Screwmates(28)

Didn’t mean I didn’t try.

I pulled this way; he pulled that way. I pulled again, grunting as I put more force into it. He pulled back, also with more force, but sans grunt. The awkward tug-of war continued until we were interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

With each of us still gripping the books between us, we turned in the direction of the sound. It was the heavily tattooed girl at the counter. She said nothing, but the look she gave us distinctly said, “No fighting or making porn in the store”.

Probably because the sign she was pointing at next to her literally said, “No fighting or making porn in the store.” It was so hard to have fun these days.

I let go of the books immediately. Marc took the opportunity to throw them in the cart. As we continued our slow, gawking stroll towards the lingerie, I had to wonder what had prompted the sign in the first place. Clearly at some point in the store’s history, someone had been so overcome with lust by the sight of so much pornography that they had been moved to create their own addition to the genre.

What a life.

Finally, we made it. Our cart may have been filled with textbooks and discreet marital aids, but we were still going to accomplish the original goal. I browsed the racks, carefully selecting a full coverage pushup bra in my size, and was busily trying to discover if the boyshorts were hiding behind the thongs when Marc bounced—literally bounced—up with a full armload of items for me.

“Hey there, Tigger,” I said, looking warily at his selections. Compared to those, the bra I’d picked out looked downright matronly. But also, really comfortable. I mean, if I was going to shell out my limited and hard-earned money on new bras, I did want to be able to wear them to work. But then I looked up at him, and he looked so excited and pleased with himself that I melted a little.

I mean. Who wouldn’t have, when confronted by those big, soft puppy-dog eyes?

So that’s how I managed to find myself in a dressing room at a store called Get It On, trying on g-strings over my normal underwear. Like all sexy ladies must do, apparently.

“Can I see? Are you going to come out?” Marc asked eagerly from behind the velvet curtain that served as the changing room door. I looked in the mirror. He could see the top bit only.

As carefully as I could, I wound just my upper body out, while draping the curtain around my waist, and stood at an awkward angle just in the doorway.

Marc gaped at me.

“Well, fine,” I said, completely offended. “I know I’m not an autumn, and this rust-colored lace isn’t necessarily right for me, but I thought it was still kind of…”

“Fuckhot,” Marc breathed. And that’s when I realized the gaping was the good kind. And that he couldn’t take his eyes off of my boobs. And that at long last, I finally had the power over him I’d been secretly longing for. It felt pretty amazing. So I dropped the curtain.

Well, you could practically have heard screeching tires, the sexed-up look left his face so fast.

“Are you wearing a thong on top of the boyshorts? I thought I told you I’m not interested in having sex with Superman!” God knows I am, though.

“Oh for the love of kryptonite, Marc. You can’t try undies on your bare parts. Not anywhere, but especially in a store like this!” I realized, too late, that the chick from the desk had moved back to supervise the dressing rooms. “No offense,” I muttered. She glared back.

I pulled the curtain shut again, as Marc craned trying to watch my chest again. It bolstered me enough to decide to get cheeky and try on a few of the other outfits he’d chosen. After all, just because these things weren’t totally my style wasn’t the point. The point was that they were clearly exciting to my screwmate, and he was the one I was seducing. So.

First up was a short satin nightie. I all but flung the curtain back once that one was on. I got two thumbs up. Next was a French maid costume. Wait, what? I popped my head back out.

“I thought we didn’t do dress-up?” I asked.

“Don’t judge me,” Marc said. So apparently his libido is stirred by only a certain variety of Halloween costume. Duly noted. I put the little butt-exposing dress on and silently thanked Lizzie for teaching all us girls about the virtues of doing squats regularly back in ninth grade. When I nervously opened the velvet and presented myself to Marc, I still wasn’t totally convinced he was being serious.

Then I saw the serious way his pants tightened. Holy of holies. He really did have an impressive dick. I couldn’t wait to touch it again, without my chin, without a tricky condom. Maybe with my mouth. Would he respond to that, to me sucking him, the way he was responding to my legs in this? I grabbed the feather tickler from the cart and held it like a duster, gently running it over his chest and moving slowly downwards. He moaned, his voice deep.

“Ahem,” came the long-suffering worker again, and suddenly I understood why you needed to have a “no-porn-making” sign in the store. I quickly scurried back into the changing room to deal with my last few options.

Slave Leia got tangled in my head for a moment. On one hand, it’s rape culture personified. On the other, Marc actually had a nerdy fantasy? I decided that my opportunity to school him on feminism could come later. Right then, it was just nice to find we were one step closer to having something in common besides an address.

Also, several new lacy lingerie sets made it into the cart. I really hoped the things weren’t as uncomfortable as I had always assumed. Then inspiration struck.