Erotique Boutique

New Hope, Pennsylvania is a quaint, beautiful little tourist town hard by the banks of the Delaware River, in close proximity to the more-well-known Washington’s Crossing (gee, guess what happened there, history buffs?).

New Hope is an eclectic place with eccentric characters who either reside there or hang out frequently at the numerous cafes, coffee houses, fine and casual restaurants, and enjoy a wide variety of stores ranging from antiques to high fashion.

Perched high up on the hill, a block or so from the main ‘drag’ (and believe me, ‘drag’ is an accurate euphemism to describe the attire of the majority of the crowd on the sidewalks of Main Street on weekend evenings), there is a small boutique that offers a variety of, shall we say, multi-gender costumes and devices designed to facilitate an evening or three of adult-themed entertainment. I’m going to name it, for the purposes of this saga, “Erotique Boutique”, to avoid any representations to the real thing, heaven forbid.

Besides, I like my store name better than theirs, and this way there can be no copyright infringement disputes. ‘The name has been changed to protect the innocent, any similarities between this story and real life is purely coincidental’, blah, blah, blah.

Anyway, a shopper interested in all things carnal could certainly find pretty much whatever one was looking for to fulfill their wildest fantasies. Just to clarify, as George Costanza once said (I may be paraphrasing here), “I have a staunch record of unblemished heterosexuality,” and I recalled during my one or two brief visits to the shop that they had an extensive womens’ lingerie section, featuring garments that would make the photo editor of the ‘Frederick’s of Hollywood’ catalog blush.

So, it was with this simple, altruistic intent in mind, to purchase some surprise gifts for a woman ‘friend-with-benefits’ of mine for an upcoming getaway weekend, that I entered the small shop on a sleepy Autumn Wednesday in mid-afternoon.

I probably stood out like the proverbial sore thumb, dressed as I was in my button-down Polo shirt, a pair of olive Dockers, and tassle loafers. I must have looked like I just stepped out of the alumni tent of nearby Princeton University’s lacrosse game tailgate or a Charles Grodin look-alike contest. Call it business-casual with a decidedly preppy slant, definitely not the norm for most of the sometimes, um, peculiar mix of patrons, admittedly. But, as they always say in retail, never judge a customer by what they’re wearing.

I tried to enter and browse discreetly through the racks womens’ apparel ranging from titillating to downright salacious, but it was like a blue-eyed redhead trying to cross into the U.S. at the San Ysidro border crossing, I kinda looked, uh, different. The heavily tattooed store manager, like a watchful Department of Homeland Security Marshall, took immediate notice and honed down on me.

If she held a walkie-talkie, I could just imagine their internal security code parlance for my ilk: “Preppy middle-aged hetero in Aisle Three. I’ll handle this one myself, girls. Probably will just settle for a box of extra-small condoms and a 9-volt battery, I know the type, he’ll say it’s for his smoke detector.”

To be blunt, she was a bit of a visual conundrum herself. She looked to be a few years younger than myself, perhaps late-thirties or early forties, and she had a very pretty face with big blue eyes, reminiscent of Courtney Cox with spiked purple hair, jet-black heavy goth eyeliner and a nose piercing, if you can make that reach. I did. She was about five-five, and thin, but with nice, full, natural breasts. “Just a skinny chick with big boobs,” as she called herself later in an accurate self-description.

She wore a white, sleeveless, midriff cotton top, a surprisingly generic shirt when you consider the endless possibilities that were on the shelves all around her every day. Multi-colored tattoos of indiscernible figures covered her the right side of her neck, and it appeared, down the entire right side of her torso, which then made a hard left turn and wrapped around her navel and flat tummy in a rainbow of whiling hues. The revealing blouse showed that she had a bleeding heart with a flaming arrow through it that was etched into the top of her left breast (“Never, ever get red”, I once overheard a dermatologist tell a patient who came in for a removal consultation. “It just doesn’t come out”), and an adorable little teddy bear on her right. Lucky cub.

Her thighs and ass were molded into a black leather miniskirt and I knew she couldn’t have any panties on under that garment, it just looked like the prototypical no-panty skirt. Her ebony-painted toenails were encased in black 4-inch high heeled shoes which caused her tight, little ass to jut out even more.

It’s funny, despite all the extra-curricular ‘noise’ all over her face and body, I was attracted to her from minute one, and not just because of the eroticism of her whole package. In fact, my attraction was almost beşevler escort in spite of that. When we made eye contact, even before we spoke a word to each other, her eyes had a delicate kindness that betrayed the hardness of her exterior appearance.

