Miss Cassandra’s Dress Shop

I’ve always enjoyed wearing fun clothes, casual, formal, modern, vintage, so maybe it’s not surprising that for a while I was addicted to Miss Cassandra’s Dress Shop. I didn’t really have enough money to buy any of the dresses, but quite often after classes in the fall of my sophomore year I biked the six blocks from campus to the little shop on the far fringe of the business district. One afternoon I was looking at the vintage collection, and the saleslady, who it turned out was Miss Cassandra herself, spoke to me. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. Then, “I’m too busty for a dress like that—it’s all I can do to keep my shirt buttoned—but I bet you’d look lovely in it.” I didn’t know what to say to this. For one thing I was quite envious of Miss Cassandra’s breasts—I’d trade with her in a minute. Catching myself staring at the swell of her breasts with their prominent buttons, I managed to mumble, “It’s a very nice dress.” “Why don’t you try it on?” she offered. In answer to “I don’t really have enough money to...” she smiled. “Let’s not worry about that,” and she gathered the dress off the hanger and led me to the dressing room.

When I came out, a few minutes later—the dress turned out to be very easy to get into—she said, “I was right! You look fabulous.” She continued to look at me, and I didn’t know what to do. “I guess I should change back,” I said. “Oh no, not yet.” And then, “You really need to have this dress.” I repeated that I didn’t have enough to pay for it. She shook her head. “Oh, we could work something out. Might you be interested in a job here? It doesn’t pay much, but there is a very steep employee discount.” She grinned. Then she said, “Aren’t you going to ask me how steep?” “How steep?” I said in a small voice. “Very steep,” she said. We arranged that I would work three afternoons a week from four to seven.

I was a little nervous for my first day of work. For one thing, I wasn’t sure what to wear. I thought about wearing the fashion dress I’d been given, but it wasn’t really appropriate, and in the end I just wore the simple top and skirt I’d worn to class. As it turned out I didn’t have to do anything that first day; Miss Cassandra had me follow her about, and to the few customers in the shop that afternoon, she introduced me as her new assistant. I smiled pleasantly.

At seven, Miss Cassandra flipped the open sign to closed, locked the door, and asked if I could stay a few minutes. “I thought I’d show you the fabric section,” she said. “Not many people make their own dresses these days, but I like having the supplies.” She showed me the bins of buttons and ribbon, drawers of pattern books, and shelves of fine fabrics. “They’re beautiful,” I said. Miss Cassandra nodded. “But to really appreciate them, you have to feel them.” She took a bolt of red velvet cloth from its shelf, placed it on the table, and unfolded it a tumble or two. “Go ahead,” she said. “Feel it.”

Tentatively I placed a palm upon the material. It was quite wonderful. “Stroke it,” Miss Cassandra said. Tentatively I stroked it. I was about to comment on how wonderful it was when Miss Cassandra’s hand went under my skirt. “It’s fine to feel it with your hand,” she said, her voice quite calm, “but to get the full flavor you have to feel it with every part of your body. Your lovely bottom, for example. Truly, you have the most exquisite ass.” I was paralyzed with shock. Miss Cassandra’s hand was inside my panties, caressing my bottom. “Keep stroking, my dear,” she commanded, and I found the motions of my hand on the cloth mimicked hers on my bottom, or maybe it was the other way around, and we stroked and stroked, and her fingers came nearer and nearer my crease. I tensed my butt. Her fingers stopped. They went away. I took a deep breath. Part of me wanted to feel her fingers in my most intimate place, but mostly I was relieved. The relief lasted but a few seconds, for I felt my skirt and panties being tugged down as one. A moment later my bottom was bare.