped that she'd slip it into his mouth.

"Yes." It was enough and it was everything. As their mouths met, Michael could hear the packages tumble to the floor at his feet but that was a world away. Everything that mattered was this young girl's velvet lips and her sticky gloss and her warm gum scent. His body was hard and yet almost limp as he melted into her. He kissed her, it was whisper soft, just a brush of lips. Net didn't move away. In fact, she opened her mouth just a little. It could have just been to breathe but Michael gave her his breath instead as he offered his tongue.

He licked her lip, delicately tasting her, just a lap alongside the bottom of her succulent top lip. She tasted like the gloss and the gum and her sigh was something from too many years ago when kisses were everything. Her own tongue, small and round and wet, slipped out to touch his.

He was shocked but his mouth was hungry and insistent. Michael sucked her tongue inside as his hands, suddenly completely independent of considering whether or not this was even allowed, his clammy hands with his trembling fingers made a path down her shoulders. They moved down her back where he could delineate the back of her ribs and the shudder of her breath. Then the soft swell of her bottom and his fingertips sank into the doughy flesh while the head of his cock pushed through his clothes, against the valley under her hip bone.

The kiss went on and deepened. Their feet shuffled like a slow dance and he pushed her up against the wall. Michael's heart hammered so hard and so fast in his chest, he wondered briefly if the strain was too much. Then he thought that if he died here, on the floor in Nordstrom, he couldn't think of a nicer place.

Short and blissful seemed perfect.

Their mouths parted with a slippery sound. There was another salesman and another customer that entered the dressing room next door. "I'll be outside Mr. Wetzel," the salesman said in a much louder voice than Mark had used. Michael wondered for a moment if this guy even knew the posh, toney code of conduct that was required at Nordstrom.

"Yeah, thanks," Mr. Wetzel replied with a click of the lock.

Michael placed his index finger over his lips to tell her that this was their little secret. All the better that he couldn't ask, that he couldn't explain. There was no time for his greedy, dripping mouth to ask for permission before it sought out her naked creases and folds. It required her now for sustenance.

He was so parched. Michael could barely control his trembling fingers on the buttons of her light blue blouse. Jesus Christ, who invented these impossible buttons? If they were anywhere else he would have torn the fabric open to get at her but she needed her name tag for later.

Finally, Michael opened the blouse and watched silently as it melted from her body. It slipped down her thin arms that were covered in downy, white hairs that made her intoxicating to touch. Her breasts were small and delicate. Net panted and the tea cups of satin skin moved up and down quickly. She covered her mouth with both hands to muffle the sound.

Net's eyes were wild and they said yes and please and hurry as Michael found the front enclosure of her white, cotton bra. It was sheer and simple and reminiscent of all the bras he dreamt of when he was younger. He had to bite his lip hard to keep himself from moaning at the sight of her pale, perfectly round breasts. They were firm and high and the perfect size and shape for his hands. Her nipples were ripe and large and Jesus Christ. no wonder she couldn't hide them.

When Michael bit her with just the tips of his teeth, she convulsed. Michael felt her legs part under the skirt as he lapped a maddeningly, slow circle along her ridges and valleys of her taut, pink flesh. Net kept her hands clasped over her mouth. Her hips, her lovely, girlish hips thrashed in the skirt like he was fucking her instead of just lapping and nibbling.

He had an idea. But really, he realized as he sank to his knees like a postulate before her teenage beauty, it wasn't a thought at all. It was instinct, a necessity. His body demanded it. It was like the chemicals had done something, set fire to reason and logic and all that was left inside was an insatiable animal that listened to nothing but hunger.

Bare to the waist and flushed down her cheeks and chest, Net watched as he sank. Michael lowered himself to the ground and his nervous hands, anxious, voracious hands, pushed up the hem of her navy blue, pleated skirt.

Panties.

They were beautiful, little cotton panties. They were light blue like her blouse, like her nail polish, fuck, like her eyes. They were scented of her sweet sex. His hands clutched her skirt. He pushed up the fabric and it covered the crease under her heaving breasts but not her nipples. Michael wanted to make sure that he could see her strawberry buds while he lavished her secret, little girl places with kisses.

The salesman knocked on the dressing room next door. "How is that working for you, Mr. Wetzel?"

Mr. Wetzel grumbled, "No, I need a size up. And I want to try on the gray also."

Net shivered with suppressed giggles and whimpers as Michael pressed a fervent kiss to the warm, damp place at the center of her panties.

"Yes, of course, sir. I'll be right back."

Michael tugged at the waistband and slipped the panties over her hips. They came slowly down the milky white expanse of her thighs and the backs of her knees and down her silken calves. Net put one canvas tennis shoe against the wall, bent her knee, and opened up for him. She'd dropped her hands and her breath touched his face as Michael looked up. Her eyes were heavy with lust as she watched him. He imagined what her moan would sound like if she could let it erupt from inside.

