You step into the changing booth, the velvet curtain swishing shut behind you. The air is cool on your skin as you slip out of your clothes. The consultant, an older woman with a confident smile, handed you a set of black lace lingerie. It feels delicate and expensive in your hands. Youâre just fastening the bra when the curtain parts slightly. She steps inside without asking, the space suddenly feeling much smaller. Her eyes scan your body, professional and appraising.
Let me help you, she says, her voice low. The straps are all wrong. Her fingers are cool as they brush your shoulders, adjusting the straps. She turns you gently to face the mirror. See how this lifts you? she murmurs, her hands cupping you through the lace, shaping you. Her thumb grazes your nipple, and you feel it tighten instantly. A flush creeps up your neck. She kneels down to adjust the garter belt, her fingers skimming the inside of your thigh as she clips the stockings. Then her hands are on the waistband of the panties, tugging them higher, tighter. She looks up at you, her gaze holding yours in the mirror. Perfect, she says. It fits you like it was made just for you. You canât look away from your own reflection, or from her knowing smile.
She brings you another set, this one a deep crimson with sheer panels. Her fingers brush against your side as she helps you into it, lingering a little too long. The lace feels like a whisper against your skin. She turns you again, her hands smoothing over your hips, her thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, a telltale warmth spreading lower. Next is a pale blue chemise, silky and loose. She stands behind you, her arms reaching around to adjust the front, her hands deliberately grazing the sides of your breasts. Her breath is warm on your neck.
She tells you how the color compliments your skin, her voice a low hum. You can feel yourself getting wet, the silk clinging to you in a way that feels incredibly revealing. Each touch is a new spark, and youâre starting to tremble under her careful, deliberate attention.
She doesn't ask, she simply does it. Her hands come up to cup your breasts through the lace, her palms warm and firm. Your breath catches in your throat as she begins to slowly knead and adjust, her thumbs circling your nipples until theyâre hard peaks against the fabric. She watches your face in the mirror, a small, knowing smile on her lips as she continues to caress you. The touch is intimate, possessive, and it sends a jolt of pure heat straight to your core. You can feel yourself getting impossibly wet, your body responding shamelessly to her expert hands.
Her hands drift lower, smoothing over your hips. Her fingers hook into the waistband of the delicate lace panties. Let me just adjust this for you, she murmurs, her voice husky. She tugs the fabric, settling it more snugly against your skin. Then her palm presses flat against your mound, a firm, deliberate pressure that makes you gasp. She can feel the heat and dampness through the lace. She begins to stroke you slowly, her hand cupping your entire pussy, her fingers applying a gentle, rhythmic pressure right over your clit.
The friction of the lace against your sensitive flesh is maddening. You canât suppress a soft moan, your hips twitching forward into her touch. She watches your reactions in the mirror, her eyes dark with intent. Youâre so responsive, she whispers, her fingers circling slowly, expertly. So wet for me already.
Her fingers don't hesitate. She hooks a finger under the lace and pulls your panties aside, exposing you completely to the cool air of the booth. You see it all in the mirrorâyour flushed skin, her intense gaze, your glistening cunt. Then her fingers are on you, sliding through your slick folds with a confident, possessive touch. You let out a shaky moan as one finger, then two, slip inside you with ease. She pumps them slowly, curling them just right, and your head falls back against her shoulder.
That's it, she whispers, her other hand still cupping your breast. Let me feel how much you like this. You're so tight, so warm. Her fingers move deeper, spreading you open, and you can't stop your hips from rocking back onto her hand. Every thrust sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you, your body arching against her as she fingers you right there in the changing room.
Her other hand stays on your breast, kneading and pinching your nipple through the lace as her fingers continue to thrust in and out of you. The dual sensations are overwhelming; your whole body is trembling, caught between her hands. You can hear the wet sounds of her fingers moving inside you, and your moans are getting louder, more desperate. She speeds up her rhythm, her palm grinding against your clit with every push. Youâre so close, your muscles clenching around her fingers.
Thatâs it, come for me, she commands softly in your ear. Your vision blurs as the orgasm crashes over you, a sharp, shuddering release that makes you cry out. You feel your cunt pulse around her fingers, your slickness coating her hand as she works you through it until youâre weak and boneless against her.
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