The Sales Clerk Who Couldn’t Stop Watching Me

I’d been turning it over in my head for days. Not because anyone had asked me to, but because the fantasy had grown on its own, with that stubborn slowness ideas have when you try to ignore them and they keep coming back. The previous week I’d walked past the shop without going in, just to look in the window, and I’d seen him in there through the glass: young, with dark hair cut without much judgment and that way of standing behind the counter that boys have when they still don’t quite know what to do with their bodies when they have nothing to do.

The shop was small. One of those old shopping arcades, with tiled floors and white lights that make everything seem more real than it is. Women’s clothes on the rails, fitting rooms at the back, a narrow counter near the entrance. The kind of place where, in the middle of a weekday afternoon, it could be perfectly empty for hours.

I’d kept thinking about that boy for days.

Not about him exactly. About the situation. About what might happen if I went in one quiet day with a clear idea and the right clothes. There was something about that fantasy that I found especially appealing: that it depended entirely on me. That I chose when, how, and how far. That I would be the one deciding whether the guy ended up with a hard cock in his pants while he watched me, and whether I let him get himself off or left him frustrated until he went to the bathroom to jerk off thinking about me.

It took me a few days to make up my mind. Not because I was scared, but because I wanted the moment to be right. I ran through the plan mentally several times: the clothes I’d wear over it, the clothes I’d wear underneath, the kind of items I’d ask to try on. I thought about the angles of the mirror, the fitting-room curtain, how to start the conversation without it seeming forced. I was meticulous about that sort of thing. I preferred to do it well or not at all.

I chose a Tuesday, mid-afternoon. I put on tight jeans and a simple T-shirt, nothing to draw attention from the outside. Underneath, though, I wore the black lace set I’d had tucked away for months for an occasion that never quite arrived: underwired bra and matching thong, both small and precise. The thong was so minimal it barely covered my pussy, and at the back it was a string that disappeared between my ass cheeks. I left the house without being entirely sure how far I was going to go. Curiously, that was what I liked most.

***

The shop was empty. Completely.

When I pushed the door open and the bell rang, the boy lifted his eyes from his phone and got to his feet almost at once, as if I’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. I figured him at twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. He was wearing a blue checked shirt with the first two buttons undone, and he had that expression of someone trying to look competent without having had much chance to practice yet.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

“Hi,” I replied, and started looking over the rails without rushing.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as I moved through the shop. He shifted around without really knowing what to do: whether to come over or stay where he was, whether to ask or wait for me to do it. I picked up a dress from a rail, looked at it with no real interest, and put it back. Picked up another. In the end, the boy decided to come over.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

I explained that I wanted something to go out at night in. Something provocative, but not too obviously so at first glance. As I spoke, I looked him in the eye calmly, and every couple of seconds he’d look away toward the rails, with that specific discomfort people have when they don’t know they’re being studied.

He started showing me options with slightly overdone enthusiasm. He pulled out dresses in different colors, a couple of tops with embroidery, a midi skirt I dismissed with a gesture. I settled on two dresses and two mini-skirt sets. I asked for the fitting room.

“At the back, on the right,” he said, pointing.

The cubicles were individual, with thick fabric curtains. The one I got was directly in front of a full-length mirror that he could see from the counter if he stood at the right angle. I’d noticed that before going in.

***

The first dress had a crossover neckline with the back completely bare. It was the one that interested me most from the start. I put it on without taking off my bra, on purpose. I wanted to see how he reacted before going any further.

I stepped out into the inner aisle and stood in front of the big mirror.

“What do you think?” I asked from there, without getting any closer yet.

He leaned out from behind the counter. He took a moment before answering.

“It looks really good on you. Although... with that neckline you might need a strapless bra. The strap shows quite a bit.”

“Do you think it could be worn without a bra altogether?”

He processed the question with a calm he was struggling to maintain. You could see him swallow.

“Depends,” he said. “On where you’re going and... yeah, it depends on a lot of things.”

“I’m going to try it on.”

I went back into the cubicle. I took off my bra slowly, folded it, and left it on the wooden bench. Before stepping out, I looked at myself in the small mirror inside: the crossover neckline changed completely without it. My nipples stood out hard against the thin fabric, and the slightest movement made the crossover opening show one whole breast from the side. Good. I pinched my nipples to make them even more erect before leaving. I wanted them to stick in his gaze.

I stepped out again.

This time I moved closer to the big mirror and started shifting around without any obvious purpose. I turned on myself to check the length. I bent down to pick up my bag from the floor. I stretched to see myself from another angle. Every gesture was calculated, though I tried not to make it seem that way.

