Michael
I’ve taken her to Sunset, a high-end fashion outlet about an hour from my house. Here, you can find all the top haute couture brands.
It’s the right choice, if the excitement on her face is any indication. She’s glowing like a kid on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa to squeeze his fat, jolly ass down the chimney. Instead of presents though, she’s got her eyes on my fucking credit card.
Doesn’t matter. No matter how much she spends, it won’t even put a fucking crease in my bank account. I’ll just make more.
That’s what I do.
She’s bouncing around, and my eyes keep drifting to her perky tits. She couldn’t very well wear my doctor’s coat to the mall, without drawing some curious stares. Especially not here in snob central.
She’d end up getting blacklisted for her poor fashion sense.
Instead, she’s donning one of my blue Battistoni dress shirts. It’s tied together like a dress with a brown leather belt looped around her tiny waist, twice. The poor fucking shirt.
Not that I mind lending women my shirts after a night of passion, but let’s be real. This is the first time one has ever become a fucking dress.
It’s kind of hot. No, strike that. It’s very hot.
She’s got the top three buttons undone, giving me a clear view. Couple that with its short length that stops mid-fucking-thigh, and it’s stirring desire deep within me. Almost makes me want to drag her into a changing room and make her mine.
After last night, and the way she sucked my cock dry, it’s only a matter of time. I ain’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. It fits, so she stays.
“Givenchy, Versace, Chanel! Helloooo my babies!”
Her voice is shrill as she grabs the racks and spins them. So much for not drawing curious stares. I look in her direction, and she’s got the fabric of a sexy black dress in her hands, rubbing it on her face.
“Hey, cut it out,” I snarl in a whisper. “Be normal, for fuck’s sake. They’re only clothes.”
“Normal? I am being normal! What’s wrong with admiring a one-of-a-kind dress?”
Her stare is challenging. I can tell she’s just itching for a fight.
“Right, that’s why everyone’s staring at you right now.”
“So tell them to get out!”
“Get out? It’s a fucking public shop!”
“And? They’re throwing off the damn vibe.”
The vibe? What the fuck is this chick on about?
I’m temporarily stunned into silence.
That doesn’t happen often. But it’s not often that I encounter Cinde-fucking-rella either. Instead of her glass slipper, she’s lost her fucking mind.
“I can’t possibly shop with all these people around. I need concentration. I need to be one with the clothes.”
“You need a fucking psychiatrist is what you need.”
At this point I’m done. I’m ready to walk out the fucking store and leave her there.
“Aren’t you a doctor?”
She smirks and jabs me in the chest.
“I’m a fucking surgeon.”
Christ, this is becoming a mega fucking headache. This is what I get for being nice.
I stalk over the register and ask for a manager.
Fuck this. She wants the store shut down? I’ll get it shut down.
“How much would it cost to have the store shut down for a few hours so we can have it to ourselves?”
“Well, it’s not impossible, but we typically require advance notice,” the manager states matter-of-factly.
“Do you know who I am?” Stella comes walking over with that sashaying walk and entitled tone of voice.
“Take the silver spoon out of your goddamned mouth for once, Stella. I got this.”
The manager’s mouth drops open. “Stella Hensley?”
Apparently she really is something of a popular model. Who knew?
Just like that, we work out the details, and I pay out the ass to get the store closed down for her.
“You have two hours, Miss Hensley. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let us know.”
Like she fucking would. She’s already trying to lead me around by the nose. I’m not fucking having it.
“Great, shop. I’ll be back later.”
I head to the entrance.
“Wait, you’re leaving?!”
“You wanted everyone else out, right? That includes me. Wouldn’t want to interfere with the vibe.”
“Wait!”
She grabs my arm.
“You can’t leave. Who’s going to tell me how fucking amazing the clothes look on me?”
“Apparently, you’ve forgotten what a mirror is. Look into one and repeat after me: I look fucking amazing. See? Done.”
“No. No way. You’re sticking here with me. It’s your fault that I’m in this fucking situation to begin with. Or, have you already forgotten about that, Dr. Pervert?”
Fine, I relent. I’ll stay, but I won’t enjoy it.
She takes a few dresses into the dressing room and parades them one by one in front of me. In any other situation, I’d be more than happy to give my lady heaps of compliments. Shower them in affection.
Today, though? Fuck that. She’s not getting one fucking compliment out of me.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through the news sites. Anything’s better than playing dress-up over here with the spoiled princess.
“What about this one, darling?”
She does a three-sixty spin in a red dress with a slit up the side.
Playing cute ain’t gonna work now.
“Mm.” I don’t even look up from my phone. Then I add for good measure, “Yep.”
“Hmmph!”
She disappears back into the dressing room. She does this a few times, but I give her the same response.
“I don’t fucking care, just pick out whatever fits your vibe and let’s go.”
She’s not satisfied with that, though.
Instead, she comes over, grabs my phone and hides it behind her back.
I try to grab it back, only to finally see the sexy black lace number she’s wearing.
Oh, fuck. It’s snug and hugs her every curve. My eyes wander from her tits to the sexy hourglass shape of her waist and down to her toned thighs.
“Like what you see?” she drawls in a mock southern accent.
I reach around her waist and pull her up against me, and suddenly my phone is the last thing on my mind.
I grind my pelvis against hers and say, “You tell me.”