by R. F. Marazas
(08/29/07)

Just after six and I'm on my way to my lover.

The closed sign hangs in the front door of the boutique. I picture him inside, waiting, egg bald head, baby smooth skin, especially the hands -- the hands with those long slender fingers. My thighs quiver.

Inside, the bell above the door gives off its quiet tinkle. The overhead fluorescents throw a soft flattering lighting. I pause, looking down the endless rows of racks of dresses, skirts, tops, undergarments. The room is cool and silent. To the left along the wall the dressing booths are empty except for one.

Guy doesn't look at me, but he knows. He's seen me come in. Those long fingers tremble. He waits close to the one occupied booth for its door to open. It does. A gray-haired matron in a dress too youthful for her bulky body appears, her face flushed. She flashes an irritable scowl in my direction, which I ignore, slowly making my way toward the office in back, pausing to caress the silk of a blouse. I have interrupted her personal fitting by Guy Rocksson.

They all come here, the matrons, the restless marrieds, the teachers, even the young college students. They may go to the new mall or the more fashionable boutiques owned by impeccably dressed women, but they always return here. Guy does the fittings. If his hands brush against a breast or inner thigh or rounded bottom no one complains. If his fingers linger on warm bare flesh a beat too long no one is offended. Beth, giggling, whispered to me once that he almost made her come as he knelt in front of her brushing out the wrinkles in a dress she was trying on, his hand on her belly just above her mound. Beth loves to mock, but she more than anyone else is responsible for the growing legend.

She doesn't know. None of them knows. They feel safe with this harmless bachelor with the effeminate gestures, unthreatened by his apparent ignorance of what effect his hands have on them. They tremble and blush at the sensations, comfort themselves with the conviction that his concentration is on the clothes. They enjoy their secret thrills. I know what my friends think of me. Beth, Amanda, Val. They call me Miss Prim. I've heard them whisper that Guy and I would make the perfect pair, both dull. Let them.

In the small cramped office I close the door and lean against it. My body feels ripe, breasts fuller, hips swollen. I remove my clothes, sweater, blouse, mid-calf skirt, pantyhose, bra and panties, low-heeled shoes. I stand there waiting, unsure of what to do with my hands, breath caught in my throat.

The door opens. Guy hardly glances at my nudity, the flush on my pale skin. His boyish face is serious, apprehensive. Light gleams off his bald head as he turns his attention to the antique wooden dressing closet. Next to it stands an antique mirror, full length, oval, its frame finished in polished, intricate scrollwork. My reflection is distorted because of some flaw in the glass. I stare at the full breasts with their pale colored nipples stiff with arousal, the wheat colored triangle between parted thighs. Guy is unaffected. There is no stirring, no bulge in his trousers.

"May I dress you?" he asks. So formal.

"Do you want to?"

"I've waited two weeks."

"Yes, you may." My breasts tingle.

Guy opens the closet and makes a pretense of choosing from his collection. As if he hadn't already made the choice. I wait, standing erect, my legs rubbery. Inside the door a thin leather riding crop hangs from a hook.

He sinks to his knees, his quickening breath a warm flow across my sex. My lips contract and then open, spreading in the warmth. First the stockings, sheer and silky. While I balance myself with a hand on his shoulder he rolls each stocking slowly up my leg to the top of my thigh, his hands tracing patterns. Then the garters, with little blood red rosettes adorning them. Again his hands again caress every inch of covered flesh from thigh to ankle, smoothing. I feel moisture between my parted legs. Now the drawers, billowing silk with vertical slits back and front and a ribbed hem line. He draws them up, ties them at both sides.

He rises slowly, his face inches from my hidden sex. It's all I can do to restrain myself from pulling his face to me. Instead I raise my arms high, lifting my breasts. I glance down at his growing erection. He slips the frilly petticoat down over my head, down my torso, and his thumbs flick across my hardened nipples, sending waves of sensation through me.

Next comes the lacy chemise which he pulls gently over my aching breasts. It is snug, scraping my nipples until I feel they might burst. The dress is virginal white, and he takes his time with the buttons down the front, savoring the press of his fingers into my yielding flesh. He holds my fingers in his longer than he should, at last sliding on the gloves made of soft kidskin, a tiny pearl button at each wrist. For a moment he stands back to admire his handiwork and I give him a stern impatient look. He bites his lip in shame and bends to slip on the white shoes, fitting them to just above my ankles, buttoning them at the sides.

