|How I Lost My Job
by Curioser ©
I didn't like the damn job anyway. Or so I told myself. Fact is, I'd have traded a hundred thousand dollar a year career job for what happened that evening.
It's one of your nicer clothing stores, on the avenue, haute-couture type designer rags - very posh and ridiculously expensive. I'd been there only a few months but I enjoyed working with the public.
She came in late one Wednesday night, five minutes to closing. I was on the floor, the boss had split already, and I wanted to get outta there too. In fact, I had the "Closed" sign up, but she ignored it.
You know, sometimes in your life, there are connections made that are instantaneous, intense and so natural you're almost certain you've met the person before, like, in a past life or something.
And so it was with Monica.
I could almost hear an audible click when she looked up at me and smiled that first time. We clicked. The first thing I noticed was her nose - very cute - then her eyes - twinkling with pure life-energy.
"Can I help you?" I tried to make that line sound like something I hadn't already said four hundred and forty two times that day.
She smiled that smile, kind of crooked, no less than a hundred fifty watts of mischievous light shining through. "Do you have this in my size?" She held up what must have been a $900 dress, a slinky black thing.
"What size are you?" God, I hoped I wasn't too obvious as I used the excuse of dress size to size up the body hiding under the baggy but intriguing clothes she had on.
"I'm not sure." She saw me looking, I know she did. And I've since learned that there are very few women in the world who don't know their dress size.
My mind was spinning really fast, saying: possibilities, possibilities, be cool, my man, be cool. "I can, um, do a quick measurement, um, if you don't, well, mind."
She laughed. "You're not a pervert, are you?"
I laughed back, and lied straight out, "Not at work." I pulled a tape measure out from under the counter and I swear my heart jumped 10 inches straight up, like a startled cat, into my throat when she raised her arms above her head to allow me to wrap the tape around her chest.
"What's your name?"
"Monica. What's yours?"
"Pleased to meet you, Monica. Tanner."
I slipped the tape down around her belly and I could feel myself falling, falling, falling, tumbling head over heels over a gorgeous bundle of possibilities named Monica.
By the time I finished measuring her hips I was in full exhilarating freefall over her.
"Well?" she asked. For a moment I thought she wanted me to give her my honest reaction to what her body was doing to my insides - turning them into quivering Jello, in fact. But my wits returned quickly, and I pulled a dress from the rack. "This is you," I offered it to her, "the dressing room is in the back." I nodded in the direction behind the main showroom.
She began to walk, no, she "sashayed" down the aisle toward the back. And as she did, she began to select other dresses, tops, skirts, etc. "I'll try this too. And this. Ooo, nice. Oh yes, this one too." She ended up with about $4500 worth of high fashion when she finally got to the dressing room. I was trying not to act too much like a helpless puppy dog as I followed, but I was really enjoying this woman.
She disappeared into the dressing room and a moment later I heard her singing. My mouth was dry, my heart was dancing a flamenco stomp in my chest, and my cock was straining against the fabric of my slacks like a puppy dog trying to fight its way out of a paper sack, throb, bump, push, "arf, arf, hey lemme outa here!"
Down, boy. Oh god, it was no use.
Any attempt at coolness and disinterest evaporated like the proverbial snowball in hell when Monica came back out in that black dress. Mercy. Fire alarm bells went off in my brain, I felt the blood rush to my face, and the room got really hot all of a sudden.
She pranced out, did a little spin as though she was on a runway in Paris, and then wiggled that butt all the way back to the dressing room, throwing a coy look over her shoulder as she disappeared. For a moment I was stunned, then I applauded, whistled, and howled my approval. Did I say anything about cool? Not.
For the next half hour, Monica worked her way through a couple more dresses - oh about $3500 worth. When she got to the silk mini, the most expensive dress in the store, I gave her some nice seamed stockings with a garter belt. The vision of her in that $12000 dress is burned in my memory banks for all time.
"Do you like?" she twirled in front of me where I sat on a display case.
"'Like' is kind of tame, Monica. How about, 'Rip off all my clothes and howl at the moon like a madman'?"
