Red lights, but she refuses to be riled. No point in wasting energy. A man walks past, too briskly for the heat, she thinks, noticing the spread of sweat between his shoulder blades. She watches his neat, receding butt in the side mirror as he diminishes into the reflected world. He passes a young woman who saunters along towards her, overtaking the car at a leisurely pace. She watches the progress and her eyes are drawn to the swaying outline of breasts in tight T-shirt. No bra. Blink.
A small beep from behind tells her that the lights have changed. She revs up and takes off speedily.
Nearly there. She stops at the crossing. A hunk on legs swaggers across, cool in his tight jeans and shades. A woman crosses in the opposite direction, bottom wobbling as she walks. Does mine do that? She checks the outline and wonders if people see her knicker-line. She clenches her bum cheeks. Jazz! she admonishes herself. Get a grip, girl. Concentrate.
The car park is nearly full. She has trouble finding a space, which is bad news for it suggests crowds. Oh well. She can but hope that her search will be quickly successful and then she can go home. Come on, girl. Go for it.
She’s feeling smugly pleased. It’s mid-afternoon and she has beautifully smiling teeth. Candles, jasmine scented, a card, cute, and underwear, peach, have already been bought and she’s seen a dress that she likes. A break is now required. Time for a coffee, or maybe chilled juice, and then try the dress. At this rate, hopefully, she could be finished by four.
The store has a café. It’s a little expensive but the convenience is worth the extra. Actually, it’s very expensive. It’s one of those places where a subdued hush reigns instead of incessant music, where everything is nicely spaced out and the assistants hover discreetly in the background.
She sips the juice and indulges in a slice of homemade carrot cake. Homemade? Yeah, right. But it does melt deliciously on the tongue.
There are designer clothes aplenty hanging on gym-fit bodies that are beautifully toned, sitting nearby in the hushed surroundings. A flash of memory reminds her of the explicit duo at the swimming pool. Cheeky! And she smiles a radiantly white smile at no one in particular.
The people around her are mainly female in a decidedly moneyed-class bracket that fails to faze her. Recently groomed shiny heads of hair tilt towards others in the gentle art of gossip as well-manicured nails shine at the handles of afternoon tea cups. Bags with store names and logos perch at well-shod feet and bulge unobtrusively with purchases which she reckons are probably needed to spruce up wardrobes that are at least half a season out of date.
She rummages for her mobile and selects ‘Write message’. ‘Hi Ricky Baby. Just had hugely calorific carrot cake. Oops! Naughty me. Hope 2 b home by 5. I’m knackered. See U later. Jazz xxx.’
OK. She stands ready for the final furlong, slipping cooled feet back into her shoes and picking up her tote bag. Fingers crossed, the dress will be all that is desired and then she can go home, put up her feet and chill with a glass of white wine from the fridge. Sounds great.
She steps between the rails of dresses. Where was the one I liked? An assistant smiles but doesn’t approach. Jazz likes that. She’d prefer to flounder rather than have to deal with an in-your-face oh-so-helpful saleswoman.
She goes down the next rail and yes! There it is. Checking the sizes and holding one in front of her, it drapes fluidly from tiny shoulder straps, reaching to about mid-calf. She likes the mix of muted colours and the floaty quality of the silk, which will suit her, even though the price does not. Maybe she can get away without the expense of new shoes and bag because the dress seems perfect for the occasion and could be used for all those smart events she thinks she should attend and must remind Rick to arrange.
Feeling satisfied and confident that the day is nearly at an end – and actually has been fairly enjoyable – she approaches an oh-so-helpful but oh-so-discreet assistant. ‘Excuse me. Where are the changing rooms?’
‘Around the corner, madam, just to the left.’
‘Thanks.’
Her mobile buzzes. She opens the message: ‘Jazzi Babe. Carrot cake! Naughty girl! I must put you across my knee and … Randy Ricky xx.’
She giggles at the thought and feels a ripple of interest between her thighs. Later, baby, later. Things to do first.
