To the mall: she wants to model swimsuits for him

“No,” she answered matter-of-factly, “we’re going to the mall.”

Oh. Lame.

But it turned out not to be quite as lame as I had feared. Amy explained that, with Spring Break almost upon us, she wanted to buy a sexy new swimsuit to wear to the beach.

“I got the idea in my head when you had that pool party last month, and every girl but me had a fun suit to wear. I’ve always worn my swim team uniform as a matter of principal, I guess. You know, declaring to the world, ‘I’m a jock, and I’m proud of it!’ But this year I want to try something different. I want to wear something that makes all the boys at the beach sit up and go ‘Whoa!’”

“And you want my advice?”

“Well, more like your reaction. You are a boy.”

It was true. I was a boy. I had a painful reminder of the fact between my legs at that very moment.

The local mall had a special shop that catered to expensive women’s swimwear, and Amy made an immediate beeline for them. As I watched her pick up various skimpy pieces of fabric to try on, I couldn’t help but salivate at the prospect of what I was about to see. Some of those swimsuits were made with less material than my shoelaces.

When Amy was finally satisfied with her selection, we hurried back to the secluded area with the changing rooms—

But a stern-faced young woman stopped me from following my friend. “I’m sorry sir, no men allowed past here.”

Amy wasn’t gonna take any of that. She angrily placed her hands on her hips and got up in the woman’s face:

“Listen, lady, these swimsuits are ridiculously expensive, and I need my friend’s input on which one I look best in. You let him through, and I’ll buy something. You keep being a pain, and you’ve just lost yourself a sale.”

The woman glared intensely at Amy for about thirty seconds, then just gave up and wandered over to a customer on the other side of the store, pointedly not looking at us.

We hurried inside the changing room area.

I fidgeted nervously, painfully aware of the cock trapped in my jeans as I watched Amy disappear into one of the changing stalls. Below the partition, I could see her pants drop down to the floor around her ankles, and a cute little pair of women’s briefs follow suit. Amy stepped away from her discarded clothes, still wearing her socks.

My eyes flicked briefly over to the sign politely requesting that all women wear panties underneath the swimsuits they tried on, but hell if I was gonna point it out to Amy.

I watched as Amy’s feet shifted position on the floor, clearly posing in front of the stall mirror in such a way that she could critique her impossibly perfect ass. I fought the urge to pull open the door and stare.

A second later, I watched her arms lift above the partition, tugging her shirt up over her head to be cast down to the floor beside her pants. I heard the distinctive snap as she undid her bra and watched as it too hit the floor at her feet. Inside that stall, Amy was buck naked except for those white cotton socks. Why was it that those socks made my mental image of her somehow sexier?

If I wasn’t in public, I probably would have started touching myself right there. I was going crazy just imagining what was on the other side of that feeble changing room door—

It swung open and Amy smiled, looking proud and powerful in a sleek, electric blue two-piece. The fabric was not traditional swimsuit fabric, but some sort of stretchy rubber that gripped at her skin and clung to her tits. It was thick enough material that she looked a full cup-size larger than she really was, a factor which got me drooling from the get-go.

“What’s the ‘Whoa factor’ on this one?” she asked.

I gestured for her to spin around.

Clearly getting a kick out of her little exhibitionist display, Amy turned to show off her derriere, which did a very nice job filling out that stretchy blue fabric. I couldn’t help but admire the sculpt of her athletic body—the way her shapely legs flared out to that tight round ass, and then immediately curved back in to her tiny waist and toned midriff.