Maria Segreti
13 mins read
Published about 2 years ago

sat in the parking lot for a few minutes before mustering the courage to go in. I hated shopping for bras. The last time had been four- no, five years ago, and I cried all the way home. The elderly fitting lady had been sweet, pulling every option she had for me, but they were all hideous beige nightmares that cost more than my weekly groceries.

I had tried buying online. The color selection for my size was significantly better there, but I hated ordering without being able to try things on. They never fit right, and all I ended up with was an errand back to the post office, wearing my sad, worn-out sports bras under a t-shirt, as always.

The mannequins in the window were classy. One was wearing a cute gingham set, and the other had on a subtly sexy black nightgown. It wasn’t so risque that it couldn’t be displayed on the street, but it piqued my interest. Not that I had anyone to wear it for, but I deserved to feel sexy for myself, right?

I still sighed as I dragged myself from the car. I didn’t belong here. I was wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, perfect for the cooling fall weather. Thank god it was getting to be sweater weather again, when big and baggy could still look sort of chic.

The door was silent as I walked in. I didn’t hear any kind of bell, but a gorgeous woman appeared from a back hallway the moment I entered. She was an average height, but graceful and sophisticated, her jet black braids tied back in a knot on her head. She was wearing a white silk shirt that looked absolutely stunning against the deep tones of her skin. 

She was intimidating.

“Hi,” she said, in a lighter tone than I was expecting. “Can I help you find anything?”

“I’m just going to browse.”

“Okay, please let me know if you need anything. I’m happy to help.” She walked to the other side of the room, and rearranged a few items behind the counter. I couldn’t help but notice the sway of her hips as she moved. I wished I could pull off a pencil skirt like that.

I shuffled around the displays, debating, not knowing where to look. Last time I was here, the DD+ bras were all in the back corner, their droopy, offensively neutral cups looking ridiculous next to the adorable pinks and purples intended for everyone else. Now, though, that back corner was filled with lacy, satiny things and strappy pieces that I didn’t even understand.

“When is the last time you were fitted?” The sales clerk startled me from across the room. She was studying me, probably because it was all too obvious that I didn’t know what I was doing.

“A few years ago,” I admitted. “I’m a 38 DDD.”

“No you aren’t,” she said. “I can tell from here. I have a knack for it. I think you look more like a 34 F, maybe a G.”

Did sizes even go that high? 

“No, no,” I said, “I don’t think so, it’s the shirt, it makes me look-”

“Nope. You have to trust me,” she said coming around to a rack of cute polka dot bras to my left. “Try this.” She handed me a molded bra that I would have never picked on my own. Not because it wasn’t cute, but because it looked like it was made for someone with magazine worthy, perfectly bouncy tits. Mine had a more realistic relationship with gravity.

“I don’t think…”

“Trust me,” she said again, and laid a hand on my arm. “It’ll change your life.” She grabbed a few others on her way back down the hallway towards a curtained fitting room. I followed her, not convinced, but too polite and awkward to say anything. 

“I’m pretty good at guessing,” she mentioned again, “but just in case, let me measure you. I might need to grab a different band size.” She pulled a measuring tape from a hook on the wall and ushered me into the changing space. 

A heavy red curtain closed behind us, and I placed my purse on the chair in the corner. The room wasn’t very big, maybe five by five, and I was acutely aware of her standing so close to me.

She hung her choices on the bar along the wall. There were a handful of regular t-shirt bras, but she’d also grabbed a few more dramatic pieces, like a sheer blue lace number and a red, shimmery longline, that had clips for some kind of garters.

I gulped.

“Go ahead and take off your shirt,” she said. “I’ll need to measure your rib cage, and then we’ll take your bra off.”

I blushed a deep scarlet.

This felt totally different than last time, when the grandmotherly fitter had held up a couple of bras over my shirt and announced my size before leading me back to the old lady section. I hesitantly pulled my shirt over my head, thankful that I couldn’t see the sales clerk as I bared my body to her.

