Fitting Room Confessional 🌶🌶
The boutique is muted, the kind of place where hushed intemperance is celebrated over champagne flutes, where lace and silk cost more than rent, where the lighting is designed for operatic indulgence.
And where he waits.
Seated in the plush velvet aubergine chair outside the dressing rooms, his frame is draped in understated, monied elegance—legs sprawled slightly, one ankle resting over his knee, the very portrait of patience. Except for his sinewy hands, which flex against the carved wooden arms of the chair, controlled tension barely leashed.
I disappear behind the heavy cream curtain, my pulse a slow drum, my hands trembling just slightly as I slip into the shimmery dress.
It’s a veil of silk over bare skin, clinging in all the forbidden places, the color saturated enough to make my skin glow. My thighs are bare, my collarbones exposed, the delicate straps a mere suggestion of coverage.
I step out, let him see.
His gaze sweeps over me, purposeful and exacting, making my skin pebble, my core throb. He says nothing. Just watches.
I shift, pressing my thighs together, the air pregnant with something unsaid.
Then—his fingers lift. Just barely. A silent command.
Come closer.
I obey.
The strappy silver heels brought to me by the shop girl at his request click delicately over the polished parquet floor as I step forward. Closer. Closer. Until I’m standing between his spread knees, his warmth radiating against me.
Still, he doesn’t touch. But his voice—low, steady, the kind that sinks into my marrow—wraps around me.
“Go back inside.”
A pause.
“Try something else.”
I swallow, turn. Step back into the dressing room.
I strip, let the silk collapse at my feet, the cool air a shock against my sultry skin. I reach for the next hanger, slip into the new dress with the pale pink faux fur cropped jacket and crystal clasp, adjusting, smoothing, knowing he’s waiting.
But this time, as I prepare to step out, the curtain shifts.
And then—he’s inside. Pressed against my back, a wall of heat and control. I freeze, my breath halting in my chest, hands gripping the fluffy fabric.
“Open your jacket.”
His lips are against my ear, his voice a slow, decadent demand.
I hesitate, my chest rising, falling. But I do as I’m told. I let the warm coat slip open, baring my skin and the truth of my need.
His fingers find my hem, tracing. Testing. The mirror before me reflects our tangled voracity, the dim light catching the sharp edges of his hunger, the softness of my surrender.
Then—his hand cups my shapely ass. Firm. Possessive. A forecasting. He slides the fabric higher, exposing me completely.
“You knew,” he murmurs. “Didn’t you?”
Knew … that the moment I stepped into that room, I belonged to him. That no matter what I put on, I would end up like this—bare, trembling, his.
Publicly so.
I whimper as his fingers slip between my thighs, parting, finding me already oozing, already desperate. His touch is slow, torturous. A single, teasing stroke, his fingertip gathering evidence of my ruin.
Then—his other hand moves lower. His grip tightens against my hip, anchoring me. My body shudders as his thick, knowing fingers breach my sacred, aching palace. I gasp, eyes locking onto his in the mirror, wide and wanting.
“Yes,” he praises. “Let me open you, my love.”
The sensation is too much. His fingers sliding into my dripping core, stretching me, coaxing me into bliss. And then—his other hand, slick with my own arousal, playing, pressing, claiming the uncharted depths of my surrender.
I arch.
I writhe.
I gush for him, helpless as he prepares me, as he nods approvingly at my reflection, watching me crumble.
Then I am captive to the warm strong wandering and thrusting of his greedy tongue in and out again and again. My neck is limp, head hanging and eyes returning only to drink in the gorgeous purple tongued depravity occupying my gooey center and making a tasting menu of me—lavender, prime rib, honey, vinegar, lemon drop. I relax and spill into his savagery…..his devout use of my bunny nectar.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, rising now, his teeth gnashing my throat, as I bathe and billow throughout the spectacular scene obscuring us in fury's shadows. I gasp, as I claw at his wrist, begging, pleading, breaking.
And when I do—when my body quivers at the cusp of giving him my everything, my knees threatening to buckle, my vision going white-hot—he whispers his final command.
“Now put the dress back on.”
A pause.
“I’m taking you to dinner.”
xoxo, Firefly ❤️🔥
p.s. Have you ever enjoyed a sexy shopping trip?