Changing room

Chapter 7 - Dress-up Darling

"And yours?" Natalie asked, voice soft against the quiet clink of cutlery.

"Sculpting, graphic design, art history," Samantha drawled, the words dripping with exaggerated boredom, each syllable almost a low, throaty moan of indifference.

Natalie dragged a crisp strip of bacon through the cooling yolk, the salty crunch sharp on her tongue. She swallowed. "Not exactly jumping out of your skin over it?"

Samantha’s shrug was lazy, shoulders rolling under black cotton. "Meh."

"So… what now?" Natalie’s pulse ticked up; she could already feel the heat creeping into her cheeks.

"Mm?" Samantha’s eyebrow arched, dark eyeliner sharpening with curiosity.

Natalie leaned in until the steam from her coffee mingled with Samantha’s breath. Her voice dropped to a velvet whisper. "You’ve already explored every inch inside me… I want you to know the outs too."

Samantha took a slow, deliberate sip of black coffee—bitter heat sliding down her throat—eyes locked on Natalie’s like a predator deciding where to bite first.

"Your outfits," she said finally, voice low and rough, "could use some serious fucking improvement."

Natalie’s heart slammed against her ribs. "Shopping, then?"

Samantha surged forward across the tiny table, fingers curling into the velvet band of Natalie’s choker. The leather warmed instantly against her palm as she tugged—slow, insistent—drawing Natalie up close.

"No, you're going to be my dress-up darling," Samantha breathed directly into her ear, lips grazing the sensitive shell, hot exhale raising gooseflesh down Natalie’s neck and arms. I will re-design you strip by strip. Until every inch pleases me."

The words landed like liquid fire in Natalie’s core. Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

"We’ll find pieces that make my mouth water just looking at you," Samantha continued, tongue flicking the lobe for one devastating second.

Natalie’s stomach flipped; she felt herself slicken, the sudden rush of wetness cool against heated skin.

She felt like butter melting on a screaming-hot pan… *oh fuck*

"The bacon!" she gasped, jerking toward the stove.

Samantha’s grip snapped taut on the choker—leather biting deliciously into Natalie’s throat—yanking her back down with a soft thud into the chair. The sudden restriction made Natalie’s pulse thunder in her ears.

"I like my food charred a little," Samantha murmured, voice dangerously calm. She held Natalie’s gaze, lips hovering an agonizing inch away—so close Natalie could taste coffee and faint mint on the shared air. "And right now, I like watching you sizzle even more."

Smoke curled from the pan; the bacon hissed and popped, acrid char filling the kitchen.

"Sam, please…" Natalie’s voice cracked, small and pleading.

Samantha’s fingers flexed—leather creaking—then her tongue darted out, slow and deliberate, painting a wet, burning line across Natalie’s lower lip. The brief contact left Natalie trembling, tasting salt, heat and Samantha.

Her eyes screamed the order.

"Please, Mistress," Natalie whispered, the title trembling on her tongue like a surrender.

Samantha released her.

Natalie stumbled to the stove on shaky legs, killed the burner, scraped what remained onto a plate. The bacon was dark, brittle, edges curled black. She pressed a palm to her growling stomach.

As she released her hand from her belly; without speaking she peeled off her marine-blue shirt. Cool air kissed sweat-damp skin; her nipples tightened.

The changing room smelled faintly of cheap vanilla body spray and fresh laundry. Outside, footsteps thudded, zippers rasped, hangers clattered like distant percussion.

Natalie stood in white bra and jeans, the black crochet top clinging to her ribs, baring the soft plane of her stomach. The rough weave scratched lightly every time she breathed.

*Gorgeous… but only until October,* she thought. Already the air outside carried the crisp promise of frost.

She reached for her shirt when two black military boots planted themselves in the gap beneath the curtain.

Fabric whooshed aside.

Natalie’s breath caught—then eased. Samantha.

Still, adrenaline flooded her veins, heart hammering so hard she felt it in her fingertips.

"You’re taking forever," Samantha said, voice edged with impatience. She stepped inside; the curtain sealed them in tight intimacy.

She dropped an armful of lingerie onto the bench—silk sighing, satin whispering, lace rasping like a lover’s fingernails. The fabrics gleamed darkly under the fluorescent light.

"Change," Samantha ordered, sinking onto the stool. Legs spread, posture claiming the entire cramped space.

Natalie’s cheeks burned; sweat prickled at her hairline. "Here?"

Samantha’s smile was slow, wicked. "We already fucked, didn’t we?"

The memory slammed into Natalie—muscle memory of Samantha’s grip pinning her, fingers curling inside, the wet slap of Samantha's tongue eating her out.

She tugged the crochet top over her head, unhooked the bra. Lace and cotton fell away. Cool air hit her bare breasts; nipples pebbled tight, aching under Samantha’s cool appraisal.

No reaction. Just that maddening, neutral stare.

Natalie took it as a dare.

She popped the button on her jeans, dragged the zipper down tooth by tooth—slow, deliberate. Hips swaying, she pushed denim over the curve of her ass, let it pool at her ankles. Turning sideways, she bent at the waist, thighs flexing, offering the full view: smooth skin, the faint red imprint of yesterday’s grip still visible on one cheek.

