Fitting Room
Eye Candy for Her Sweet Tooth. Femdom Erotica. Episode Y17.
Nearing the end of their department store trip, she snatches up several different sets of men’s boxer briefs. They’ve been shopping for her all day. She’s in full-on pamper-me, Diva mode, and he is laden with bags of purchases. This trip is supposed to be all about her, so he’s a little surprised when she shifts gears and orders him into the fitting room.
She sips her iced coffee as she takes a key dangling off a bulbous, anti-theft fob from the disinterested attendant and leads him down a dingy hall past a wall of doors with wooden slats. It’s not a full enclosure; the door shuts and has a perfunctory lock, but the walls begin six inches above the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling. Everything uttered in one changing room can be heard in all the others.
Inside the room, she sits on the bench built into the back wall, shrugging off her purse and getting comfortable.
He puts down the shopping bags and looks to her for guidance, uncertain if she has something specific in mind. Before he can ask, he sees the possessive smile on her lips and knows this is about more than just buying undies. He shivers, taking in the limited privacy of the partial walls.
She sucks on her coffee, loudly rattling the ice with her straw and says, “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”
She extends her foot, dressed in a shiny pink, plastic ballet flat. Its creamy smooth surface reminds him of the time she beat him one afternoon, and his tears landed on its pink toe.
He falls to his knees and begins to kiss. This is their protocol for when they enter a private room together and find themselves alone. But looking under the wall, he feels like it’s a stretch to call this privacy. Luckily, there’s no one else in any of the seven other rooms.
“Good boy. I noticed while we were walking around how good you look this week. Your diet is really paying off.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” he says as he continues to kiss.
She snaps her fingers and gestures up like a professional dog trainer, and he rises to his knees.
“And now that I’m done with the serious work of shopping for me… I want to have a little fun. Take off your clothes. Slowly.”
He steps out of his shoes and then bends over to remove his socks. When he rises, he takes his t-shirt by the bottom and pulls it over his head and off. When he can see her face again, she’s smiling. He doesn’t have the biggest chest, but his gym routine has grown recently to include just enough presses to start building some actual upper body definition. He was happy about it before, but now, seeing the desire in her eyes, he feels positively elated.
“Mmmm,” she licks her lips, “You look good, boy.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“Now the rest.”
He unfastens his belt and then his zipper. His cock is swelling in his underwear, and when he slides off his jeans, she can see the bulge.
She points at it and says, “What’s that, slut.”
He blushes. “Your cock, Mistress.”
“Why can’t’ I see it?” Her tone has that little edge that tells him punishment will happen very soon if he doesn’t make her happy. Rather than make an excuse, he slides his underwear to the floor and steps out of them and folds them and places them neatly on top of the pile of his things.
His penis, growing firmer, arcs away from his body like an elephant’s trunk about to reach for a peanut.
“Oh yeah, that’s very nice. Come closer.”
He does, and she takes his dick in one hand and proceeds to trace her other all over his naked body. He laughs at first, but the sensual intent in her hands quiets him as his mind turns to the pleasure in her touch.
They hear footsteps in the hallway, and the voices of two approaching women absorbed in a loud discussion about the difficulty of finding a good gardener. They sound older to him, and their conversation seems like a list of obscure synonyms for the word Mexican. As the women pass by their door to take the next stall, she holds a finger to her lips for him to remain silent.
Then she sits forward and licks his nipple. He draws a tiny, raspy gasp as she takes it fully into her mouth, nibbling. The wet warmth of her tongue heats his whole body. She squeezes his now full erection, blood reddening its head.
She bites his nipple, not hard mind you, not so much that he’d call it sadism, but just enough to make it hurt. He stifles a pained grunt, and then they both look around for a moment, holding their breath, waiting for a break in the neighboring conversation. But none comes as their fellow shoppers continue their oblivious chatter about “fluency” and “work permits.”
Then she releases him, a final burst of pain as he comes free of her teeth prompting another raspy inhale.
She smiles and holds up a finger and orbits it, gesturing for him to turn around.
Now she strokes his behind, running her hands over his balls and ass cheeks, Sampling, fondling, teasing.
She purrs with approval. Then she leans forward to whisper, her breath wet on the small of his back, “Pose for me. You know how I like it.”
He does; she likes to make him dance and preen suggestively. She jokes about making him attend pole dancing classes. Usually when he poses for her, she has a nasty long dressage whip that she snaps across his butt and thighs whenever she finds his moves insufficiently pleasing.
She leans back, spreading her legs on the bench, and he begins to move.