He holds the hat with the wide floppy brim and the band of bright blue ribbon around it and pauses again, looking at my short hair with longing. Perhaps I'll let it grow longer so he can pin it up as he wishes. My friends will wonder at this daring in the mousy Miss Prim. He places the hat, tilting it an inch, and steps back again.

"Lovely, so lovely."

We stand there transformed, the professor of Victorian Studies now a Victorian maid, the boutique owner and collector of Victoriana now her ardent suitor. He waits, his breath stopped. And I want him to wait, I want to prolong the agony for both of us.

"Bring me the riding crop." With the clothes my voice has changed. The plodding monotone that makes my students drowse is gone.

Guy hesitates, then turns to the closet. He carries the crop balanced on the tips of his fingers, his eyes fixed on it.

"You touched me again, took liberties with me."

"No!" But he blinks and lowers his head. I move closer to take the crop. His eyes are riveted on it. He is a statue, his penis bulging. I slide the crop tip up the length of him. He shudders.

"Look at yourself, you should be ashamed! Is this what happens when you dress the others?"

He nods.

"Answer me!"

"Never like this, with you. You're the only one--"

"Oh, you enjoy dressing them, don't you, you love to touch them. Don't you!"

"I can't help it, yes -- but you, when you let me dress you this way--"

"You should be punished for your brazenness, shouldn't you?"

"Please!" He flings his arms around me, crushing the dress.

His erection presses against me through the dress and the petticoat and the drawers. Only when I dress this way is it so hard.

When I first came here, my friends daring me, afraid and tense yet stubbornly refusing to be cowed again, I thought he saw me as all men see me, that is, not at all. He dressed me, touched me, and was unmoved. And then I went to his office and saw the closet and took out a chemise -- I know the ritual, the desire, the secret, as the others can never know it. It is mine now.

"Stand back!"

He obeys, trembling, eyes stealing glimpses of me. I tear at his belt, drag his zipper down. "Show me. Let me see your shame."

He struggles with his trousers and his penis bursts out before his shorts fall. The glans is shiny slick. The shaft towers above his navel, pressed hard against his stomach. The thought of him inside me almost weakens my resolve. But the ritual must continue. The sense of power is as exciting as the thought of him inside me.

My voice is husky, firm with command. "Bend forward! Hands on the desk! Move your legs apart! Wider!" I grasp him with one gloved hand, the heat of him burning through the soft material. He groans, writhes in my grip. "Don't you dare lose control!"

His buttocks are tense, clenched. I grip him harder and bring the crop around in an arc. The crack is loud in the tiny room. He bolts forward, his penis thrusting into my gloved hand. Another stroke brings a cry from him. I plant my feet firmly, settling into a steady rhythm, gripping him tightly, my other arm a blur as the crop bites into his bare flesh, counting the faint pink stripes as they appear on his pale flesh.

Finally his legs buckle; he sinks to his knees. I am trembling, the crop dangling from my hand. Guy turns and shuffles forward to embrace my legs, burying his face in the dress, in my sex. I feel his lips, his mouth, grinding. A shudder runs through me, a tiny explosion of sensation. The room is quiet except for our hoarse breathing.

He gets to his feet, his eyes glazed. I reach for him but he whispers, "Please, I can't hold back!"

I turn to the desk where he has just been, bend forward, place my hands where his hands were. I turn my face to the mirror. The distorted tableau shimmers and ripples on the glass. The Victorian maid, her dress rucked up above her waist, the frilly drawers stretched tight across her swelling buttocks. Her lover, grasping himself with one hand while the other parts the slit in the drawers. His penis slowly disappears into the opening. He thrusts. Their mouths are open now, their moans mingled, their bodies fused, his hands on her hips, her gloved hands stretching behind searching for his bruised buttocks.

The image swims in my blurred vision as his flood gushes into me and I come with enough force to shatter a hundred mirrors.

Guy slowly collapses away from me, his whisper echoing along my throbbing nerve ends, "Oh Dana, Dana, Dana...," and I'm standing over him looking down, my breasts heaving in the snug bodice. I begin to peel off the gloves.

"I have papers to correct."

"Yes."

He is on his feet again, taking the clothes from me lovingly, brushing, folding. His eyes do not register my nudity. He closes the closet doors. In the mirror I am anonymous again in my everyday clothes. My body seems to shrink.

"There's an auction this weekend," he says, "one of the old houses. So many lovely things, ball gowns and lacy corsets--"

I smile at him. "I hope you'll bid on them. Tell me, do you think I'd look well in a ball gown?"

"Oh yes," he says, his eyes glazing. "Yes."

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