I’d been looking forward to picking up some new lingerie that Saturday, but never expected it to be so much fun!

Ordinarily, I would shop at Les Intimes, but I’d kind of blown my budget the weekend before out in the Hamptons, so I decided to slum it at Bloomingdales on 59th. They have a great selection, and best of all, they leave you alone. I prefer shopping for thongs and panties without having someone looking over my shoulder. They also have great changing rooms, with plenty of hooks, a full-length mirror, a nice, spacious bench, and doors that lock, even if they are paper thin and open at the bottom. In truth, it kind of excites me, the vague fear of a voyeur watching me, and I admit to having taken care of my business in there on one occasion, with breathtaking results. That particular changing room straddles the women’s and men’s departments, and the sound of the man in the next room unzipping his trousers evoked a response I did not expect. As I stood in front of the mirror, watching my hands caress my body, I could hear the man’s breathing as he climbed out of his pants, and imagined him doing the same thing.

That Saturday, the store was unusually quiet at the early opening hour of 10:00 am, and I had the lingerie department pretty much to myself. There wasn’t even a store clerk to be found. I strolled the racks, picked out a few bras and panties I thought would look nice, and carried them toward the changing rooms. As I approached, a man about my age exited, carrying a few pairs of short shorts in various pastels. He had a deep tan, dark hair, and a bod I couldn’t miss. He said “hello” with a kind smile and moved on.

“Hi,” I replied, surprised that my breath caught in my throat. I watched him from behind, admiring his very tight buns in a pair of Levis. I did not expect to feel the reaction of the rest of my body as I crept toward the dressing rooms.

All four of the rooms were empty, so I entered the last, and noticed an article of clothing had been left behind by a prior occupant. A pair of teal shorts. Had I hijacked that man’s dressing room? Should I choose another?

I probably should have, but I felt a surge of excitement as I envisioned him climbing out of his jeans and into those shorts.

I was wet before I got out of my thin cotton shift.

Just as I had stepped out of my dress, I heard footsteps, and a light knock on my door, which emptied my lungs and made my heart stop. Then a warm, soft voice followed.

“I’m so sorry,” the voice said. “I left a pair of shorts in there. Could you slip them under the door?”

My heart beat like a hummingbird’s.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I said. But instead of handing the shorts under the door, I held my dress up to my shoulders, cracked the door open, and held his shorts up by the hanger. God, what a handsome man he was. His soft eyes met mine, dropped to see my hand holding the dress up then up over my shoulder, flashing intrigue. I glanced over my shoulder to discover what it was. Through the wall mirror, he had a clear view of my behind, clad only in my black thong, and my bare back.

“I like them,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’ll just take my shorts, but I do like them. You should buy them, definitely. They are stunning. Although I suspect you’d look fabulous in anything.” His eyes were glued to the mirror.

As I stood there, knowing this gorgeous man was staring at my bottom, complimenting me as he was, I felt my juices began to flow like I hadn’t felt in years, and with no thought whatever, I heard my voice say, “Would you like me to model the others?”

“I would love you to,” he whispered, and before he finished, I stepped away from the door and allowed him in.

He quietly closed the door, locked it, smiled nervously, and slid onto the bench against the wall. I continued to hold my dress against my chest as we looked awkwardly at each other, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re almost naked, and here I am with my clothes on.” He stood, and with remarkable alacrity, pulled the shirt over his head, slid his jeans to the floor, and stepped out of them like a dancer. His body was taut and lean, clad only in a pair of the briefest of black briefs which did little to conceal his manhood. “Is that better?”

I had no control over my facial muscles. I might have looked like I was having a stroke.

“It’s only fair I suppose,” I said. It sounded so lame, but at the moment, I could only feel a wet spot in my panties.

I watched his eyes taking me in as I covered myself with the dress. A tiny voice in my head said this wasn’t right. I shut it off without a thought, hung the shift up on the nearest hook, and watched his eyes.

“Not sure I can be much of a judge,” he said. “You’re going to look fabulous in anything or nothing.”