My skin was white anyway, but my stomach hadn’t seen the sun in a decade and I was all too aware of how pasty and pale I looked under the fluorescent lights. When I emerged from my sweatshirt, though, the lights had been dimmed to a more flattering glow.

“The regular lights make everyone look like hell,” the clerk laughed. The sound was smoky, sensual and easy.

I nodded, not sure what else to say. She pressed the cool tape against my skin and leaned in close before announcing that her 34 guess had been correct. At this distance, I could smell her perfume, something flowery and light. My heart started to beat faster, and I hoped she couldn’t hear it in the confines of this tiny, dim room.

“Do you feel comfortable taking off your bra?” she asked gently, in a huskier voice than before. “It’ll give me a better idea of cup size, but if you don’t want to-”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I stammered. My fingers were shaking slightly as I reached behind me to undo the clasps. I had a fleeting image of her helping me, skimming my shoulders with her nails as she freed me from the uncomfortable elastic.

This poor woman. She was just trying to do her job, and here I was, fantasizing about her in the most personal of ways. She wasn’t interested in me. She just wanted to measure me, sell me a few bras and go on with her day. I could lust after her later, when I was alone with my vibrator.

I turned, bare from the waist up, to face her. My nipples tightened in the cool air, or maybe that was just a convenient excuse. I thought I caught a quick flash of the clerk’s tongue on her bottom lip, but it was likely my imagination. I needed to get it together. She placed the tape around my back, fingertips brushing ever so slightly against my skin.

“Yep,” she said, slightly breathless, “Right again. A 34F should fit you perfectly.” She didn’t move the tape, but raised her eyes to mine. “You have a truly stunning figure, you shouldn’t hide it.”

“It’s not like anyone’s looking,” I said.

She made a little noise of disagreement in her throat and shrugged, “That you know of.” She caught my eye again, but quickly looked away.

It hung in the air between us, something electric and almost tangible, the feeling of possibility, of hope. We stood there, frozen, in the intimate velvet cocoon, the sound of our breath and my heartbeat pounding in my head.

She shook herself gently and got back to business.

She had me try on her choices and I was shocked to find that she was right. My waist looked smaller, my boobs looked amazing, and I felt like I had grown a few inches, simply from standing taller. 

By the last one, the red one, I was feeling pretty good. The sales clerk flattered me with compliments, but I was sure she did that for everyone.

She helped me with the hooks of the long line bra. It fit like a corset and I admired myself in the mirror. I had never felt so sexy, or worthy of lingerie this stunning.

“It suits you,” said the clerk. She reached out, like she wanted to stroke the material, but pulled back and rubbed her hand against her skirt nervously.

She bit her thumbnail, studying me again, and I cocked a hip, showing off in a rare and unexplained burst of confidence. “I love it,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

She nodded approvingly, and helped me wiggle free. “I’m sure your boyfriend will love it too,” she said, a hint of wistfulness hidden in her tone.

“Oh, I don’t have- no,” I stumbled over the words. “It’s not like that.”

She raised a sculpted eyebrow at me.

“I’m not into… anyone.” How much was I willing to tell this stranger at the lingerie store?

“I see,” she said simply. She ran the same thumb along her chin, and I felt another zing go through me. Her eyes travelled down my body, still undressed as I stalled for time, enjoying her gaze. This time, her study wasn’t for size or fit, but something else. Something hungrier.

Her mouth was full and luscious, covered in a shiny gloss that I desperately wanted to taste. She bit her bottom lip and I couldn’t look away.

I took a small step forward, leaning towards her, and paused a few inches from those deliciously kissable lips. I was completely smitten, longing and desire drawing me to her like a magnet, but I waited, in a silent plea for permission. It was up to her where we’d go from here.

There was a millisecond of time, suspended in uncertainty, before she crushed her lips to mine and I drowned. The world faded and dissolved around us, my existence narrowing down to her lips on mine, and the feel of her body pressed against me. Her silky shirt rubbed tantalizingly against my free breasts and the measuring tape fell to the floor beside us.

