Chapter 2

In all honesty, I have to admit I was not quite certain that my obsession with “Exhibitionist Nymphomania” was something that I continued because I loved doing it or if I just had to do it because I was hooked and couldn’t stop.

It was not like I was going out and sucking dicks all over the place with anyone that asked me nicely for blow job or bending over for some middle-aged perverts right out in an alley or in the middle of the park late at night.

My parents and friends never suspected how low I had fallen by putting on shows nightly with my naked body and my shades up after dark. I had also fallen into a nasty habit of watching my neighbors little tableaus of perversions best left to the imagination and not described in too much detail for fear of offending the more sensitive of readers looking for spicy content but not past a certain zone of comfort.

I was delighted to discover available employment as a store clerk at a popular clothing store that allowed the trying on of all purchases in the convenience of a number of private fitting rooms that were equipped with mirrors and padded seats to sit when trying on stockings or undies or clothing that might be quite tight as was the female fashion at that time.

I was often called upon to enter into the small space with one of the female clients for advice and assistance in donning the new items. Sometimes, I was even called to assist a gentleman with his purchase if the trouser length needed to be marked with the blue chalk to the correct length for his wanted cuff or non-cuff as so desired.

There was no doubt that I would blush quite shamefully when I was down on my knees in front of some middle-aged married man with my face only inches away from his bulging crotch overly stimulated by the thought of me opening my mouth and gobbling up his male equipment like some dodgy girl of the night behind the pub.

Many was the time that I would have to rub my wrist or the back of my hand on the gentleman’s hard shaft or his soft hanging sacs just to make certain the measurement was correctly done. I had trained carefully not to giggle or laugh at such awkward moments because I knew from experience most men hate females to be even slightly amused at viewing or touching their family jewels. It was almost as if the sound of giggles or laughter was derision of their manly impressiveness. I thought they might expect a well-behaved woman like me to applaud their size or beauty of presentation like one of those macho clods that constantly ogled a nubile female’s bum at every opportunity.

This past Friday was a good example.

I had scurried from my primary job which I hated with a passion to my new assignment as the “fitting room girl” and found the place buzzing with excitement due to the holiday sale that discounted the contents of the entire store to a level that attracted new customers from far and wide.

With twenty-four fitting rooms and only one other girl to help me, I was literally run ragged moving from one tiny space to the other to assist customers. It had gotten to a point that I didn’t have time to first ascertain if the customer was male or female. My internal feelings on the subject of which gender I preferred was one something that I had grown to accept and just hoped for the best and the love I needed so desperately.

I closed the door behind number nine and saw an older woman with a teenaged girl trying to squeeze her into a bathing suit that was obviously two sizes too small for her plump rounded figure. The mother was a skinny as a bean pole and I think she was so oblivious to the fact that her daughter outweighed her lean, petite frame that she couldn’t see the plain facts in the mirrors all around us. I immediately got the correct size and told the girl to “strip” and ran back in to dress her properly. It was quite satisfying to see her correctly attired at last and I sat down on the bench waiting for the cute mother to strip off all her clothes and try on some different bathing costumes as well. The daughter wandered outside to the soft easy chairs in the waiting area after redressing in her regular street clothes.

“Thank you so much for helping with my Maria.”

I smiled at the frazzled woman of about thirty and did my best not to stare at her perfectly formed breasts that would have filled my palms with sweet sensations of mammary delight. Then, when she turned to pull up the bikini bottoms, I was right on the spot to tuck her luscious cheeks into the skimpy fabric so that her neatly trimmed bush was completely under cover.

I got the message that she wanted more of that from the way she patted the back of my hand that was still resting like sleeping cobra between her legs and slowly rubbing her delicate slit with increasing need to feel up a little bit more of mama’s fine pussy.

She yelled out the door to her daughter,

“Read the magazine, honey, the nice lady is taking care of your mother for a few minutes.”

Then, she went down on her knees in the small space surrounded with mirrors and I saw her reflection in the side mirror lifting my short skirt and placing her pretty face right on my bulging clitoris that needed attention in the worst possible way.