In the cubicle, which is more like a small room Jazz closes the door, puts down her things and hangs the dress on one of a range of hooks. There is a small shelf on which stand hand lotion, dusting powder and a water spray. The containers are still quite full, telling of the trustworthiness of the clientele. A mirror dominates the area without being overdone. It’s all very tasteful in rose-tinged cream, which won’t detract from or challenge the garments that are to be tried.
Beginning to undress, she appreciates the air conditioning, which is as cool as dawn on a morning in spring with the promise of heat to come. She throws discarded clothes onto the chair that stands alone in the corner. The ever-present hubbub is relegated to a satisfying distance that allows a quiet piece of space and lack of interruption in which to make careful consideration.
She decides to give a light dusting of powder to her skin. Might as well use what’s on offer. Anyway, it’s probably been bought out of the profit from the oh-so-delicious homemade cake. It feels decidedly fresh and smooth. It smells decidedly bland. Mustn’t clash with all those expensive perfumes that waft through this little haven of space.
The silk feels wonderful as the dress slips over her head. It slithers around her body with a touch like trickling water. She looks at the image in the mirror, pleased. But not pleased enough for the price tag.
Shit! I don’t want to start searching again. She studies her reflection. OK. Colour’s good, contrasting with the darkness of her skin without being too pastel or too bright. She sways and twists from side to side and the fabric moves softly with a slight swish. It’ll look better without the bra straps of course. She wriggles them from her shoulders and arms and tucks them into the bodice. Mm. Better. Strappy heeled sandals will help. The cream ones from last year will do. She stands on tiptoe. Yes. Better still. She performs a slow swivel while keeping her eyes on the reflection. Not bad but something’s still not quite right. It’s the size. A little too big. Wow! I’ve gone down a size! The reflection grins at her. Must be all the swimming and toned muscle.
She opens the door and peers out to see if there’s an oh-so-helpful assistant within reach. Bingo! A woman is just leaving another cubicle, looking very purposeful and carrying a skirt on a hanger. She is middle-aged and dressed in the smart black skirt with white blouse uniform of a saleswoman.
‘Excuse me.’
The woman glances at Jazz and hesitates mid walk. ‘Yes?’
‘I wonder if you could help me with this dress.’
The woman is silent for a moment. A slight frown is swiftly followed by a friendly smile, with teeth not so white and sparkly. ‘Certainly, madam. What’s the problem?’
‘I think I’d like to try a smaller size.’
The woman comes over to Jazz’s door. Jazz steps back. The woman steps in and closes the door.
‘What do you think?’ says Jazz, looking in the mirror.
‘The colour is perfect for you. Just a minute. Let’s see.’ She hangs the skirt on a hook and stands behind Jazz. With knowing hands, she takes hold of the high waistband and pulls it in. Immediately the dress moulds to Jazz’s body, suggesting the curves beneath but not clinging.
‘That’s it! So much better!’ Jazz is quite excited that the search could be over after all and also, well, she looks really good. Just wait till Rick sees me in this. He won’t be able to keep his hands off.
‘Let me fetch a size twelve for you, madam.’
‘How did you know?’
‘It’s my job.’ The woman smiles again and unzips the dress. Cool fingers slip the straps from her shoulders, holding the dress so that it slithers down without falling into a little heap on the floor. Jazz steps out of it and stands there in her
sensible knickers and bra. The assistant takes the dress and the skirt and leaves, closing the door behind her.
Jazz takes out her mobile: ‘Hi Rick. Nearly done. Wait till you see me! Super Slinki Jazzi Baby xxx.’ She is just sending the text when the door opens. The woman enters discreetly, pushes the door shut and checks that it’s properly closed. Pure efficiency. A dress rests across her arm and Jazz touches it, smoothing the silk. The woman hangs it up.
‘Excuse me, madam, but a different bra will make the dress hang better.’
‘Oh, yes. Actually, I’ve already bought one.’ Jazz opens a bag and takes out the new bra.
‘Might I suggest that you try wearing it this time?’
Jazz laughs. ‘Good idea,’ she says and is about to undo what she is wearing but stops, suddenly feeling embarrassed. She blinks and images fill her mind.
The woman steps behind her. ‘Let me help.’ She unclasps it at once with a no-nonsense approach and the bra disappears. Jazz turns to the mirror and, as she lifts the new bra into place, notices the woman’s eyes on her, only for an instant before she’s covered again in pretty pastel peach which shapes in a smooth curve.
