Changing Room Ruse

"Thanks so much," I replied, smiling. "You're the best."

I pulled back inside the changing room and closed the door. I left two pairs of the pants folded and put them back on the bench, then selected the pair I had intentionally mismarked. This was the first pair I'd ask for her help with. First, though, I had to wait a couple of minutes so she would think I tried.

After what I thought was the right amount of time, I opened the door and stuck my head out again. This time she was by herself at the counter, but heard the door open and looked in my direction before I said anything. Her smile came out as usual, and she walked over to me.

"Everything okay?"

"Um, well," I said, looking as sheepish as I could, "It's a struggle to get this pair on at all, let alone fastened."

She responded with a sympathetic look, then nodded. "I justknew this was going to be hard for you."

"Yes, I'm going to get really hard for you, too, Jen."

No, I didn't actually say that. That was just my brain on testosterone. The words that came out of my mouth, delivered as politely as possible, were: "I ... uh, it embarrasses me something awful to have to ask, but would you be willing to ... to help me try these on? I'd just come back another time, but as you know I—"

"Hey, I owe you a favor!" she responded, surprising me with her nonchalance. Then she added, gesturing behind her toward the empty store, "Besides, it isn't like I have a lot of other customers right now."

She paused a moment, looked me in the eye, and—now in her toucher mode, which I was learning was as natural to her as breathing—reached into the open doorway and put her hand on my upper arm. [This seemed to be her hand's favorite destination. Pretty soon I was going to offer it more variety.] "You realize," she said, "I wouldn't do this for everyone, but you are just such a nice guy, and ... "—her eyes dropped to the floor and then back up to meet mine—"... I really do feel bad about what happened earlier."

"Oh, wow," I said, "I'm just ... well, just blown away by how helpful you are. You are way beyond kind to help me like this. I'm still embarrassed, but you're making it easier!"

"Give me just a sec to let Maggie know she needs to keep an eye on the counter ... although it isn't looking likely that we'll have a sudden rush of customers up here." She gave me that big smile again. "Be right back!"

I nodded and smiled back. So far so good. I didn't know which co-worker Maggie was, not that it mattered. I left the door open, but stepped back in out of sight and waited for my blonde babe's promised return.

In a minute or so she was back. She walked in and closed the door behind her. Only now that she was in a fairly small enclosed space with me—someone roughly her own age but whom she hardly knew—did she show any signs of being uncomfortable. She was still smiling, but it seemed a little more forced. The potential intimacy of what we were about to do is beyond what is normally expected when you have just met each other, and I figured that was what she was probably feeling. A minute ago she was being a helpful store associate; now that we were behind closed doors, the dynamic changed. In the seconds that it took me to recognize this subtle change in her demeanor, I decided it was best to have a little more bonding time before plunging into the main event.

I delivered my best attempt at a disarming smile, looking as harmless as I could, then said, "You haven't asked, probably because you thought it would be rude, but you might wonder what I did to my hands." I held them up stiffly, not reaching toward her lest that be considered threatening, but simply lifting and looking at them as if to inspect them myself.

She giggled, more from nerves than from amusement. "Well, yeah, I did wonder, and yeah, you're right, I thought I probably, like, shouldn't ask because it was none of my business."

"Which shows how polite and thoughtful you are," I said. "But I don't mind telling you. I didn't lose my temper and punch anybody out or anything."

"I didn't think you looked like the type to do that!" she interjected.

I smiled. "Yes, you're right, I'm not the type. But I am the type to go mountain biking and forget to watch out for little tree stumps sticking up when I'm roaring downhill."

Jennifer clenched her teeth and sucked her breath in through them.

"Yeah, that was me. My bike stopped in an instant, but yours truly kept going ... right over the handlebars." I sighed. "Had I thought fast enough, I should have done something like a 'tuck and roll,' but of course I did the instinctive thing and tried to catch myself with my hands."

The "ooh" that came out of Jennifer's mouth was accompanied by a wrinkled brow and scrunched up face. [Too bad the "ooh" wasn't for other, more pleasurable, reasons, if you catch my drift. The inflection was right, but the context was wrong.]

