The Tattooed Saleswoman and My Dressing-Room Fantasy

One Saturday morning, Andrés went into a clothing store in the shopping mall to buy a new shirt for an important meeting. Nothing out of the ordinary: he just wanted something decent that didn’t smell like mothballs. The place was almost empty, soft music playing in the background, the smell of new fabric and cheap perfume in the air.

And then he saw her.

Behind the counter was a girl in her early twenties, slim and small, but incredibly put together. Brown skin, Latina-looking, with a soft sheen that made you want to run your tongue over it. Short, tousled black hair, a tiny nose piercing that gave her a bad-girl vibe. Delicate tattoos climbed both arms: flowers, snakes, symbols disappearing beneath the short sleeves of her tight black T-shirt. On her long, elegant neck, a tattooed butterfly that seemed to come to life every time she turned her head.

The worst thing of all was her lips: full, fleshy, painted a deep red that seemed to scream invitation. Her tits, medium-sized but perfect, round and firm under the T-shirt, her nipples just barely showing when she moved, as if asking for a mouth to bite them slowly.

She greeted him with a professional smile, her voice soft with an accent that could have been Colombian or something like it.

—Looking for something specific? —she asked.

Andrés mumbled something about shirts, but he was already lost. He watched her as she moved among the hangers, swaying that small, firm ass in 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 in monosyllables. Medium size, light color, something formal but not too formal. She nodded, took shirts off the shelf, unfolded them on the counter with slender fingers full of cheap rings. Andrés pretended to look at the fabric, but really he was watching how the butterfly moved every time she tilted her head, and how the overhead light lit up the shine of the nose piercing.

Fuck. I didn’t come here for this.

And there, standing among shelves of folded cotton, with a plaid shirt in his hand and Monday’s meeting miles from his head, Andrés started inventing what was never going to happen.

***

In his head, she suddenly turned and looked him straight in the eye with a smile that no longer had anything professional about it.

—Come on, I’ll help you try it on —she said softly—. But in the fitting room at the back, it’s quieter there.

Andrés followed her like an automaton. They went into the big fitting room and pulled the curtain closed. She hung the shirt on the hanger, turned slowly, and pressed herself against him, her full lips a centimeter 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, sank his teeth in just below the tattooed butterfly, and with the other lifted her black T-shirt and pulled out those medium-sized brown tits, with dark nipples that hardened on his tongue when he sucked them hungrily.

She moaned softly, unzipped him, and pulled out his cock, already hard and throbbing.

—Look at how hard you are —she said, rubbing it against her cheek—. Let’s see if I can take the whole thing.

She knelt on the narrow fitting-room floor, her full lips opened, and took him all the way down in one go, gagging greedily, looking up at him with those painted eyes while her tongue ran over his veins and sucked his balls. Strings of saliva slipped down her chin and fell onto the tits she still had out of the T-shirt.

—Looks like you haven’t come in months, daddy —she whispered, pulling off him for a second, smearing her brown face with spit before taking him all the way back in.

Andrés grabbed her short black hair and fucked her mouth with deep but controlled thrusts, so as not to make noise. He could feel her gagging and still she didn’t stop: she slipped a hand under her T-shirt, pinched her nipples, and rubbed her pussy over her jeans.

***

He lifted her abruptly, stood her up, and turned her against the big fitting-room mirror. The black T-shirt bunched up to her neck, her tits reflected in the glass, the tattoos on her arms gleaming under the cold light. He yanked down her tight jeans and panties in one pull to mid-thigh: the small, firm, brown ass, the shaved crotch already shining with desire. The fleshy cunt, swollen lips, dripping as if she’d been thinking about it for hours.

He spread her cheeks, spat on her cunt, and shoved 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 back to take more fingers.

—Eat me, you bastard —she panted—. Put your tongue in me before you make me explode.

Andrés knelt behind her, opened up that gorgeous ass even more, and buried his tongue straight in her wet cunt. He sucked her lips, licked her swollen clit, worked her asshole with a finger while she clung to the mirror and shook, moaning softly so no one would hear her outside. The butterfly on her neck seemed to flutter every time she arched her back.

He got back up, his cock purple from how hard it was, and rubbed it over her soaked slit a couple of times. She turned her head and looked at him through the reflection, her full 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 narrow hips, lifted one leg, and rammed into her in one stroke to the hilt. She let out a muffled cry against the glass, her tits bouncing against the cold surface, nipples brushing her own reflection while he started to drive in and out: deep, fast, his balls slapping that small ass with every thrust.

The whole fitting room smelled like sex. The mirror was fogging up with both their breath. The tattoos seemed to move with every удар, the snakes on her arms writhing, the flowers opening and closing to the rhythm of flesh. Outside, a couple of meters away, the soft music kept playing like nothing was happening, and that made it even hotter.

She turned her head, lips wet with saliva, and growled between moans:

—Harder. Break me and let me go out serving customers with my legs shaking.

He grabbed her tattooed arms, stretched them back like reins, and sped up: in all the way, out almost all the way, in again with a dry slap that shook her whole slender body. With his other hand he rubbed her clit, fucking her without mercy while she trembled and got hot and wet down her brown thighs.

The salesgirl came hard, her cunt clamping down on his cock in brutal contractions, moaning against the glass until it was completely fogged up. Her tits bounced wildly, the tattoos on her arms taut as if they were about to snap.

Andrés couldn’t hold back anymore. After a month of normality, routine, and keeping his head down, his cock throbbed at maximum swelling inside that young, slippery cunt. He let go of her arms, grabbed her long neck with one hand, squeezing just below the butterfly, covered her mouth with the other so she wouldn’t scream too much, and gave the last thrusts like a madman: deep, brutal, making the fitting-room wall shudder.

He drove in to the hilt one more time, growled against her nape biting the butterfly, and exploded: stream after stream, so hard he could feel it overflowing around his cock. He stayed buried there, pulsing, emptying himself as if he hadn’t fucked in years, while she trembled beneath him, her cunt squeezing out every last drop.

They stayed like that for one eternal second, panting, sticky, smelling of sex among hangers and hanging shirts.

***

—Everything all right in there? Do you need help with the size, or would you prefer another shirt?

The real salesgirl’s voice cut in from outside the curtain, soft and professional.

Andrés blinked. The mirror was clean, not a drop on it. The curtain was closed, but he was alone, standing there with the shirt half tried on, his cock throbbing painfully hard inside his pants, a wet patch soaking his underwear. Not a sound, not a smell, not a single teeth mark on any neck.

The real girl was waiting outside, oblivious to everything, with her polite smile and her tattoos still beneath the black T-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 pants.

On the way home, without realizing it, he took the long street again, the one that made the detour.

Even if I’ve paid to fuck for real at some point, my favorite thing is still in my head: free, no risks, always ready.

And Andrés knew he was never going to fully get over that. Because in this life, sometimes the only thing you have left is the long way home: your cock hard and your head full of women you’ll never touch.

And that, in its own way, was what kept him alive. Or what killed him slowly.