She smiled like a kid who's about to steal a handful of candy, then turned around, pulled up the back of the dress and bent over, smiling back at me through a lock of hair hanging down across her eyes.
I should have died right there of pure raw total wild joy. I guess I have a strong heart because the jolt it received when I saw the garter belt and the red lace panties was about the same as if I'd grabbed a high-tension wire.
I don't remember how I got there, but I found myself kneeling down and my lips making contact with the smooth, warm texture of Monica's firm, round ass.
"You like?" she smiled at me.
"I like. Exquisite." I ran a hand up the seam of the stockings and then stroked my palm across the swelling globe of her butt cheeks.
"Mmmmmm," she purred, deep in her throat. Monicat - pure silky feline sexuality.
Sometimes life just burns on 'low', days go by with a few bright moments, and you hardly notice the passage of time. Then there are times when the world stands absolutely still, suspended for an eternity in one moment, and life burns with a white-hot intensity, searing you in a fire of desire and passion hotter'n you ever thought possible.
And your life changes. Monica did that to me.
I laid her down on a table on top of a bed of $290 mohair sweaters with $165 silk scarves draped all around us. I kissed my way up her thighs then pulled that dress up as far as I could, so her breasts were free. I took a scarf and lightly brushed it over her nipples and tits, silk on silk, smooth on smoother. I leaned down to kiss her belly button, and ran the scarf over her panty-covered crotch.
Her legs parted as though on their own and her knees rose. I palmed the scarf and stroked it over her stomach. She reached down and wiggled out of the red panties and I ran the silk up between the furrow of her pussy, lingering a moment at the top of her slit to let her revel in the sensation of the delicate fabric on her hardened clit.
I moved up to gaze into the big wet pools of her eyes. "Monica, Monicat," I whispered, "got one more fitting for you." I met her lips with mine and took a deep taste of her. She arched up , her whole body fusing against me.
I played that soft scarf, now getting wet, over her cunt, pushing a little in at a time, then pulling it out slowly, until she was whimpering and her hips were sort of rotating and humping of their own volition.
I wanted more. I rose and, from the nearby racks, began grabbing evening dresses, a couple of formal gown things, a whole rackfull of silken pj's, scooping up all the chic-est, smooth and finest of finery to make a nest of the best wearables and raiments the world had to offer. She was giggling as I tossed hangars every which way while strutting and prancing around the store, stacking up the designer duds all around her. Finally, I leapt up on the stand where she lay and gazed down at her near-naked body spread atop all that over-priced frippery. She was still laughing a little, but she opened her legs a bit more by way of an invitation to a high-fashion ball I could not pass up.
When finally I settled in between her legs and my cock nudged those pouty pussy lips apart, she was purring and panting intermittently. When I slid into her wetness, felt the warm grip of her clutching vaginal walls around my pulsating hardness, I groaned and I swear, I knew from that moment on, life would never be the same. Everything changed. Well, my job did anyway.
I remember images, visions: she biting her lower lip as I plunged relentlessly into her; the muscles of her throat undulating in time to her panting; her hair spread out on a midnight blue satin night gown; she kissing my nipples; the way her body shivered from the impact of my hips slamming hers; the sound and feel of silky dresses and evening wear on naked skin; her head thrown back in bliss; the long, raggedy moan sighing from deep inside her at the moment of release; her cunt becoming impossibly hot and wet; then the world imploded and from somewhere inside me, somewhere I'd never even known existed, I erupted in a volcanic explosion of cum and I poured myself, my heart, my soul, my spirit and my very essence, through my cock and into her body. I had a vision as I came, I saw in my mind's eye my cum spewing into her womb, spreading throughout her entire body like molten magma.
I don't remember the next few moments, but I awoke to find myself buried in the arms and cunt of an angel. She was cooing at me, stroking my hair.
Then I remember
the sound of my boss's voice. But that's not the way I want to end this
story. That's where it began. The end of this story isn't written. I'm
still living in the middle of this tale. I'm still in the arms and spreading
wings of an angel.
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