Changing Room Ruse

She breezed out the door and was gone. I used the time by myself to revel in my success so far, smiling both outwardly and inwardly; this was working out better than I had imagined. Based on my chosen target's reactions so far, I was pretty confident in my ability to pull off the rest of my plan. Little did I know at that point that this encounter would go above and beyond.

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By the time my bouncy blonde bombshell returned, I had the rejected pants folded and out of the way. My love rod, in contrast, was anything but out of the way. It still exhibited its former enthusiasm.

Both Jen and I did a little double-take when she stepped back in through the door ... but it was for different reasons.

I think the moment's hesitation I detected on her part was because—now that she was a few feet away instead of right up next to me—she could see my entire naked body from head to toe, the wall mirrors providing additional angles of the same. In that short moment, I saw her eyes moving up and down to take it all in, and I think that multi-angle image of a naked man in such an obvious state of sexual readiness was a bit overwhelming. [The view she got was entirely accidental, of course ... I hadn't planned it that way. Wink, wink.] Putting myself in her shoes, I can understand it took some guts on her part to step into this small, enclosed space with me. But as before, my Jen rallied; I could see her face change as she steeled herself and decided not to run away—likely remembering the pledge we both made to simply ignore our state of dress (or undress).

I did notice, though, that she made sure she was looking directly at my face before displaying that warm smile that I had come to like so much. Breaking into the same smile while focused elsewhere could send the wrong message.

My own double-take was because Jen came back carrying not one, but five pairs of pants! They appeared to represent all the colors available in that style, from dark to light, loud to muted. After she smiled at me, which I interpreted as the "all clear" signal, I returned her smile but questioned her about it.

"Um, did you forget which color they were? I only have one wedding to attend, you know."

Jen giggled, quickly returning to her former comfortable self. "No, silly," she began, as she approached me. "The color we want is right on top here." She tipped her head in the direction of the front counter, then continued in a little softer voice as she explained, "I picked up a few others for show. We've been in here a while now with only three things to try on. I don't want my co-workers, like, getting the wrong idea about what's going on in here, if you get what I mean."

"Ahhhh!" I responded, indicating my comprehension of her plan of deception, then nodded. "Good thinking!" Cool. She had just become my accomplice.

Since we had pre-approved the applicable ground rules and practiced the drill, the process of getting the replacement pants up around my waist went pretty quickly. She requested the original position, where I raised my feet straight out from the bench, and she bent (unabashed) over them to thread the pant legs up to my knees. Not that I was tiring of Jen's lovely bosom, but this time I noticed that if I looked over the top of her bent form, the mirror behind reflected the back of her legs. With the dress so short to begin with, and her bending forward at the waist like she was, you can probably envision the view. [Don't get carried away with your envisioning though; I'd like to report that I was treated to a full view of her feminine derriere, but that wouldn't be true. I have to be honest (you know, to at least partially make up for all rest of the lies and fabrications I was employing on this shopping trip). I didn't see panty, nor did I see that interesting junction where the back of a girl's thighs meet her ass cheeks. It was all leg, with an emphasis on "all." Surely the additional delights I just mentioned couldn't have been more than a few threads of fabric away ... but I didn't see them. If she had wiggled around more, or I had thought to lower my legs down just a hair, then maybe they could have been coaxed into view. I'd have a couple of more shots at it. As I mentioned, though, she pretty efficiently jockeyed the pants into position, so she wasn't bent over too long.

Now Jen and I were back in the same position we had been just before her quick expedition to the men's section. I was standing with my arms to my sides, but held out away from my body so I wouldn't interfere with her efforts, and Jen was stooped over in front of me looking down at my crotch, pondering what to do about the penis that protruded so prominently out the fly. The only difference from the prior run was that we both knew—because she had already pulled the appropriate parts together just to make sure—this waistband was the right size to actually be buttoned.

After surveying the situation for perhaps 10 seconds, Jen looked up at me. "I'm afraid," she said, seemingly with seriousness, "that if I proceed down here you're never going to be able to father children."