I saw him in the reflection. He was standing by the counter with his arms slightly crossed and his eyes fixed on my tits. When I bent down, the neckline opened enough for my breasts to spill almost entirely out of the dress, with my nipples showing for an instant before the fabric fell back into place. He didn’t look away. I saw him subtly adjust himself at the crotch with one hand, squeezing the bulge beginning to form in his pants.

Perfect.

“I think it needs some adjustment here,” I said, pointing to the sides of the neckline, just below my breast. “Do you think the fabric could be taken in a little?”

He came over without much hesitation. He started pulling at the dress at the sides with careful hands, trying to see whether it would be possible to gather the fabric or pin it. His fingers brushed the edge of the neckline, a few centimeters from the naked skin of my breast. He wasn’t pressing, just testing, with that particular caution of someone who wants to touch but needs it not to look like he wants to touch. I deliberately breathed deeply, lifting and lowering my chest, so that the edge of the dress would brush his fingertips with each inhale.

With one of those movements, the knuckle of his index finger ended up resting directly on my nipple, with the fabric between us but with perfectly unmistakable pressure. He stayed there a fraction of a second longer than necessary. I felt the tip harden even more against his finger. He noticed too; I knew it by the way his breath caught.

He stayed like that for almost a full minute.

I didn’t move. I kept looking at the mirror as if I were assessing the result with a critical eye, though in reality I was paying attention to every detail of what was happening behind me in the reflection. To the bulge becoming more and more distinct in his pants. To the vein swelling in his neck. To the way his eyes kept dropping again and again from my face to the neckline and from there to the reflection of my ass outlined beneath the dress skirt.

“I don’t think there’s any way to do it without sewing it,” he said at last. His voice had gone half a register lower and he could barely hide the fact that he was breathing differently.

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “I’m going to try on the other dress.”

***

The second one was tight, black, very short. It showed everything, and I knew it perfectly well. I put it on in the cubicle and came out without announcing myself, standing directly in front of the big mirror without saying a word. The fabric was so thin that my ass showed through it, and the waistband of the thong stood out pale, cutting across the flesh of my ass.

He came over this time without my saying a single word.

“How’s this one?”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking at my hip. “Can you see my underwear? With this fabric so tight I’m not sure it shows too much.”

“Let me see.”

He stood behind me and studied the reflection with that exaggerated concentration people have when they’re trying not to look exactly at what they’re looking at. I imagined him pressing against me, grinding his hard cock against my ass over his pants. He didn’t do it. Not yet.

“A little at the top of the waistband,” he said. “But you really have to look closely to see it.”

“Where exactly? I can’t really see it from here.”

He bent slightly and ran his index finger along the top line of the thong, tracing the contour over the dress fabric from one side of my hip to the other. He did it slowly, calmly, and when he reached the center the pressure of his hand was real and definite, anything but casual. The whole palm opened against my hip. His thumb wandered on its own to the base of my ass cheek.

“Here,” he said.

“The fabric has such a nice feel to it,” I replied, not moving.

A silence of three or four seconds.

His hand slid a few centimeters lower, covering the curve of my whole ass cheek. He squeezed it softly, measuring. He kept it there, still. I breathed in deeply and pushed my ass back just half a centimeter into his palm, enough for him to realize it didn’t bother me, that if he wanted to he could keep going. He still took another moment before taking his hand away, with a calm he had to force on himself. As he withdrew, his fingers brushed my ass crack over the fabric.

Neither of us said anything.

“I’m going to look at it from the side,” I said, and turned. The bulge in his pants was unmistakable now: a hard cock outlined from top to bottom against the fabric, pointing upward, tilted to one side. It stayed at my eye level for two or three long seconds before he realized and turned half his body away. I smiled at him without saying anything.

“And from the front?” I asked, facing the mirror again.

He moved back behind me. This time I really did feel his breath at my neck. He was close. Very close. The tip of the hard bulge barely touched the small of my back, a brief brush he immediately pulled away from as if he’d burned himself.

“Your whole body shows,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“It’s exactly what I’m looking for,” I answered, looking at him through the mirror.

***

I decided that was enough for that afternoon.

I hadn’t been convinced by either dress. Nor had I really intended to buy anything from the start. That was never the point.

I went back into the cubicle with the clothes in my arms and pulled the curtain a little harder than necessary, just enough for it to stay partially open without closing all the way. I took the black dress off over my head slowly, knowing the angle of the little mirror sent my image back through the gap in the curtain. I stayed with my back to the opening, still wearing the thong and nothing else. My breasts were bare, my nipples still hard, my ass barely covered by the thong string. I pretended to be rummaging for something inside my bag.