She stands very still as the clasp is done for her. In the mirror she sees the swell of her breasts, which are pushed upwards as they rest in lace that is strap free. The woman touches at the edge and runs her finger along its line, trailing across each soft curve, as if to check the fit. Jazz watches the rise and fall of her breathing as the fingertip traces its undulating path. It’s a strange sensation, non sexual but stimulating in its delicateness. She is captivated by it and curious of her own response. The path ends and the touch too.
There is movement behind her and the dress is lifted over her head. It swishes down, clinging to her body in a gossamer hold. It fits perfectly. The woman stands back. ‘Beautiful,’ she says and Jazz doesn’t know if she’s referring to her or the dress. Their eyes meet in the mirror and something passes between them but it’s too subtle and fleeting to grasp. Jazz licks her lips and moisture settles there. She feels beads of sweat settle on her brow. In the mirror, the woman’s eyes shift.
The hush seems to deepen to silence. Footsteps tread quietly outside the closed door. They pass, accompanied by a fading murmur of voice.
‘Are you hot, madam?’ The woman’s voice is soft.
‘I am a little.’
Jazz turns this way and that into different poses which show off the dress from many angles. She sways and the skirt sweeps loosely around her thighs, hanging from the hips where the fabric clings, revealing the curves beneath. It tickles at her knees because the silk is so light and fluid. The thin straps accentuate her shoulders, asking to be slipped down, which is what the woman does.
‘See how the fit here is secure. The dress won’t slip.’ The bodice is close fitting but not taut and lies on her body like a second skin, showing off the breasts which swell out from the merging colours. ‘And the fit here is very good.’ A pause. ‘Maybe you should wear a thong.’ Hands slide firmly across her hips, resting on her bottom for a touch longer than is necessary. ‘The colour really suits you. It’s good against your skin, pale against your darkness.’
The woman’s fingers rest on her arms, light as a feather which drifts on the breeze. Jazz feels the touch as a tremble through her body and stands motionless. ‘You are still very warm, my dear.’ The fingers slide up into the heaviness of her hair and lift it away from her neck so Jazz feels a creep of cool air. The fingers run through like a comb, pulling firmly. Jazz closes her eyes. There are muted sounds outside the cubicle but she doesn’t want to go to them. In a minute maybe. But not yet. She lets her head tilt back and feels the strong fingers twist her hair into a knot.
‘Are you still hot, my dear?’
Jazz opens her eyes. Indeed, there is a film of sweat on her chest. She can see it. ‘Yes.’ Her voice comes as a whisper.
Without saying anything else the woman lets the hair fall, unzips the dress and peels it off. Jazz lifts her arms automatically. She stands in her new lacy bra and sensible cotton knickers, looking in the mirror at the mismatch which somehow seems appropriate.
The woman puts the dress carefully back on the hanger, onto the hook, and picks up something from the shelf. Jazz watches her in the mirror. Standing in front of her, the woman delivers a fine spray of water from the bottle. It hovers in the air between them and settles as a mist onto skin. ‘There, that’s better, my dear, isn’t it?’ She moves around Jazz spraying as she goes and it’s deliciously cool on the warmth of her skin.
There is a pressure at her back and the bra is undone. Jazz takes hold of it and throws it behind her to the chair, where it misses and falls unnoticed to the floor. There is a moment when they both wait. Their eyes find each other in the mirror. Jazz can feel a blush steadily rising to her face.
The woman moves in front of her and sprays deliberately onto her breasts. Jazz lifts her hands and smoothes the dampness into her skin, watching the woman who watches her fingers. She touches her neck, tips back her head and shakes her hair loose, running her fingers through to lift it from her forehead. Another spray and she feels female fingers on her breasts. Her hand stops, buried in her hair, while she watches in the mirror from beneath half-closed eyelids. But the woman blocks the view as her breasts are stroked and lifted, pressed and squeezed. There is a slight intake of breath and the woman moves behind her.
Jazz blinks, then watches as female hands slide over her ribs, reaching to cup her breasts. Thumbs circle around both nipples which have sprung to hardness. A hand slides down over her belly and stops at the top of her knickers.