I chuckled. "Yeah, this can be a delicate operation. I greatly appreciate you not just barging on ahead without thinking of that. " I had a pre-planned suggestion, however, and I wanted to be sure to propose it before Jen experimented and found an alternative that would work as well (but be less fun).

"Having been a male my whole life," I continued, smiling down at the pretty face looking up at mine, "I know what needs to be done."

"Good! I'm glad one of us does," Jen responded, evidently not at all suspicious that I might suggest something ... well, unreasonable. She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue.

I paused just a moment to make a decision. There was an option in my plan to introduce a little sexual innuendo into the conversation at this point, or I could play it safe and leave it out. Because our verbal interchange had been so positive to this point, I decided to take the risk and go for it.

"Actually, there are two options," I said, very matter-of-factly, much like I might explain the solution to a math problem. "The first is to work around my friend down there as he is, just getting him out of the way enough to safely zip up." I then continued using the same tone, "The second option is to engage him in other activities to take his mind off of it."

I said it, then held my breath. This was another pivotal moment. Jen might take it okay, but she might be offended and decide it was time to bail.

Initially, Jen wrinkled her brow and looked confused. "Engage him in oth—," she repeated. That was as far as she got before the light dawned. After a short pause, she rolled her eyes, gave me a mock scolding look, then lifted one of her hands from its fly-holding assignment long enough to give me a little dismissive backhand swat on my chest. "You sound just like another guy I know!" She shook her head. "Men!" [At least she let me share the blame for my behavior with half the planet's inhabitants ... plus her boyfriend.]

When she finished, her endearing crooked smile returned. "I think we'd better go with Option 1."

I was delighted with her answer. Okay, yes, I would have been more delighted if she had leaned down and engulfed me with her warm mouth, and then I emptied myself down her throat. But her rejection of my more suggestive option meant she didn't think to question the other one—and it promised to be a stimulating second choice.

I chuckled and gave her what I hoped was an innocent "gotcha" look instead of a lecherous one. "I'm just pulling your chain, you know!" Then I displayed my most disarming smile. "Forgive me, Jennifer. It was a joke, of course, and I just couldn't resist!"

In response, Jenny gave me a look that I interpreted as "next time try a little harder to resist" or something close to that, but she didn't say it. After a few moments, she kind of snorted, then chuckled herself, like she had been holding out just to worry me. "You're forgiven," she said, repeating her earlier backhand to the same location—just a little more softly—to emphasize the point.

"Now," she said, "let's hear your real solution."

I caught her eyes and smiled, wordlessly expressing my thanks to her for being such a good sport. Then I switched back to my explaining-a-math-problem mode. "Well, it's true that a zipper can be hazardous to that part of a man's anatomy when it's unprotected, like mine is now. The solution is to go ahead and button the top button so the pants stay up by themselves ..."—I paused and looked down expectantly, and Jen quickly caught the hint and completed that assignment—"... and then," I continued, "if you'll move over beside me so your hand can be roughly the same angle that my own hand would be, if I only had one that was functional right now ..." I paused mid-sentence again while Jen moved into place.

"Like this?" she asked, turning so she was at a right angle to me, facing my shoulder.

I looked down and briefly evaluated her position. "Just a little further forward, I think ... like that, yeah." I evaluated again, intentionally devoting lots of focus to the mechanics of the process, and none to the required intimacy ... which was about to escalate. "I think that's about right. We can adjust in a minute if we need to."

The instructor's voice continued. "Now, the key is to slip one hand underneath the waistband to hold my ... um, to hold it up and press it against my body, while the other hand pulls the zipper up. It's safe that way because the back of your hand is directly underneath the zipper, and it won't get caught in a zipper like ... well, like some other things could." I grimaced slightly to underscore the crucial role—and the necessity—of that protective hand.

As she listened, Jen had been looking down at my protruding shaft, no doubt picturing the procedure in her mind as I described it. She grasped the implication, looking up at me and asking, sheepishly, "Um ... it's ... it's okay if I touch you like that?" She bit her bottom lip.