But more than that. It was clear that she was sizing me up as a potential, though implausible sex partner in the same manner, the contrast between my suburban middle-age professorial look and her cosmopolitan, prurient flamboyance made me somewhat of an enigma to her, waiting to be unwrapped and examined.

How did I perceive this so early on? Very simple. My dick was rock-hard, it’s a great prognosticator.

Yep, I had a very strong instinct that we were going to be lovers, our unlikely pairing of worlds colliding at the pelvis, again and again. I just didn’t know it would be in the next twenty minutes.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked cordially, approaching me as I perused the teddys. Now, if that isn’t a woman that wants it, I don’t know what is. (Kidding, readers, just kidding!)

“Yep, hi,” I replied, just as friendly, trying to decide where not to stare, at her bountiful tits or her countless tattoos. I failed on both counts. “Um, I’m looking for some sexy ideas for one of my girlfriends. I have some things in mind already, but I could sure use your expertise, thanks.”

My phrasing ‘one of my girlfriends’ was very much intentional, and not at all untrue. If she was going to use her tattoos as an intimidation factor, I was willing to use whatever weapons were available to me in the always-present battle of one-upmanship between the sexes.hey, besides, the best way to get woman’s interest is to let her know that you’re already attached. In my case, with several paramours.

Her smirk in response to my rather arrogant opening line was non-committal. I wasn’t sure is she was amused, annoyed, skeptical, repulsed, or a combination of all of the above, but at this point in our fledgling conversation, she sure wasn’t going to lose a sale.

She hesitated, pondering which tone to take. My comment obviously merited some return interrogation if we were going to consummate a business transaction, after all, right?

“ONE of your girlfriends?” She laughed softly, almost mockingly. “Tsk, tsk, naughty boy, and you look so innocent, too. To what do you attribute your irresistible charms?”

I picked up a silk bustier and caressed it with seeming nonchalance, not looking at her, and dropped the checkered flag to indicate the race was beginning. “Start your engines!”

I held the sexy garment up in front of me and closed one eye and gazed at her from behind the transparent fabric, as an artist would size up a model that he was planning to paint, to see if this was an acceptable accoutrement in which to adorn her.

“Oh,’ I said off-handedly. “I’m very hung.” I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye as I acted as if I had an interest in another garment, and reached for it, this one a pink babydoll. “Like a horse, supposedly, according to two of them.”

She was back on her heels now, she most certainly wasn’t expecting this out of a guy who looked like he was caught in a hurricane in the J Crew outlet.

I continued on, stifling a yawn, turning to her now, taking inventory of her hot, lithe body. She unconsciously crossed her tattooed forearms across her ample chest. “The other two just pant and pass out a lot, but I’m guessin’ that means they concur.” I shrugged. “Kind of.”

She took a half-step backwards, and for a brief moment, I was indeed wondering if she was going to summon security. Then, she threw her head back and erupted in uproarious glee. “Oh, my, GOD, you are a freakin’ trip!” She bent over at the waist, holding her side in a belly-laugh, and in doing so, I got a great peek of her big, firm tits beneath the tank top.

She held out her hand, still convulsing. “My name is Marianne, I’m the store manager here. Boy, I wasn’t expecting that! If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you look like such a straight-arrow.” I noticed the silver tongue earring in her mouth as she laughed. I never had a woman with a tongue earring before, I didn’t know they were still in fashion. But I always wondered if the urban legend were true……..

I held out my own hand to take hers in a shake, and opened my own mouth to introduce myself, but she waved her hand in a shushing motion. “No, no, wait, don’t tell me. Mr. Ed, right?” She continued to laugh at her own joke. “Or, maybe, Seabiscuit? Or Secretariat, which is it?” She put her hands on her slender hips, and for the first time, two nipples had made their appearance from beneath her cotton t-shirt.

I looked back at her with a mock stern glare. “Well, since this has gone quickly from a potential business transaction to an, affable, personal one, you can call me John.” I raised an eyebrow at Marianne. “Otherwise, I’d have to insist that you call me by my preferred name, Vesuvius.”