The kiss was balanced on the line between sweetness and passion. There was an urgency, though, the feeling that this was too precious to last. We drank each other in, tongues meeting, sharing breath.

Her hands slid up my sides, cupping my chest and teasing me with her thumbs. I threw my head back, and she trailed down the side of my neck, kissing from my ear down to my collar bone. I swayed, unsteady on my feet, and backed towards the chair. I pulled her with me, so that as I sat, my eyes were level with the buttons of her shirt. I undid them, one by one, taking my time and watching as her chest rose and fell erratically.

By the bottom button, I slowly peeled the silk aside, revealing a lacy bralette that was doing nothing to hide her perky, rock hard nipples. I placed my mouth on her, pulling and sucking with the fabric trapped between us. She moaned and twisted both hands into my hair, pressing me closer and panting even more heavily. I moved to the other side, teasing her with the tip of my tongue, each flick causing her entire body to shiver.

“Come here,” she whispered a few moments later, and backed away from me. She stood in the center of the room, shirt open, and lips swollen from our kiss. I rose to meet her, but she spun me around to face the mirror. She stood behind me, her chin on my shoulder, and we both watched as her beautiful dark hands traced patterns on my milky white skin. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against her, reveling in the feeling of her pressed into my back.

“No,” she breathed into my ear, “I want you to watch.”

Together, we gazed at the mirror as she played along my waistband. Her hand dipped for a moment, lower, to where I was already soaking wet, and aching.

“May I?” She teased her fingers through my coarse curls, gasping at my obvious need.

“God, yes,” I moaned.

She slid a finger inside me, simultaneously using her palm to put pressure on my clit. My knees started to go weak. She mumbled things in my ear that I couldn’t piece into words. She kept up the pace, rubbing and prodding me to the point of no return. My body stilled against her, that momentary calm before the storm, before I bucked forward with the best orgasm of my life. I shuddered, and twitched but she never let up, never lost her rhythm while I writhed beneath her hand. 

I met my own eyes in the mirror, the wanton version of me staring back with dilated pupils and wild hair. A whisper in my ear, “Again. Come for me again,” and I watched my reflection follow the command.

I whimpered, unable to continue, and the clerk gently pulled away, a satisfied smile on her face. 

“Your turn,” I said hoarsely.

I sank to the floor, and pulled the chair towards me. I guided one of her feet up onto the seat, and shoved her skirt up around her waist. Her panties matched the bra, form fitted lace, too delicate to contain her excitement. I slid them to one side, tracing her slick folds and she swore softly.

“I’ll be loud,” she warned.

“Good,” I said. “I want to make you scream.”

I buried my face in her pussy, sucking, licking, tasting every inch of her. Her leg started to quiver, and I looked up at her, past the swell of her breasts, to see her watching me with her mouth open. She pressed a hand to the back of my head, urging me, asking for more, and I gave it willingly. She was delicious.

She scrambled for a handhold, and settled for a fistful of velvet curtain. As her breath became more labored, she slapped a hand across her mouth, but it didn’t muffle the high pitched cries that were coming faster and faster.

I could feel her entire body tremble, head to toe, and she went over the edge herself.

She dropped to the floor next to me, our clothes askew, the curtained space smelling of sweat and sex.

“That one,” she mumbled, pointing at the bras she had brought in for me. “The red strappy one. You should wear it next time I see you.”

“Will there be a next time?”

She smiled deviously at me. “There better be. I have a few more things you should try on.”

Maria Segreti is a lifelong lover of words and stories. When she isn't buried in a book, you'll find her attempting to garden or sew. She lives in Colorado with her best friend and romantic inspiration.

Written by
Maria Segreti

Maria Segreti is a lifelong lover of words and stories. When she isn't buried in a book, you'll find her attempting to garden or sew. She lives in Colorado with her best friend and romantic inspiration.