"The doc at urgent care told me I was lucky I didn't break my wrists. Fortunately I didn't, and they were able to get by with just wrapping them like this. Unfortunately, though, I feel kind of like an invalid while I'm waiting for them to heal. The bruises and cuts aren't too much fun to deal with. I can hardly do any of my normal activities without help from nice people like you."

Her face was now a picture of empathy. I could tell Jen wanted to reach out and do her touch thing again, but she opted to instead press one of her hands to her own chest, in the space between her neck and the scooped neckline on that black dress I liked so much. It looked like she might leave a handprint there.

"Oh, I can't imagine how much that must have hurt!" she grimaced.

"I've known about this wedding for a while," I continued, "so I have myself to blame for waiting this long, but the timing of my 'downhill incident' couldn't have been much worse."

"Well, I'm glad I can be here to help you then!" my Jennifer said brightly. "We'd better get you outfitted right?" She took a few steps toward me. That seemed like pretty positive body language.

I turned around to the bench behind me and picked up the pair of pants I had planted there to try first and held them out to her. I used both hands, and tried to make it look as awkward as possible. "Yes, I guess so!" I responded, trying to match the enthusiasm she had just conveyed. Then I paused and pulled them back. "Now, there is one thing, and it's ... it's probably the most embarrassing thing about this ...," I said, using words I had practiced ahead of time, "but since hurting myself it has really been a struggle to get dressed, and ..." I paused for effect, as if embarrassed to talk about it, but then forcing myself to continue, "I haven't been able to get my ... well, to wear underwear." There. I had delivered the line that could make or break the entire evening.

Jennifer hesitated and looked at me, expressionless. "So you're going commando?"

I also paused in response, then nodded. "Yes, I am."

She didn't react strongly, but I could definitely see a look of concern cross her face. "I see," she said. Her words were again devoid of any inflection that helped me understand what she was thinking. But I was afraid I might have just taken a big leap way out of her comfort zone. I was thinking about what I could say to recover, but she spoke first.

"Our store policy is that customers must wear underwear when trying on clothes." The store manager probably would have been pleased with how she delivered that line—with politeness, but also with authority.

"Maybe I could buy some," I offered. "Do you sell them here?" It was a safe question, because I already knew they didn't. I had checked.

Jenny shook her head. "No, we don't. Sometimes we get, like, some holiday-themed boxers in around Christmastime, but that's a once a year thing." Her face was clouded, almost solemn, and she looked lost in thought. "And I don't think any of us girls have a spare pair we can loan you."

That caught me off guard. I know my eyes widened as I raised my eyes to meet hers. She held her somber look for about one second, then burst into laughter. "Gotcha!" she exclaimed, between giggles. When I exhaled and started to laugh with her, she laughed harder. "You should have seen your face!" She reached out (automatically, I think) and touched me for a moment on my upper arm again, then pulled her hand back and put it over her mouth, like she had decided it was time to stifle her laughter and get back into the store-associate-helping-customer role. "I hope I didn't offend you!" One more little chuckle slipped out.

"Oh, no," I chuckled out. "But you're right ... you really got me with that one!" Clearly I wouldn't need to spend any more time loosening her up.

"Well," she said, "I think we can overlook the store's rule under the circumstances ... as long as you're clean. You are clean, aren't you?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah, definitely I am!" I said.

"Okay, then!" Jen said, seemingly satisfied. Her smile returned. Then the blonde babe standing before me actually winked at me and said, "I won't tell if you won't!"

I wanted to pump my fist in the air, even if I couldn't make a fist right now. I had just told a hot girl in a minidress I was going to get naked and flaunt my privates in front of her, and her biggest concern was that I didn't get the store's clothes dirty. Wild. But wonderful. I couldn't help returning her big smile, but I showed great restraint in my response. "You're the best, Jennifer! You're just ...," I paused to select the right word. "... just amazingly kind to help me like this!"

Jen shifted gears. "These are the ones you want to try first?" She reached out and took the pair of pants I was holding and held them up in front of her at about shoulder height, then turned slightly toward the light so it shone on the fabric more directly. "Yes, this light grey is a good color for you, I think. They should look nice."

