The Tattooed Saleswoman and My Dressing-Room Fantasy
One Saturday morning, Andrés walked into a clothing store in the shopping mall to buy himself a new shirt for an important meeting. Nothing out of the ordinary: he just wanted something decent that didn’t smell of mothballs. The store was nearly empty, soft music playing in the background, the smell of new fabric and cheap perfume.
And then he saw her.
Behind the counter was a girl in her early twenties, slender and petite, but incredibly put-together. Brown skin, Latina-looking, with a soft sheen that made him want to run his tongue over it. Short, tousled black hair, a tiny nose piercing that gave her a bad-girl edge. Delicate tattoos climbed both arms: flowers, snakes, symbols that disappeared beneath the short sleeves of her tight black T-shirt. On her long, elegant neck, a tattooed butterfly that seemed to come alive every time she turned her head.
Her lips were the worst of all: thick, full, painted a dark red that seemed to scream an invitation. Her tits, medium-sized but perfect, round and firm beneath the shirt, her nipples barely showing whenever she moved, as if asking for a mouth to bite them slowly.
She greeted him with a professional smile, her soft voice carrying an accent that might have been Colombian or something similar.
—Looking for anything in particular? —she asked.
Andrés muttered something about shirts, but he was already lost. He followed her with his eyes as she moved among the racks, swaying that small, firm ass inside a pair of tight jeans that outlined every last crease. Her long neck stretched when she reached for a garment up high, and the butterfly seemed to flutter.
He answered her in monosyllables. Medium size, light color, something formal but not too formal. She nodded, pulled shirts from the shelf, and unfolded them on the counter with slender fingers covered in cheap rings. Andrés pretended to look at the fabric, but in reality he was watching the butterfly move every time she tilted her head, and the ceiling light catch the gleam of her nose piercing.
Fuck. I didn’t come here for this.
And there, standing between shelves of folded cotton, with a checkered shirt in his hand and Monday’s meeting miles from his mind, Andrés began inventing what was never going to happen.
***
In his head, she suddenly turned and looked straight into his eyes with a smile that was no longer professional in the slightest.
—Come on, I’ll help you try it on —she told him softly—. But in the fitting room at the back, where it’s quieter.
Andrés followed her like an automaton. They entered the large fitting room and pulled the curtain closed. She hung the shirt on the hook, turned slowly, and pressed herself against him, her thick lips an inch from his mouth.
—I’ve seen you looking at my neck —she whispered—. Do you want to bite it while you fuck me?
He didn’t answer with words. He grabbed that long neck with one hand and sank his teeth in just below the tattooed butterfly, while with the other he lifted her black shirt and pulled out those medium-sized tits, brown, with dark nipples that hardened against his tongue when he sucked them hungrily.
She moaned softly, lowered his zipper, and pulled out his cock, already hard and throbbing.
—Look how hard you are —she said, rubbing it against her cheek—. Let’s see if I can fit all of it.
She knelt on the narrow fitting-room floor, her thick lips parted, and swallowed him all the way down in one go, gagging eagerly, looking up at him with those painted eyes while her tongue traced the veins and sucked his balls. Threads of saliva ran down her chin and fell onto the tits she still had out of her shirt.
—Seems like you haven’t come in months, papi —she whispered, pulling him out for a second and smearing her brown face with saliva before taking him all the way back in.
Andrés grabbed her short black hair and fucked her mouth with deep but controlled movements so he wouldn’t make any noise. He felt her gagging and didn’t stop anyway: he slipped one hand beneath her shirt, pinched her nipples, and rubbed her pussy through her jeans.
***
He hauled her to her feet, turned her around, and pressed her against the large fitting-room mirror. Her black shirt pushed up to her neck, her tits reflected in the glass, the tattoos on her arms gleaming beneath the cold light. He yanked down her tight jeans and panties to mid-thigh: her small, firm brown ass, her shaved crotch already glistening with desire. Her fleshy pussy, swollen lips, dripping as if she’d been thinking about this for hours.