She büyükesat escort nodded gravely, playing along now, her delightful blue eyes dancing. “Oh, YES, sir, understood, I won’t overstep my boundaries.” She glanced down at my crotch, taking inventory herself now, and it didn’t take twenty-twenty vision to see that I was fully aroused. Her face made a lustful transformation as she gazed at my zipper, before finally lifting her head to make eye-contact. There was no duplicity in her next sentence, she was now as turned one as I was, her eyes bore into mine. “Unless you want me to.”

We made small talk for a few minutes, and with each passing minute, our bodies grew closer and closer in the tight confines of the aisle, until our chest were pressed together as we had to slide over as a customer who was browsing passed by us. Marianne took the opportunity to appear as if she were stumbling, and while I reached out to catch her to brace her potential fall, I felt her palm linger against my cock. “Mmmm, you weren’t false advertising, stallion. I’m surprised you only have FOUR girlfriends. So much dick, so little time.”

She looked up at me as I held her in my arms, not breaking her grasp. “I’m going to tell my staff that I have a customer who needs some attention in the private dressing room. Give me a minute. Wait here. I have some things I think you’ll like for your…girlfriend….but how are you going to know unless someone models them for you?”

Not surprisingly, I thought this was a truly splendid idea, a novel customer-service approach. What better way to close the sale?

Marianne then asked in curiosity, her eyes scanning the floor of the store to see if there were any other customers on this slow midweek afternoon as she began to rub and explore my cock with more urgency, “So, special lady who gets the getaway weekend, how is she built?”

I had a birds-eye view of Marianne since our bodies were now almost grinding together. “Well,” I began slowly, imagining Debra’s athletic body, careful not to compare it TOO favorably to Marianne’s. Women, as a rule, don’t react kindly to that, perhaps you’ve noticed, fellas.

“She’s a bit taller than you..about the same build, lean, thin..tight.” She smiled, so far so good. I looked down at Marianne’s tattooed tat-tas, and rubbed my chin as if in contemplation. “But your tits are definitely bigger….fuller.” Marianne’s hand cupped my big balls now, and she groaned almost inaudibly. I looked at Marianne with great sincerity. “You have GREAT tits, by the way.” Not that it was in any way an afterthought.

I continued to the southern equator. “Asses..? Hmm, let’s see.” I spun her around and gaped at her tight little buns sensationally ensconced within the teeny leather mini. Deb has a wonderful ass, but Marianne was on a need-to-know basis, and she definitely did not need to know THAT. I reached out to caress her buttocks over the skirt. “Oh, yeah, that’s tight. You win.” She beamed. I wagged my finger at her. “But it was close, hey, do I look like a guy who will spend my time with women with anything less than world-class butts?”

Marianne wiggled out of my grasp. “Most definitely not. So you came to the right place. In fact, you look like a guy who’s going to get a fashion show that he’ll never forget. Be right back.”

She returned with a few large bags and a wink. “Follow me,” she directed, and who was I to argue, watching that impeccable rear end encased in that leather skirt, wondering what tattoos were sketched on her ass, and feeling pretty confident that I was soon about to find out.

She led me through two rows of curtains, and then a door with walls that reached to the ceiling, effectively blocking out sight and sound from the adjacent stalls. “Sit. Wait. Relax.” I sat. I waited. I relaxed, from the waist up.

After a few minutes, I heard and saw the doorknob turn, and there she was, wearing a red lace strapless bustier with red garters, red see-through stockings and a transparent red g-string. “Ooh, my. Little Red Riding Hood, come blow my horn,” I whispered in sincere admiration.

Marianne didn’t completely shave her pussy bald but there was only a thin swatch of short black hairs on her mons. Her puffy outer labia were naturally smooth. Her clitoral hood poked out of the top of her vertical slit. She reached down and peeled aside her g-string and spread her labia wide revealing the pink inner folds of her cunt. They glistened with her sticky white juices and a small black hole opened before me. I inhaled the musky scent of her cunt and sweat.

She stood in front of me, hands on hips, and I could smell her husky aroma of her sex wafting through the small room. “You’ve seen mine. Now I get to see yours, horse man. Take it out.” She hissed at me next, with unmistakable, unbridled lust. “Lemme see that cock.”

I deferred, shaking my head, not wanting to relinquish control, wanting to see how far Marianne would çankaya escort go in her own store. I pointed to my lap, easing my legs apart. “You take it out. You know you want it.”

Her blue eyes blazed with a combination of surprise, anger, but more so, desire. And ultimately, compliance. She knelt in front of me, face flushed, pissed off but turned on. “You cocky bastard, this better be good.”