I slipped the thong off my hips and let it slide down my legs to the floor. “Nothing it is,” I heard myself say. I glanced in the mirror, saw the full length of my naked body, and his profile on the bench. Somehow, seeing the reflection of the two of us in that dressing room brought home the unbridled eroticism of what I was doing. My hands slid up my tummy and caressed my breasts, my fingers squeezed my nipples. He let out a soft moan.

“You are exquisite,” he said, as he stood, slid his briefs off, and sat back on the bench, hands at his sides. A thin line of hair ran from a small patch on his chest to his navel. His public hair was trimmed close. He was not fully erect, but already impressive and beautifully shaped.

“So are you,” I said. “Which do you want to see first?”

Just then, footsteps of another customer, entering the booth at the other end, hangers clinking on a hook, rustling of clothes and breathing. Our eyes met in frozen excitement. He put his finger to his lips and pointed at the red sheer panties and matching bra. I slipped them on as I watched him stroke himself slowly. When I finished, he was at full attention. At least eight inches and lovely girth. I would have that inside me soon.

I floated the few steps to stand before him and watched in the mirror as he leaned forward, buried his face in my tummy and cupped my butt cheeks in his hands. His fingers slid the sheer fabric off my hips as I flicked the clasp on the bra. His hands traveled from my bottom, around my hips, up my tummy to close on my breasts, and his mouth followed, taking a nipple between his lips, flicking it with his tongue. I gasped as I watched in the mirror at his twitching manhood.

More footsteps and fumbling from another dressing room did nothing but embolden me. I sank to my knees, pushed his legs apart, slid my hands up his thighs and brought my mouth down to take in his head, rolling my tongue around its beautiful pink ridge, tasting the dollop of precum at his tip. He fought to control his breath. I rose to my feet, place one foot up on the bench and opened myself to him. His hands cupped my buns and he pulled me into him, ducked his head, and his lips and tongue played mischief on me. I watched in the mirror and shuddered. I pushed him back, turned away, straddled him, and guided him into me as I sat, watching him slide into me in the mirror, feeling him fill me full, and shuddered again, rolling my hips, feeling him push on my inner wall. I rose and fell, heard my bottom slap his hips, the exotic wet flup, flup of our fucking echoing off the ceiling.

His strong hands gripped my hips and pulled me into him. They slid up my torso, gripped my breasts firmly. His hot breath in my neck, teeth biting my shoulder playfully. A hand traveling down to strum my clitoris as I thrust myself down on him.

He lifted me off his lap, stood, turned me around. I put my hands against the wall and bent over, watching the mirror to my side as he grasped his tool and guided it into me from behind. He gripped my hips and I began to rock back against him with each successive thrust, slowly building in energy and tempo until he was giving me a good, hard fucking, the slapping of him on my bottom echoing off the walls. I heard someone enter a dressing room, close the door with a soft click. My friend did not relent, and the excitement surged in me, knowing we had an audience. As my orgasm began to build, over the noise of our own sex, the heavy breathing of our female audience built, and I envisioned her masturbating to us.

It sent me over the edge. Just as my orgasm surged through me like electricity, his strong hands slid around my front, gripped my breasts, and pinched my nipples as he gave one, two, three final, vigorous thrust, and with a glorious gasp, he withdrew from me, and I felt his hot semen showering my bottom and back.

When we’d finally come down, we shared some tender kisses and mischievous grins, and I gave him my black thong to clean himself and me, then balled it up and stuffed it into his jeans pocket. We could still hear the furtive movements of our audience next door as she attempted to quiet her own labored breath.

I did not ask his name, nor he mine. We only made a date to meet back there, where we repeated our adventures on a weekly basis, each time thrilled by the venue we’d found and the audience we acquired. And then, one day, he simply did not return.

I am compelled to be satisfied with the hot memories of our antics, and the knowledge that somewhere in this city, there is a hot man with a dozen pairs of my semen-encrusted panties stowed in a special place.