"Jen, sweetheart, you can touch me all day every day that way." [Yes, just thoughts again. What I actually said was ...] "Again, I know it's awkward for both of us, but I think we already both agreed we'd just have to ignore that awkwardness because it's necessary under the circumstances." What we had actually agreed upon was that we would temporarily overlook the usual expectations of modesty in our dress. I took the liberty of extending that principle to include her holding my most private parts. "I know you don't mean anything by it, Jennifer, so ... so it's okay."

I tried to make it sound like I was just a bit reluctant myself, but I could tolerate this intrusion on my privacy for the sake of the cause. That the cause was a non-existent wedding was beside the point. "You've been so kind to help me, and we've gotten this far, so ...." I trailed off, letting Jen finish the thought herself ... which hopefully was one that worked in my favor.

She made her decision, but didn't say so directly. "I just slip my hand under like this?" she asked, placing her palm flat on my stomach and starting to push her hand downward, letting her fingertips slide underneath the waistband.

"Yeah," I said, "except I'll suck in my gut to make it easier for you." I paused to do that, which opened a gap between my stomach and the waistband. "Oh, and move your hand a little off center—yeah, like that. Now you should be able to slide further down." Jen was following instructions well. She pushed her whole hand, about up to her wrist, down the front of my pants, just a little to the side of my engorged shaft. I was in instructor mode ... although the anticipation of having a cool, soft hand—one that happened to be attached to a hot blonde—was affecting my concentration. I would have to focus.

"Okay," I continued, "now move your hand ... um, on top ..."—I waited for the first touch of her smooth skin on my hot manhood; that touch was tentative at first, but when she stretched her fingers over those sensitive nerve endings down there, it was everything I had hoped it would be. I had to be careful not to moan.

"Yes," I said—then worried that I might have emphasized the word too much—"now kind of pull up and press my ... press it against my body so it points up and lays down ... yeah, that's right, like that ... and now put your palm flat on the top part and stretch your fingers out and point them straight down ... so your hand forms kind of a shield over the top, you know? ... yes, like that."

Jen's hand was laid flat over my excited dick, and it felt heavenly. I was exercising my best self-control by not reacting (except on the inside, because my heart was beating like crazy). At this point she looked up at my face, again biting her lower lip. "You're sure this is okay?" she asked softly.

"It's a little late for that question, sweetheart," I thought. But I just nodded. That reassurance seemed to be enough, and she looked back down where her hand was carrying out its assignment.

"What next?" she asked. That was a dangerous, open-ended question, but Jennifer asked it innocently enough. I was enjoying the current contact so much I didn't want to say or do anything that would make her move, so I resisted giving her any unexpected response.

"Now just keep your hand there and gently press everything against my lower stomach, just to flatten things out and make it easier to zip up the zipper," I said. Then I quickly added, to lighten things up, "Notice I said 'gently' ... you're still committed to preserving my ability to become a father someday, right?"

Jennifer giggled at that and nodded. "How's that?" she said, as she snuggled her hand up against my shaft. Her palm was right against my dick head, and her fingers reached down onto my balls. Lovely.

"Good," I responded. That was accurate. Not quite as descriptive of the feeling as 'awesome' and 'amazing' would be, but I was still doing my best to keep my verbal reactions—be they actual words or other sounds—as low key as I could.

"Now just pull up the zipper with my other hand?" Jen asked. She reached down to the bottom of the fly to grasp the zipper pull, then waited for my go ahead. My cock was safely and quite happily snuggled up within the confines of her protective hand, so I nodded that it was okay to proceed. Distracted by the feel of her skin on mine, I forgot Jen was looking down and didn't realize I was nodding. She waited a couple of seconds without moving, then tipped her head up so she could see me. "Okay?"

I nodded again, but then remembered something as she looked back down. "Oh! Wait!" I exclaimed, not loudly but with urgency. "I almost forgot, and it could have been ... painful." I grimaced slightly on that last word. Jen looked up at me again and waited for me to explain.