Marianne unzipped my pants while I leaned back in my chair. She reached her hand into my pants and boxers and felt my huge cock. When she pulled it free, she gasped slightly, trying unsuccessfully to mask the effect that the sight and feel of my cock had on her.

She leaned toward a square table in the corner of the room and found a small tape measure, used for private fittings and tailoring, no doubt. She extracted about a foot of the tape and ran it against the length of my shaft. She placed the tape gently against the base of my shaft, where it met the pubic bone, and ran it up to my mushroom-shaped tip. She then meticulously wrapped it around in a circle at the thickest part of my cock, right about in the upper middle. I found this very erotic, I had measured myself (all guys do, admit it!), but had never had a woman act as judge, jury, and referee, and certainly not by a woman whom I hadn’t known a quarter-hour ago.

“Hmmmm, I got eight-and-a-quarter inches long, and about four-and-a-half thick.” Marianne continued to stroke my shaft and examine it almost matter-of-factly, as if she was contemplating how to best utilize her extrapolated data. Me, I had an idea. “Long, very long,” she admitted. “But not overly thick,” she clucked her tongue. “I must admit, Mr. Ed, I’m a tad disappointed in you.” She lowered her head back to my dick. “And here I thought I was finally gonna get a cock that I COULDN’T deep throat. Haven’t met one yet.”

I admit I wasn’t accustomed to having my dick size chastised, but perhaps I deserved it from my blustery show of bravado. As I contemplated whether that was a good or bad thing, she ran her fingers over the knob of my cock and pulled my pants down to my ankles. She cupped my balls into her hand and pulled them out also. “Now THAT is a big sack, I gotta give you that much, I can only imagine the seed stored in those basketballs.” I took this as a compliment.

She then leaned down and gave my balls (basketballs?) a cute little kiss, then she licked both, before she sucked one whole into her warm mouth. She playfully massaged my one ball in her mouth with her long tongue for a little while. Next she ran her tongue from the base of my cock all the way up to the tip, then back down, taking her sweet time, like she was licking a popsicle. She ran her tongue back up to my tip, and swirled her tongue all around and over my tip, maybe dozens of times. She gave my tip a last few kisses, before her lips parted and she rose from her knees. She frowned. “I think I’m gonna need my pillow for round two,” she griped.

“Sounds like I’m not your first customer back here,” I said, seeing the tattoos on her butt now as she prepared to exit the room, leaving me hard, high, and dry, for now. Surprisingly, she did not have what seems to be the obligatory ‘tramp stamp’ on her back bone. Instead, she had a celestial pattern of moon and stars on one cheek, and I would have lost a lot of money betting on this one, a Wile E. Coyote print on the other, the clumsy villain from the Roadrunner cartoon. Go figure. Must have been on discount or something, I reasoned.

She smiled over her shoulder at me conspiratorially. “Fringe benefit of the job. All the cock and pussy I can eat. Be right back.” She nodded down at my twitching, desperate dick, “Don’t go anywhere.” As if I was going out on jogging on Main Street in this condition. Although, hey, in New Hope, people may not have even given me a second glance.

I grew restless and began to lazily stroke my cock while I waited during intermission, blue-balled and slightly humiliated. And I was the one about to cum at the sight of her stepping out from behind the door dressed in high heels, sheer ivory stockings, white garters, crotchless white lace panties and a see-through white lace bra that was at least 2 sizes too small for her ample endowments.

She stopped a few feet from me. “You like?” she asked as she pirouetted around in a circle.

“Hell yeah, I like!” I replied as my hand flew up and down the length of my cock.

Facing me once more Marianne raised her hands to her tits and lifted them, squeezed them. She let one hand drop to her crotch and began to rub her pussy and in no time at all she was squirming and on the verge of cumming as I watched her frig herself. “Your turn. Eat me,” she demanded, walking toward me like a predatory cat and pressing her pussy into my face, holding the back of my skull firm against her mound, with surprising strength.

By the time I moved my face down to her puffy pubic mound Marianne was already in ecstatic bliss, and it felt like she was about to explode when my tongue found the little nub of her clit for the first time. I could feel and taste her pussy juices flowing out of her sopping cunt. As I sucked gently on her clit, she felt me slip two fingers inside her slippery folds and into her tight pussy hole, and she began bucking like wild, so frantically that I worried that she might leave bruises on my cheeks.