“Hey, what time is it?” I asked out loud.

“Six twenty,” he answered from the counter.

“I can’t hear you well, can you say it again?”

I heard his footsteps coming closer. He stopped exactly at the angle where the half-open curtain allowed a view into the cubicle. Through the small mirror I saw him stand completely still. He repeated the time in a voice a little lower than it had been all afternoon, and I kept rifling through my bag without turning around, giving him the time he needed to let the image sink in properly.

I gave him even more. I bent forward as if something had fallen to the bottom of my bag, with my knees straight, leaving my ass nailed to his gaze. The thong disappeared entirely between my ass cheeks and the lips of my cunt were outlined underneath, swollen, wet inside. I knew exactly what he was looking at. I held it there for three long seconds.

When I straightened up, I heard his breath catch for an instant. Then his footsteps moved away slowly, with barely disguised haste. I imagined him going back to the counter with a cock like a stone in his pants, unable to hide it, looking for something to do with his hands.

Then I got dressed slowly, gathered my things, and left.

I handed the clothes back with an easy smile. He was red to the ears and wouldn’t look me in the eye. I dropped my gaze for a second, with no attempt at hiding it, toward his crotch: the bulge was still there, just a little more discreet because he’d shifted it to one side.

“Thanks for your help. In the end I’m going to think about it.”

“Of course,” he said. “Come back anytime.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” I told him.

“For me too,” he replied. And he said it in a very particular way that made it clear he was talking about exactly what it seemed he was talking about.

***

I went out into the street with that particular feeling you get after doing something you’ve been planning for a long time: a mix of quiet satisfaction and wanting more. My panties were soaked. I could feel how the wetness had seeped through the lace of the thong and was sticking to my thighs with every step. The heat that had built up over the hour the whole thing lasted didn’t go away when I crossed the door. It settled in while I walked, organizing itself into concrete, precise images: his face in the reflection when I bent down the first time, the knuckle resting on my nipple through the fabric, the long minute with his hands brushing the edge of the neckline, the exact moment his finger traced the line of the thong from one side of my hip to the other, the hard cock outlined against his pants while he watched my bent-over ass.

I got home with my cunt burning. I threw myself onto the bed without taking off my jeans, undid the button, and slipped my hand inside the thong. Everything was wet, slick, swollen. I found my clit with my middle finger and started rubbing it in quick circles, my mouth open against the pillow. In my head I had the whole scene replaying: the boy behind me with his hand on my ass, squeezing; the boy bending in front of me pulling a breast out of the neckline and sucking my nipple; the boy coming on my tits while I watched him from below, kneeling on the fitting-room floor, his cock in my hand. I shoved two fingers deep into my cunt, my palm pressing on my clit, and came in less than a minute, biting the pillowcase so I wouldn’t scream. The orgasm lasted several long seconds, my legs closed tight around my own hand.

I had held back. I was completely aware of that. I’d played with an advantage and stopped before the point of no return, which was exactly what I wanted to do the first time. Not because I didn’t want to go further, but because I knew anticipation has its own pleasure, different and more lasting than anything else that could have happened between those curtains.

The boy in the shop didn’t really know what had happened exactly, or maybe he did but didn’t have the right words for it. What was certain was that afternoon wasn’t going to leave his head easily. I was sure that as soon as I’d crossed the arcade door he’d gone into the shop bathroom and jerked off thinking about my tits, my ass, the cunt he’d seen take shape under the thong. He’d been a good watcher without meaning to. I’d been a good sight without seeming like it.

That was exactly what I liked.

I’d be back. That had already been decided before I stepped out the door.

Next time I’d wear something with nothing underneath, or I’d just go in and see how far the two of us could get now that we’d already established, without saying it out loud, the tacit rules of the game. Next time I’d let him touch my tits with no fabric in between. Let him slide his hand inside my thong in the fitting room and make me come standing up against the mirror, with his other hand covering my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. Let him pull out his cock and put it in my mouth right there, in the cubicle, me kneeling on the floor with the curtain half open. There was something especially satisfying about thinking of it that way: in that he hadn’t broken anything either. That he’d come right up to the edge and stayed there, waiting for a signal I’d decided not to give him yet.

Better that way. I’d decide the next chapter too.

For now, it was more than enough to know that I could. That I’d walked into an empty shop with one fixed idea in my head and left with exactly what I wanted, even if my hands hadn’t been carrying any purchase.