Okay, I'm glad they had her approval. But color and fit were not at the forefront of my mind right now. If she wanted to focus on the fashion for now, that was okay. Shortly I would be changing her focus.

Jennifer turned toward me and asked, "So, how do you want to do this? Can you get your pants off, or do you need me to help you?" There was nothing suggestive in how she said it. She was being businesslike. I wouldn't have minded having her undress me, thank you, but I was still thinking strategically. Probably best to ease into this 'getting naked' part so I didn't seem too eager. Even though eager is what I was. My adrenalin was flowing.

"I've learned how to get sweatpants off pretty well," I replied. "They're just elastic." I slipped the fingertips of one hand under the waistband and pulled it away from my body slightly, then let it snap back into place—a demonstration of the obvious. "It's getting the new pair on that presents the challenge."

"Okay," she responded, then stood still, looking at me expectantly. She was waiting for me, and giving me permission, to proceed. The time I had fantasized about—with due thanks to my roommate's weak ankles—had arrived.

-----

I slid my fingertips from both hands underneath my waistband and pushed down. Jennifer politely turned her head toward the wall and pretended to study the clothes hook mounted there. After my sweatpants got below my knees, they dropped the rest of the way to the floor by themselves, so I turned and kicked them under the bench.

[Moments before, as my cock was revealed, I took note of its current state. I knew I wasn't completely flaccid (how could I be?) and I also knew I wasn't erect ... but I was part way there, and I was satisfied with that. Unlike some men—at least an apparent majority of those who post stories on Literotica—I don't possess "ten inches of raging man meat as big around as a beer can." What hangs—and sometimes stands—between my legs is about the ordinary sub-six-inch variety. It might be fun to have a bigger rod sometimes (I don't know, since I've never experienced it firsthand), but in the current situation it's probably best that I didn't reveal something resembling a baseball bat hanging half way down my leg. While I do keep the hair down there trimmed neatly so my shaft doesn't have to emerge from a forest, I'm average in the 'dimensions' category. My penis/cock/dick (take your pick of names) has served me well so far ... and that I have experienced firsthand.]

Jenny realized I had finished my assigned task and turned back toward me. She didn't seem particularly nervous, but was being careful to keep her eyes up at my face. I smiled and she smiled back. I thought it was appropriate to speak first.

"This is more than a little bit awkward," I said. She giggled at that, probably because she was nervous. Women do that sometimes, I've learned. I suppose it could also have been a leftover giggle from when she got me with the loaned panties comment. "Um, how about I sit on the bench?" I gestured toward it. "And hold my feet up?"

She nodded, understanding the plan I was suggesting. "Yes, makes sense."

I took a couple of short steps backward, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was in the right spot to sit down. As I turned back forward, I caught her eyes raising up back to my face from where they had been a moment before. I had a pretty good idea what she had been looking at. When her eyes met mine again, I didn't give any indication I had caught her, and she smiled at me again ... not one of her big toothy ones, but a polite one indicating everything was okay. She was probably happy I wasn't toting a baseball bat down there.

I settled onto the bench, lifted my legs straight out, then pointed my toes. I simply put my hands on either side of me on the bench, hiding nothing. She bent down in front of me to position the pant legs, treating me to a view down the front of her dress as it fell away from her chest. I was appreciative of the lighting in this room; bouncing off the mirrors, it illuminated her bosom quite nicely. I wondered if her panties matched the lacy black bra that I could see so nicely showcasing her breasts. I had such a great view that I could see the shininess of the satin that the lace embellished. Jennifer's breasts weren't large, but my preference is for those of the "handful" variety anyway. The great part about her position was that if she happened to glance up at me, she wouldn't be able to tell I was feasting my eyes on her tits instead of her face.

Or would she? She did a little head dip, like she was looking down at herself, and I suspected she just realized the view she was providing me. Manipulating the pants required both of her hands, so she didn't have the option of using one hand to hold her neckline up against her chest in that demure way that you see some women do. [I'm always attracted to those women who don't bother with that, though.]

My blonde bombshell wearing the lacy black bra stood up straight, avoiding eye contact, looking mostly at my feet. "Um ...," she said, "the angle isn't quite right. Could you lower your legs just a little?"