"Guys have ... have hair down there—in my case, it's a little lower than where your fingers are now—and, I don't know if you've ever experienced it not, but hair caught in zippers can be rather ... unpleasant."

Jen giggled again. "Oh, believe me, I've experienced that!" she offered. "Just not, you know ... down there." She followed up on the endearing giggle with that equally endearing sheepish smile of hers. I wanted to take her home with me. But back to the business at hand (or in hand, actually).

"I think it will be better," I said, "if you slide your hand down a little bit lower to prevent that."

"Okay," was Jen's simple, compliant response. I had said 'slide,' and slide is what she did. She slowly pushed her hand further down, resulting in that exquisite, smooth, skin-on-skin friction between hand and penis that, repeated enough times, leads to messy but very happy results. She stopped when I felt her fingers curl slightly underneath my balls, cradling them. Meanwhile, the head of my cock was nestled between my lower stomach and Jen's wrist, happily smiling its reddening face up at her. "How's that?" she asked. "Is that good?"

"Mmm-hmm," I murmured. [I'm sure you understand that she was referring to the protections provided by the position of her hand, while I was referring to the sensations produced by the position of her hand. I was quite pleased with both.] After a brief moment of evaluation (or was it recovery?), I simply gave her confirmation of that, using her words. "Yeah, that's good." I have a gift for understatement.

Jen pulled the zipper up, and then, without further coaching, extracted her shielding hand by pulling it straight up and out—which meant her palm and fingers trailed over that sensitive underside of my shaft. Nice. She did it just as I would have suggested, had she asked.

My blonde cock masseuse seemed pleased as well. She stepped back to her former position in front of me and smiled. "I'll admit I was dubious, but your method worked pretty well!" she declared. Jennifer has a gift for understatement, too.

She took two more steps backward and looked me up and down, then her smile got even wider. "I was right," she enthused, "that color looks great on you!" My mind was still hanging on sentimentally to the zipping-up step, but once her hand was free, Jen had quickly switched back to fashion consultant.

"You think so?" I asked simply, then turned to face the mirrored wall beside me.

"Oh, yeah!" Jen gushed. She spent the next minute or two educating me (translation: babbling) about skin tone, different fabrics, and natural and artificial light. I think. I didn't catch much after the point where she knelt down and began to tug here and there on my pants to test the fit. When she's in that position and bending this way and that, I'm more interested in covert leering than in careful listening.

"I think these are a possibility," I said, making it sound like I wasn't totally sold yet. "I think I'll try the darker pair."

"Okay!" Jen said cheerfully, hopping up off her knees. She was clearly in her element now. Except perhaps for her penchant for dumping coffee on customers, this was definitely a line of work she excelled in ... even to the extent of accommodating requests from conniving customers.

To my surprise, Jen put her hand flat on my stomach and started to slide her fingers into the top of my pants. Apparently her intent was to put her hand back where it was not long before. As she wiggled her hand under the waistband, she looked up at me resolutely. "I presume we just reverse the process to get these off?"

I managed to suppress my smile. No, it wasn't necessary ... taking pants off when you're going commando is easy; zipping down doesn't carry the same risk that zipping up does. I wasn't about to tell Jen that, though. "Um, yeah ... that's right. Just reverse the process."

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My Jenny repeated the now-practiced process of redressing and undressing me two more times. Somehow I managed to survive having my privates fondled and caressed by this hot, scantily-clad blonde. It was tough, but I made it through.

It was on the last pair, when Jenny once again had my zipper-vulnerable organ safely protected within her grasp, that she asked me, "How is it that you know this process so well? Do you go commando often?" She paused in that position and looked up at me, waiting for my answer. She had one eyebrow raised and a little smirk on her face, like she was pretty proud of herself for putting me on the spot.

And she was indeed catching me off guard. This is a question I hadn't anticipated, so I had no prepared answer. I would have to think fast and spin something, and I've already explained I don't necessarily do my best thinking when a woman's hand is cradling my privates. I guess I could have just said "no" and left it at that, but I wanted to be more creative. Maybe I could think of something that Jen's boyfriend would thank me for.