He turns and undulates, oscillating his form between flexing his ass and pumping his thighs. He tightens his abs, letting his nascent washboard emerge from the softness that until recently had been his abdomen. He glances up to see her raise an eyebrow and lick her lips.
Without taking her eyes off him, she picks up a plastic bundle of boxer briefs and tears open the side of it. Then she throws them to him and says, loud and even, like any woman addressing any man in a changing room.
“Try these on.”
He quickly stops his slutty prancing and pulls the thin garment up to his waist. It feels expensive, an extra silky weave, smoother than he is used to. She raises an eyebrow to question him, and he nods vigorously in approval.
Then she motions him forward with a curled finger. She again reaches to his sex. She uses one hand to open the vent on the front of the soft panties, then she reaches in with the other and pulls out his swollen girth and shaved balls. The vent contracts around him like a cock ring, and he moans softly as his dick begins to gently pulse. Each tiny shudder against the fabric quakes a little tremor of pleasure up his spine and down to his toes.
She whispers, “Stroke yourself. Nice and slow. No coming.”
He takes a step back, looking around sheepishly. He eyes the slot in the wall between their stall and the two women in the neighboring one, still complaining about finding good help. “…And I said, Pedro, I don’t care if you have tickets to the Dodgers, I have thirty guests coming and my hedges look like something out of the Jungle Book!”
He licks his palm and gently begins to stroke himself. He’s already hard when he starts, but even still he gives a final nervous glance over his shoulder, as if crossing some invisible Rubicon that separated the passive misdemeanors of being naked and erect in public, from the active felony of pleasuring himself.
Her eyes grow slowly as she watches him, as if expanding to consume ever more of his image. His body held taut as he slowly strokes up and down the shaft. The thick head throbs against his fingers as it emerges from his fist, red and glistening and obscene. When he pauses in his stroking, she can see the head throb.
“Good.” She says, leaning back against the wall and setting down her coffee cup. The look of satisfaction in her eyes practically melts him.
Then she hikes up her skirt and reaches a hand into her panties.
Taking every effort to keep her voice calm and flat, she says, “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t, exaggerating the length of his strokes, twisting so she gets extra looks at his ass and pecs, both now sheened in sweat.
She rolls her head back, succumbing to her own pleasure, her hair falling into her eyes, her lips parting as her breathing quickens.
The pleasure in his cock spreads out through his body smothering everything else. And the sense of the next stall, the store, or the outside world that encircles them in onlookers and sidewalks, all of it melts away in the power of her gaze. In the joy of seeing the glazed look of gratification that consumes her eyes.
His balls are getting tight, and he’s close to coming. He loosens his grip and holds off, even as he sees her intensify the motion of her hand between her legs.
She whispers, “Are you close?”
“Yes,” he whispers back, unable to hide the urgency in his voice.
“Don’t stop, but no coming.” She grits her teeth on the last word, forcing it out as she reaches the point of no return.
And then she pushes herself over the edge. It’s a little orgasm by her standards, but reveled in none the less. She bears down and releases an unmistakable grunt of climax, slapping her free hand against the wall to brace herself as the waves of ecstasy heave through her.
As she finishes, they both become aware that the next stall has fallen silent. Indeed, it’s so quiet that they can all but see the two older women holding their breath as they strain to discern whatever moral transgressions have transpired through the thin wall.
He’s still stroking, the tiny “squick-squick-squick” of his licked palm filling the room. To him it’s as loud as a machine gun.
Then his Mistress says, her composure recovered, full voiced and shameless, “Stop, boy. No coming for you. Let’s go.”
It draws an audible gasp from the next stall.
She doesn’t let him change out of the undies, or even take his swollen cock out of the cock ring like slot. She just throws his clothes at him and hustles him out the door. Right before he zips up his jeans, she goes to one knee and takes his whole penis into her mouth for three good strokes. All the way in. Deep.
He’s totally taken off guard by it. She almost never performs oral sex on him, saving it for extremely rare rewards. But here it is the cruelest tease in the world. The warmth of it spinning every ounce of him into overdrive. The pure, uncut pleasure, coursing through his veins.
Then she folds his rigid dick against his waistline and zips his jeans closed around it. The tight pants outline him with such clarity, he’s certain any passing stranger can gauge the quality of his circumcision.
At the check-out counter, the freckle-faced clerk, who seems pretty clearly to be TV “best friend” levels of gay, asks, “You know there’s a pair missing from this?”
She pats her embarrassed slave on his still straining hard-on and says, “He’s wearing them out. If you want, I can unzip his pants and show them to you.”