Samantha’s palm cracked against it—sharp, stinging heat blooming instantly.

Natalie’s gasp was half-moan; she clamped her lips shut, tasting copper where she bit the inside of her cheek. *People. Right outside.*

Samantha’s eyes flashed with dark delight. She knew Natalie was doing her dearest to not release any sounds. This sparked a wicked idea.

Natalie kicked off shoes and jeans. Lifted one foot onto Samantha’s knee—thigh muscles quivering—began easing pink cotton down.

Samantha caught her wrist mid-motion.

Two fingers hooked the thin side-string—then *yanked*.

The rip was obscene in the quiet space; ruined panties fluttered to the floor like shed petals.

Natalie’s breath hitched. "What—?"

"Now you have to wear everything I chose," Samantha purred, voice thick with satisfaction. Her fingers were already there—sliding upward, finding her swollen clit, pinching once soft—twice hard.

Natalie’s hips jerked; a low, broken sound escaped before she could stop it.

"Change," Samantha said, "or next time I twist until you scream loud enough for the whole mall to hear."

Natalie was dripping—hot, slippery trails down her inner thighs. Every heartbeat pulsed between her legs.

Samantha delivered one firm, wet *clap* to her exposed pussy. The sound echoed softly; Natalie’s knees nearly buckled.

*Stay. Quiet.*

She bent again—deliberately slow—spreading just enough to show everything: glistening folds, tight rear entrance, the faint quiver of anticipation. Then she straightened, rolling sheer black stockings up trembling legs. The nylon whispered against skin, cool at first, then warming to body heat. She gave a shy, deliberate wiggle of her hips.

Samantha’s breathing had roughened; approval burned in her gaze.

Natalie stepped into the sheer negligee. Lace dragged up calves, thighs, hips—electric friction everywhere it touched. The fabric settled like a second skin, so thin her hardened nipples poked visibly through, areolas dark shadows beneath. In the mirror she saw how it framed her: ****, obscene, perfect.

Samantha had chosen with surgical precision—must have measured her in her sleep, fingertips ghosting over ribs, waist, hips while Natalie dreamed.

A heartbeat later Samantha was behind her—chest pressed to back, heat radiating through clothes. She caught the right earlobe between teeth, bit down just shy of pain, then soothed with a slow, wet suck.

"You look *filthy* good for me," she growled against damp skin.

Natalie’s breath stuttered.

"I loved watching you perform." Samantha’s hands roamed—nails scraping over stocking tops, raising red lines that tingled, then sliding up to cup lace-covered breasts. Two fingers trapped her clit through the fabric—rolling, squeezing.

Natalie’s vision blurred; thighs shook.

Samantha eased the pressure just enough to keep her dangling on the edge. Left hand stayed low, possessive, two fingers curling inside—slow, deliberate pumps that made wet, obscene sounds. Right hand drifted upward, nails tracing the open slits over Natalie’s breasts, circling nipples without mercy.

Breath fogged the mirror in frantic bursts; Natalie could smell her own arousal—musky, sweet—mixing with Samantha’s darker scent.

Then Samantha’s palm clamped hard over Natalie’s mouth—leather and skin and faint coffee. At the same instant three fingers plunged deep, curling against that spot that made stars explode behind Natalie’s eyes.

The summer fantasy she’d touched herself to—Samantha taking her in front of a mirror—crashed into wet, shuddering reality.

Muffled cries vibrated against Samantha’s hand. The slick *schlick-schlick* of fingers working her open filled the tiny room.

Samantha’s teeth sank harder into the earlobe; pace turned brutal.

Natalie’s eyes rolled back. Legs gave out; only Samantha’s arm around her waist kept her upright. Release roared through her—silent, shattering, muscles clamping down in violent pulses, slick heat gushing over Samantha’s wrist.

Samantha wrung every tremor from her before withdrawing—fingers glistening, obscene.

"Well done, pet," she murmured, voice thick with pride.

Natalie sagged, chest heaving, trying to swallow gasps into silence.

Samantha guided her to the bench by the choker—leather now warm and slightly damp from sweat—and made her sit.

Staring down, grip unyielding: "I’m getting variations. You wear them every night. For me."

"Yes, Mistress," Natalie rasped, throat raw.

"You’re mine. My pretty little puppet. I decide how you look, how you feel, how wet you stay."

Natalie nodded, fresh heat coiling tight. "Yes… you own me."

Samantha’s grin flashed—sharp, possessive. She released the choker.

"Change back. We’re leaving."

Natalie gestured weakly at the soaked, clinging lingerie.

"Leave it," Samantha said, already turning.

*pliep* — "Card accepted."

Outside, Natalie wrapped herself around Samantha’s arm—skin still buzzing, thighs slick, every step reminding her of the ruined panties left behind and the new lace now molded to her swollen, sensitive flesh.

The cashier’s face had gone scarlet; he’d avoided eye contact, hands shaking as he bagged the rest.

They left hand in hand, the lingerie bag swinging like a trophy.

Behind them, a woman pushed into the changing room.

"What the *hell* is this?!"