I had just been busted, I guess, even though she didn't confront me. Maybe I should have looked up and studied the clothes hook on the wall, too. [No, I shouldn't have. I would have missed the most titillating view of the night. Oh, well. It was great while it lasted.]

"Sure." I responded. I lowered my legs—now decorated around the ankles by the waistband from a pair of pants (a pair of pants that would turn out to be too small ... but she didn't know that yet)—so my feet were just a few inches above the floor. "That better?"

Jennifer evaluated their position a second. "Yes, I think that will work. Thanks." She was looking down, but I think I noticed a little color in her cheeks. Yep, she knew she had just modeled her bra for me.

This time instead of bending over, she squatted down in front of me, pulling her shoulders back and keeping her back as straight as she could. I understood the motivation for her adjusted posture, but I needn't have lamented the loss of my prior view down her neckline. Now I had a similar shot up her skirt. Jen's low squat pulled her dress up high on her thighs, and I—in characteristic male fashion—quickly realized (which means it took about .003 seconds to register) that there wasn't much distance from the dress's hem to her panties. Thanks to the light I was pleased to be able to confirm that they did in fact match her bra; the small triangle I could see was apparently made of the same shiny black satin.

I was just contemplating how close my toes were to the pussy hidden just beneath the satin (roughly 0.85 seconds after my previous observation), when Jennifer, still squatting, paused a moment from the process of placing the pants over my feet, and swiveled toward the wall so I was now looking at the side of her legs instead of up between them. I don't think she caught me gawking that quickly; possibly she felt the heat from my eyes trying to bore through her panties. At any rate, while the expanse of thigh still open to viewing was still stare-worthy, sadly all her lingerie was now out of sight.

Now, though, those pants were being a bit stubborn.

There is too much cloth in a man's pant leg to approach it like a woman puts on a stocking ... simply gathering it up so the material between the top opening and the bottom one (or the toe of the stocking) all fits in your hand, sticking a foot in or through the opening, then pulling the top end up while the bottom stays in place around the ankle. [Men never tire of seeing a woman pull the sheer nylon or silk up her legs like this, and especially so if the top of said stockings are topped by a lace band that hugs the top of the wearer's thighs. Some movie directors routinely put a sequence like that in their movies to make sure they have the attention of all the men in the audience.] Jen's plan, I think, was a variation on this technique; she had succeeded pretty quickly in getting the waistband up to about my knees, and now she was trying to bunch the rest around my calf until my foot came out the bottom. After that, I would stand up so she could pull them up into place. I'm pretty sure that was the plan, anyway.

But there was a gulf between theory and execution. On the first try, which I still look back upon with fondness, Jen successfully started the process before she realized she was exposing her satin and lace bra. That still left most of the pant legs laid out on the floor, a little haphazardly. When she squatted a few moments ago, then swiveled to prevent me from seeing right up her skirt (too late!), one of her shoes must have swiveled on top of a pant leg. She attempted to pull the waistband higher up toward my knees, but those pants weren't budging.

Deciding that a bit more force might be called for, she gave the pant leg a hefty tug. The result was something like pulling a rug out from under herself. My Jen lost her balance, and to prevent herself from falling backward, she had to relinquish her grip on the pants and catch herself. Let's just say it wasn't entirely graceful, but she did succeed in preventing herself from falling. Halfway through that maneuver she could not help but react verbally as well.

"Whoa, shit!!!" It wasn't screamed or yelled, but was fairly ... forceful. She regained her balance at the expense of spreading her knees wide—an unladylike pose, to say the least. Alas, I wasn't in the right position to benefit from it, but my imagination was sufficient to picture what I missed. When she recovered her balance enough, she quickly clamped her knees back together and unfolded her legs so she was sitting on the floor with her legs straight out in front of her. With one hand he tugged down on the hem of her dress (it had worked itself up quite high on those beautiful legs), while her other hand flew up to her mouth to cover the grimace there. She looked up at me with a sheepish look. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to say that!" Using four letter words of in front of a customer is no doubt frowned upon by store management.