Both pairs of eyes flick and meet in the reflection. The blush builds on her cheeks and Jazz gives the merest hint of a nod. She feels an ache between her legs as the woman begins to pull down her knickers. She bites the inside of her lip. What if someone walks in? Should she stop this?
Too late. The fingers have gradually slipped the knickers to halfway down her thighs. They move into the thatch of hair at the top of her legs. It needs a trim, she thinks, absent-mindedly, as she is gently pulled open to view. It is like looking at someone else in the mirror.
She is almost aloof, at one remove, while these things are done to her body. The woman steps back and Jazz can see her looking greedily at her bottom. Fingers squeeze the ample softness, then spread her open. Kneeling behind her, the woman leans forwards and is hidden from view. There is wet warmth as she feels a tongue push between the spread cheeks and slide along, up and down, lingering each time.
Jazz listens as footsteps and muffled voices pass outside. The probing tongue halts its exploration. Her heart misses a beat. But the steps walk on without pause. No. It’s OK. Saliva dribbles onto her in a cool slick. She reaches round and helps to keep her bum spread for the tongue is pressing in an interesting place.
Her knickers are pulled down to her knees. Casually, she parts her legs a little further. It’s far too warm to hurry. So, what next?
The woman stands up and drags the chair closer to the mirror, sideways on. Clothes tip onto the floor. ‘Bend over, dear.’
A thrill explodes within Jazz. She bends over, lying across the seat and opening her legs. Looking over her shoulder to see the image in the mirror, she is a voyeur to herself. Her heart is pounding in the excitement of seeing her own body thus exposed, thus handled. What if someone were to come in now? There is a rush of moisture between her legs. Am I about to be spanked? But that isn’t the intention.
The woman sprays water liberally over her bum. Jazz can see the droplets as they settle on her skin and begin to trickle, can feel the wetness and coolness. She watches as the woman leans over her and smears hand lotion into the wetness, slicking smoothly and widening her further, hands sliding firmly, pale against her darker skin. Jazz watches as one finger is pushed inside, just the tip, but she presses back against the intrusion and it slides more deeply into her. She feels moisture trickle slowly down her thigh.
The woman finds
her eyes in the reflection. ‘You like that?’
‘Yes,’ Jazz says.
‘Would you like two fingers in you?’
Jazz’s eyes open wide. Her lips part and the tip of her tongue licks at the corner of her mouth. She nods, and watches as the finger withdraws and pushes in again with another. She turns her head away, averting her eyes as the fingers begin to move insistently inside her. She finds herself rocking in time with the probing fingers, her bum lifting and falling as she lies across the chair. She looks round again to see. It is so exciting. It is so naughty. She sees as if from a distance, involved but remote at one and the same time. She blinks then shuts her eyes.
The fingers are withdrawn and in the darkness there is a touch between her legs.
‘Open wider, my dear.’ The voice is confidential, matter of fact.
She spreads her knees as far as the knickers will allow and is explored anew. Jazz gives in to the sensation. Where will this end? Although highly turned on, she doesn’t feel a climax coming, but as foreplay it’s exquisite.
Opening her eyes to the mirror Jazz sees a finger insert. Is that really me? The woman pulls the knickers down to her ankles and tells her to kneel on the floor. Do I let this go on or finish it now? But it feels so good, looks so good … Maybe in a minute.
She scrambles down, shoving the chair aside for she wants to be within range of the mirror. She leans on her elbows so that, as she pushes her bum up into the air, she can see each finger that slips into her. One, two, then three. The woman is leaning over her and watching where her hand moves. It is glistening. Jazz is panting. A knuckle is rubbing on another very interesting place, as the fingers twist inside her. The pleasure is building fast. They must stop. But, maybe just another few moments. It feels so good, looks so – and just when she’s thinking that she really should finish this now, her body takes over as an orgasm rips through her, taking her by surprise because she really was going to stop. Wasn’t she? She cries out, immediately snatching her hand to her mouth to stifle the sound, her bottom bouncing as the relentless intrusion continues.
Sex with Strangers Page 17