He spread her buttocks, spat on her pussy, and buried two fingers inside her while biting her long neck, right where the butterfly trembled. She moaned against the mirror, fogging it with her hot breath, pushing backward to take more of his fingers.
—Eat me, you bastard —she panted—. Get your tongue in me before you blow me apart.
Andrés knelt behind her, spread that gorgeous ass wider, and drove his tongue straight into her juicy pussy. He sucked her lips, licked her swollen clit, and worked her asshole with one finger while she clung to the mirror and trembled, moaning softly so no one outside would hear. The butterfly on her neck seemed to flutter every time she arched her back.
He stood up, his cock purple with hardness, and rubbed it back and forth over her soaked slit. She turned her head and looked at him in the reflection, her thick lips parted.
—Put it in already —she begged—. I want you to fuck me against the mirror until I can’t walk.
***
Andrés grabbed her slender hips, lifted one leg, and drove into her with a single thrust, all the way to the hilt. She cried out muffled against the glass, her tits bouncing against the cold surface, her nipples brushing their own reflection as he began to pump: deep and fast, his balls slapping against that small ass with every thrust.
The entire fitting room smelled of sex. The mirror fogged with their breath. The tattoos seemed to move with every blow, the snakes on her arms twisting, the flowers opening and closing to the rhythm of their flesh. Outside, a couple of yards away, the soft music kept playing as if nothing were happening, and that turned him on even more.
She turned her head, her lips glistening with saliva, and growled through her moans:
—Harder. Break me and leave me to serve customers with my legs trembling.
He seized her tattooed arms, stretched them backward like reins, and sped up: in all the way, out almost completely, in again with a sharp impact that shook her slender body. With his other hand he rubbed her clitoris, fucking her without mercy while she trembled and soaked her brown thighs with hot wetness.
The saleswoman came hard, her pussy squeezing his cock in brutal contractions, moaning against the glass until she fogged it completely. Her tits bounced wildly, the tattoos on her arms pulled taut as if they were about to split.
Andrés couldn’t hold back anymore. After a month of normality, routine, keeping his head down, his cock throbbed swollen to its fullest inside that young, slippery pussy. He released her arms, gripped her long neck with one hand, squeezing just beneath the butterfly, covered her mouth with the other so she wouldn’t scream too loudly, and delivered his final thrusts like a madman: deep and brutal, making the fitting-room partition shake.
He drove all the way in one last time, growled against the nape of her neck as he bit the butterfly, and exploded: jet after jet, so forcefully that he felt himself overflowing around his cock. He stayed buried inside her, pulsing, emptying himself as if he hadn’t fucked in years, while she trembled beneath him, her pussy milking every drop.
They stayed like that for one endless second, panting, sticky, smelling of sex among the racks and hanging shirts.
***
—Everything all right in there? Do you need any more help with the size, or would you prefer another shirt?
The saleswoman’s real voice came from outside the curtain, soft and professional.
Andrés blinked. The mirror was clean, without a drop on it. The curtain was closed, but he was alone, standing with the shirt half-tried-on, his cock throbbing painfully hard inside his trousers, a wet patch soaking his underwear. Not a sound, not a smell, not a bite mark on anyone’s neck.
The real girl was waiting outside, oblivious to everything, with her polite smile and her tattoos motionless beneath the black shirt.
Andrés cleared his throat, his voice hoarse.
—Uh... no, thanks. I’ll take this one.
He paid quickly at the register, avoiding looking at her lips and neck, and left the store with the bag in his hand and his erection still straining against his trousers.
On the way home, without realizing it, he took the long street again, the one that went the scenic route.
Even though I’ve paid to fuck for real before, my mind is still my favorite: free, risk-free, always willing.
And Andrés knew he would never completely recover from that. Because in this life, sometimes the only thing you have left is the long way home: a hard cock and a head full of women you’ll never touch.
And that, in its own way, was what kept him alive. Or what slowly killed him.