Valentine's day is coming up so it's time to remind myself of my festively themed story Shot to the Heart, which is all about a lingerie-buying session...
He took me to Curzon’s, which is a big old-fashioned department store of the sort you don’t see much about anymore: a family-owned business rather than part of a chain, and just a bit run-down. It’s the Land that Fashion Forgot. I don’t shop there myself; its clientele is mostly the dowdy middle-aged who remember it from their own childhood. Because this was a weekday morning there weren’t many customers in and we had the big open-plan floors almost to ourselves. We wandered through the jewellery sections and crockery and perfume. Oliver held my hand and said very little, just smiled slyly. I let him enjoy being mysterious.
Then he led me up the stairs to the fourth floor and into the lingerie department and I was amazed to find that those dull middle-aged women had a real good thing going with their underwear. The department was big – and the stock wasn’t all designed to fit anorexic waifs either. All the labels had French or Italian names on. There were basques and corsets and girdles and stockings and bras of every shape and size – bras to make you look big and bras to make you look small, naughty nighties and control garments and suspender belts. I’ve never seen so much lace all in one place.
‘See anything you like?’ Oliver asked. ‘My treat.’
‘You sure?’
‘Oh it will be,’ he promised, brushing his lips to my ear and biting gently at the lobe. I shivered. I started to look through the racks of bras, falling instantly in love with the different colours of contrasting lace. A female shop assistant with a face like a wet weekend drifted over in our direction.
‘Can I help you at all?’
‘We’re fine,’ said Oliver cheerily. He had the right accent for that kind of place. She looked us over and then retreated to her counter again as a tweedy-looking lady went up to ask for help. I smiled to myself, stroking a longline slip of red satin slashed to the waist, and failing to imagine the tweedy woman wearing anything like this in a hundred years. I had a push-up bra in dark purple with lavender trim in one hand, and another in wild hues of blue and turquoise and pretty appliquéd flowers in the other, when Oliver came over with his own choice of garment.
‘I’d like to see you in this as well,’ he said softly.
It was a single-piece body made to look like a ruched Victorian corset, with definite hints of burlesque. The chestnut satin of the side panels was overlaid in peach lace and there were plentiful trimmings of black ribbons and suspender straps. I could imagine how I’d look in it and my mouth watered.
‘Are you sure, Ol? This stuff is pretty expensive.’
‘Valentine’s present. You had a look at the knickers yet?’ He drew me gently toward those racks and away from the assistant.
‘I bet you want me in itty bitty thongs, don’t you?’ I giggled.
‘Nope. I don’t have a thing for string.’ He turned slightly so that his back was to the counter and anyone watching, and lowered his voice to a warm murmur. ‘What I like is those ones with the full panel of lace at the front, all sweet and pretty, and then you turn around and at the back they’re cut high so that your beautiful round bum cheeks peek out from beneath the lace band, almost bared.’ He was starting to sound a little throaty. ‘It’s like the curtain going up on the stage at the theatre. Oh god, Nikki, that just drives me crazy.’
‘Everything drives you crazy,’ I countered as he brushed up against me, gentle but very deliberate.
‘Everything about you, anyway.’ He took my hand – the one not laden with hangers full of frillies – and pressed it reverently to the front of his jeans. He had a semi on already – a hard curve of flesh that surged up against the fabric and against my fingers. He wanted me but bad, I had to admit, and that eagerness was arousing in the most primal way. I licked my lips. I wanted to rub him harder, but a department store wasn’t exactly the right place.
‘Here,’ he said, handing me four pairs of panties. ‘Now head that way. To the changing room. Quickly! While she’s busy!’
Trying to look nonchalant, we wound our way between the racks to the back corner of the building where the changing rooms were. In a more modern store there would have been some sort of security, but this place was old fashioned and understaffed. There was just an outer door and, inside, three cubicles. Oliver hurried me into the far cell and shut the door on us before catching me up in teasing kiss, all tongue and promise. I wriggled my hips, grinding against him. Two can play at teasing. I was pleased to feel him gasp in response and grow harder.
‘You’re such a horny git,’ I complained happily.
‘Only because you’re so deliciously fuckable,’ he countered.
It was a fair cop: I was already well into the tickly, squirmy stage, and just the pressure of his hands and his crotch against me was making me burn. I giggled softly.
‘Coat off,’ he whispered, laying his own on the bench and sitting on it. I looked down at him, pouting, then wriggled out of my coat in a mock-stripper style to reveal the less-than-sexy layers underneath: a fine grey jersey-cotton top and a red plaid skirt over thick black tights.
‘You going to watch me try on my presents?’ I asked, though I thought it obvious. But he shook his head. His eyes were intent on some secret, serious purpose.
‘Take your skirt off.’
I unzipped and obeyed, half-smiling but starting to catch his mood. I was embarrassed about my woolly tights, which were rather more practical than sensual, but Oliver didn’t seem to be put off. He rolled them carefully down my legs, and helped me step out of my boots before tossing the tights aside. I stood before him bare-thighed, the mirrored iterations of my legs arrayed around him.
One lucky point in my favour: out of all the panties I own - from lacy wisps to striped shorts to polka-dotted cotton (and even the stretched grey overwashed ones that every girl has at the back of her drawer for emergency use) – I’d donned this morning a pair in the style he liked best: full cover at the front and even down over the crease of the thigh, but cut high over the cheeks behind. These were plain black and very soft and flimsy, and my cheeks seemed to glow in contrast to their sober hue. My ass is far from skinny, but it was only under Oliver’s admiring attentions that I’d come to really appreciate those full, peachy globes. I gave him a twirl to demonstrate my good taste in panties, and in the mirrors my reflections twirled too.
Quickly he caught me and pulled my bottom to his face, kissing first one cheek then the other, just below the delicately scalloped edge of the cloth. I gasped a little as his hand slipped up between my thighs, encouraging me to widen my stance and part them, for which he rewarded me by cupping the mound of my sex. His hot breath and reverent lips and his moist tongue-tip roamed over the curves of my bottom, his other hand stroking up under the line of my panties until I was flustered and breathing hard. His thumb stroked my pussy lips through the silky fabric, working magical changes on and inside me.
‘Oliver,’ I whispered frantically. If he kept this up I was going to forget all my dignity.
You can find Shot to the Heart in the e-collecion of the same name:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Kobo
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