Dressing room By Unagi Nigirly
"You can only take six," I told her.
The tiny terror in front of me stared me down with defiant disbelief as if that made any difference.
I tried explaining again. "You have seven. You can only take six."
She shifted her weight to her other hip and, because she wore a spaghetti strap tank top, the tone of her right arm was revealed through the weight of the clothes folded over her forearm. "So what am I supposed to do?" She said as though on the edge of despair.
Her audacity almost made me laugh, and I felt the wind sucked out of me in a sharp exhale. "Just leave one thing here and after you've tried something on you can exchange it, but you can't take in more than six."
She was a Buckhead Betty. One of those women you see driving up and down Peachtree St. in an SUV while talking on a phone so small she would physically have to move it back and forth from her ear to her mouth. This one looked Mediterranean. Dark, thick hair and brows. Huge brown eyes that appeared to be prone to dark circles. Glossy, dermatologist-groomed skin. Thin. Petite. All designed to find and keep a man who could provide her with the kind of standard of living that entitled her to argue with a salesgirl about the number of articles she can take into the Macy's dressing room. "So I have to try all this on and come all the way back out just for one thing?"
Clearly the good life was not a happy one.
"Look," I said. "If you want, we can swap one item while you're in the dressing room, but I can't let you take more than six at a time."
"Why the hell can't I take more than six?"
"You might steal something."
Her face deflated into haughty disgust and she flopped a pair of $100 jeans over my arm. "Well, come on." She led the way to pick out her own room. Her legs moved like scissors in a pair of capris the color of oxidized blood, and I couldn't help but stare at her small, lean butt. When she found a door, she turned suddenly and I blushed as I raised my eyes to meet hers. There was a long pause, and she dipped her head impatiently. "Is this your first day?"
I realized she wanted me to unlock the door, which I did awkwardly.
"You wait here," she said, pointing to the area on beige-colored carpet where she wanted me to stand, before closing the door behind her.
I relaxed as she was out of sight, and as I stood between the rows of doors, I looked at the pair of jeans she had given me. They were a dark-wash cut low in the hips. I imagined them on her, hugging her hips and thighs and felt embarrassed again.
I heard a Black Eyed Peas ringtone in the stall, which made my eyelid twitch. When she answered, her tone was slightly less sharp than before. Her husband was on the other end and she spoke using terms of endearment that sounded put-on and with an undercurrent of disappointment. She told him where she was, what she was doing, what she had been doing, and while there was nothing remarkable about anything she had done there was a heaviness in her voice, a dragging sadness.
Fortunately it was a slow day and no one else was in the dressing room so I had the time to stand here and wait on her. But the phone call made me feel rushed somehow.
Suddenly her voice became obnoxiously saccharine as she made pleading squeals. "Noooo," she said. "No, baby. That was last week. Remember? Look, I'm only going to get a few things today, then nothing else for a week, okay? I promise. Okay. Love you."
Her phone snapped shut, and she heaved a long aggravated growl that nearly kicked in my flight-or-flee instinct. Before I could decide which to do, the door swung open. She stood in lace pink underwear. Her lean body was wrapped tight in tanned, glossy skin. Her plump breasts filled a lace pink bra and I wanted to reach out and squeeze them. A few stray dark hairs curled over the top of her pink panties and seeing them sent a sparkling sensation run down to my groin and fill my pussy lips with blood, so that I could feel my labia open slightly like a rosebud from its dewy center.
She reached out to tear the jeans from my hands, but stopped midway as she caught me staring. She looked at me hard. "What's wrong with you?" she said, pulling the jeans from me with a quick jerk. She bent over to put her feet in the pant leg but I couldn't look away, and she felt me staring. She stopped and asked, "What are you, some fucking dyke?"
I looked away and moved to close the door, when I felt her reach out and clutch my breast. "Is that what you are? Some fucking dyke?" Her voice was a blend of excitement and hatred, and her grip was almost painful. She drew her fingers together and searched for my nipple and pinched it hard. "What do you do? Do you eat pussy? Is that what you do? Do you want to eat me?"
I pushed myself toward her and kissed her as I slipped my hand under her bra and felt toward the tiny pebble of her nipple between my fingertips. Her hand relaxed at my breast, and she received my mouth. Her lips were soft and moist, and her mouth tasted like magura sushi. She pulled her fingers through my hair as I pushed my hips toward hers and slipped my hand down the back of her underwear. She pushed me back and slapped me.
I stood staring at her, stunned. She laughed. "Why are you grinding against me, you stupid dyke? You've got nothing to stick in me."
I charged toward her and kissed her again, pushing her back against the dressing room mirror. I pulled aside the crotch of her panties and pushed my fingers up into her moist hole, which seemed to swallow my fingers like a hungry mouth. She gasped, and I devoured her next exhale. Her soft tongue pushed into my mouth as she held her arms up in surrender at her sides and lifted her leg to give me deeper access into the wet, ridged cavern of her body. I plunged my fingers into her over and over, and she rode my hand.
"Do you want to eat me, you stupid bitch?" she whispered. "That's what you dykes like to do, isn't it?"
I dropped to my knees, slipping my fingers out of her as I pulled down her panties. She sat down on the wood seat with her legs open. Her pussy yawned open as a sticky film stretched between her parting labia. The scent of her made my mouth water. I grabbed her thighs and pressed my nose into her, reaching my tongue inside of her. She responded eagerly, making tiny thrusts with her hips as I fucked her with my tongue and tickled her clit with my nose. Her juices were salty and clean.
"You think you're some bad bitch, don't you?" she cooed. "Ooh I can tell."
I pulled my tongue out of her and reached the tip of my tongue under her labial hood in search of her tiny sensitive clit. She slapped her hand against the mirror so hard I thought she'd break it. Between her thighs and my breath, my face was beginning to sweat. I realized I was digging my fingers into her thighs and loosened them. Her skin felt like a silk bedspread.
Suddenly she reached down and clutched a fistful of my hair and began to pull on it as she breathed heavily. "Come on, you fucking bitch. Come on." I twirled and lapped my tongue faster and her hips rose as she wailed in orgasm. As she came, she let her raised hips shift as though she were floating, and I licked her until I felt her pulse beating in her clit and her pussy lips convulsing.
She then sat heavily and pushed me away. "Stop, stop," she ordered. She stood up, tossed her hair back and quickly began dressing herself, not noticing that her tank top was on inside out. She grabbed her clutch and sprinted from the dressing room, leaving me alone on the floor, wiping my mouth.