She was such a girl like this. Between her legs, she was dewy and satin and had the softest bits of curls along her lower lips. They were such tiny lips, demure and innocent but her scent was pure woman. Net smelled musky and hot like she'd been playing with herself. Michael dove down to her secret place and rooted his nose in her wet, thick hair. He would have moaned into her body, regardless of Mr. Wetzel, if the salesman hadn't returned.

He knocked on the door once more and Michael licked her small lips apart. He opened her like a flower bud, almost ripe, on the precipice of blooming. just about to burst forth. A flower that wanted coaxing. The sweet, pink inner lips dripped with her want and she had to hold her hands over her mouth again as Michael tasted her wetness for the first time. Net was new wine, a sweet Beaujolais. It should age, it would deepen and ripen but Michael was going to drink his fill now that she was decanted. Bare and open and soapy with desire, her pussy was food for a god.

"Sir, I've brought you the next size up in both colors. I'm going to leave them here on the rack for you," the salesman said as Michael's tongue slipped up, between her inner lips. He lapped to the half-opened, teasing hood that kept her sweet pearl mostly hidden. He could feel it with the tip of his tongue, and her clitoris was large considering how tiny her lips were. When she was on the verge of a climax, Michael thought she wouldn't be able to conceal her need and that thought alone made him so thirsty. He traced the hot, little bead through its fleshy pouch and felt Net spread her trembling thighs even wider.

Her body begged and his mouth longed to give her everything.

Mr. Wetzel bumped around in the dressing room as Michael seized her clitoris between his lips and sucked her inside his mouth. He worshiped the beautiful girl who stood before him, a nubile vixen in her skirt and tennis shoes.

Michael took her little hands as he sucked and placed them on the skirt. He was very precise and placed her hands exactly where he needed them. With the skirt up, she was exposed. All of her lush, baby soft skin, her milky white flesh, her girlish sex and the flush that seemed to make her a cherub. He wanted her pointed nipples exposed and he wanted his hands free to roam every inch.

She obeyed without a word, almost without a breath. Michael's cock thrashed in the sweatpants and pulsed all of its own accord. Her clit swelled and her pink cover retracted just a little more. He wondered if he wouldn't cum in his pants without even touching himself. He hardly needed to and with a gulp of luscious sex milk down his throat, he thought it would almost be better not to touch himself. Then it would be nothing but her.

His hand trembled and he placed it on one nipple and his fingers wound around her dainty point. He memorized her creases and the feel of her skin as it hardened even more from his attention. If he had her in a bed, if he had days and nights of her young, luscious body spread open wide, he'd spend at least a day on her nipples.

As it was, he had a fever and this was desperate and could be interrupted at any moment. He ran the other hand languidly along her inner thigh and pushed his tongue along her clit. He bathed her there, washed her, and loved her. He delighted in the spill of her secret juices down his chin. His saliva and her deliciousness made some new concoction and it dripped down his neck to his collarbones.

She was so fucking soft. Net's thighs were warm velvet. As Michael lapped and suckled at her succulent flesh, he had a daydream of her open thighs around his body. The girl would be a cocoon of plush warmth where he would burrow between and drink and knead her skin. He wanted to bask in the glory of her youth and her wetness.

If only there were time.

Michael pushed his index finger inside her heated, dripping entry and Net shuddered. Michael looked up and licked right there on her crevice as their eyes locked. His finger became his manhood and with his eyes, he told her everything he wanted to do to her and her almost virginal little body. Yes, little girl, beautiful, gorgeous little girl, fill you up, fill you to the very bottom, fill you until you are a flood of my desire.

Michael kept the tempo steady. His finger was steady and slow and deep and it beckoned to the little blonde from inside her perfectly soaked pussy. He had found it. The spot; the spot that when he fluttered against it, she gripped the wall. He waved his finger and played her like an instrument. Net shook, up against the wall, she shook and her cheeks turned red. He licked her bud, his tongue, and his finger in tune and she was the melody. His tongue and his finger inside and his thumb and forefinger on her nipple. He was the conductor and her orgasm was the melody about to burst forth into song. The little blonde was on the precipice of her torrent of passion and the rain seemed to hover there on the horizon. It was a storm cloud about to burst, the music about to crescendo.

Mr. Wetzel received a telephone call and apparently, it was his wife or some other woman in his life. Michael could hear a female tone, sharp and bitter. There were the footsteps up and down, the back and forth of the busy worker bees right outside the door. Everything kept going all around them but Michael couldn't hear it. Everything was drowned out by the exquisite details of Net. He could feel her pulse in his mouth as he closed his lips around her ripe, throbbing bud. Her clitoris was utterly exposed, her hood drawn back completely. Her pearl beat with the rhythm of his mouth and his heart and his finger that called to her. Cum little girl, cum and let me wash my face in the hot rain of teenage lust. Her juices were a vintage that had never been so appreciated as they were just now.