Tuesday, February 10th 2009, Chicago, Illinois

1 Chez Paris Lingerie Emporium 2:30 pm

"Can I help you?" There's a friendly, almost sweet, teenage lilt in the voice that wafts over my shoulder.

"I'm browsing," I answer as turning, I look up from the frilly panties in my hands into the eyes of one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen. An almost overpowering erotic innocence seems to be emanating from her. "Brrrr ... ooow ... zing," I stutter as my eyes finally break contact with hers and slowly move down and across her ripe young body.

She smiles sweetly and allows my inspection without a word of complaint — it must be a common occurrence for a beauty like her in a store like this. Finally, after I've completed my examination she asks, "For someone special? For Valentines Day? Your wife?" There's a saucy, knowing smile on the lips that have asked me the questions. It's almost a sexual leer but not quite. She's too nice. She knows I'm not shopping for my wife.

"No ... I'm just..."

"Those are French ... haute couture ... from-"

"They're beautiful. So soft ... sexy," I murmur but my attention is only for this girl, not the soft cloth between my fingers.

"I know," my angel enthuses with a giggle. "Do you know how much they cost? The set I mean. With the bra."

I shake my head no even though I had glanced at the price tag when I'd picked them up. She leans over and whispers in my ear, "Over Twooo huuundred dollaaaaaaaars. Plus tax." And as her mouth breathes the words into my ear a breast, a soft but firm teenage breast, a breast that I know without doubt is capped by a perfect pink nipple, gently pushes against my arm.

"Actually I'm here doing research."

"Are you?" The words gurgle happily from her lips, her disbelief clear as she arches her eyes upward. I can tell she thinks I'm shopping for a secret girlfriend. Again her young breast nudges into me.

"I'm a writer," I say but leave it at that as I'm in no rush at all to end our encounter. In fact I'm quite prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon in this beautiful young woman's presence. My cock, sleeping peacefully just seconds before her arrival, is lurching awake.

"I want to be a writer some day," the girl muses as her fingers trail over the lace trim of the panties she's holding. ""I'm taking an introductory writing course at the university," she adds.

"Are you?"

"Uh huh," she answers as she lifts another hanger from the rack and holds it up so I can inspect a set of black, lace trimmed lingerie. "What do you write?"

"Short stories," I answer as I touch the soft lace in the crotch of the panties she's proffered.

"That's what I'm hoping to write some day," she says. She watches my fingers as they trail lovingly across the delicate cloth.

"Erotica," I add, then watch as her eyes grow wide.

"What? Erotica? Seriously?" She can't hide her surprise, or her interest.

"Some prefer to call it porn. That's why I'm here. I have to research the latest styles, the latest colors."

"Hah! I bet you're shopping for a secret girlfriend," she accuses, clearly not convinced. "A girlfriend your wife doesn't know about." I sense immediately that she's hoping her guess is correct.

"No, seriously, I'm shopping for the clothes for the heroine in my next story," I insist as I reach for another hanger.

"What's it about then?"

"It's about beautiful young, women who works as a salesgirl in a lingerie store."

"Ha, I bet," she challenges but it's obvious she's enjoying the conversation. "If you're really a writer what's your name? Where can I buy one of your books?"

"StoriesOnLine, I say quietly and I can't help but see that this young angel recognised the word the second it left my mouth. She knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"S ... O ... L. No way!" she exclaims. I nod my head yes.

"What's your name?" She challenges.

"Jim," I answer.

"I mean what name do you publish under?"

"I'm not sure I should discuss it with you. I'm afraid it's not a site for sixteen year old girls, it's not the type of reading an innocent young virgin should be doing," I admonish. She can hear the teasing tone in my voice and see the grin on my lips but still she breaks immediately into a teenage girls pout.

"Hah! I'm nineteen," she answers huffily and as she does she arches her back and draws back her shoulders. And as she does her ripe, tipped cones stretch the ivory colored fabric of the soft, v neck cashmere sweater she's wearing to its elastic limit. Her baby blue eyes bore into mine, challenging me not to look down.

"Nineteen?" I question in my most dubious tone. My eyes are like lasers as they settle on her tautly stretched sweater. Her nipples, clearly now erect in excitement, poke out. I lick my lips.

"I've been married two years already," she adds as she holds up her hand and displays a sparkling diamond ring.

"Impossible!" And at that exact second I realise that I'm going to fuck her. Husband or not!

"I am so." I continue to look dubiously at her. I wait.

"Are you really a writer?" I nod yes. "Do you really have stories up on S ... O ... L?" I nod again.

"That's why I came in today. To brush up on the latest in woman's underwear," I say as I lift another panty-ed hanger from the rack.

"They're just panties," she throws back at me but I can see I've captured her attention.

"What color is this one then?" I ask as I hold out the hanger.

"That's chartreuse cherry," she answers after checking the tag.

"And this?" I point to another.

"Heather tangerine."

"That's Neon Scuba," she says to the next one I hold up.

"What? Scuba?" I continue to lift hangers from the rack.

"Coral cobalt ... Pink flirt ... wildflower..." She rattles off the colors.

"Those aren't colors," I protest. "How would any reader know what I was talking about if I wrote that my sister's panties were neon scuba?"

She can't mask her excitement or stop her next words, "You write inceeeeest?"

I smile back at her but ignore her question, instead I ask, "And how would you describe this one?"

"It's a cheekie." And then I point to others.

"A brief ... a thong ... hiphugger ... a bikini ... Boyshorts ... a v-string." She's grinning as she staccato like identifies the latest styles of panties.

"That's lace ... fishnet ... scalloped ... a skirted thong..." She continues to identify every piece of cloth I hold out to her.

I hold up my hands in mock surrender. "And that's my problem."

"What is?" she wants to know.

"How can I describe something like this as a scalloped, fishnet, lace up, cheeky panty in neon scuba?" I ask. "My readers won't have any idea what I'm talking about."

"I'd know."

"You work in the store. Of course youuuuu'd know..." I answer sarcastically. But I'm grinning.

"You need a teacher."

"Do I?"

"Uh huh. What's your name?"

"You won't recognise it."

"Stiiiiiiill..." Her still is murmured softly in invitation.

"James R Scouries," I answer after a moment's hesitation.

"SCOURIES! Noooooooo waaaaaaaay!"

Christ, she's somehow recognised my name!

"You wrote "Allison's Ankle". And "Charlie's Naked Proposal". And I loved "Valentines Siblings".

I'm shocked and I know my face shows it. I can't help but wonder why this young beauty is reading my erotic stories. She should be home in bed living her own stories. Who is this girl married to? And why incest stories? And why brother/sister stories?

"You're my favourite author."

"I am?"

"Uh huh. I've even sent you e-mails. And you wrote back."

"What's your e-mail address?" I'm instantly curious, wondering if I'll recognise the name.

"My first name at gmail-com."

"And what's your first name?" I ask as I go to put my hand on her shoulder. She dances back out of reach.

"You'll have to buy me coffee ... my break's at four," she answers mischievously as she slips away.

FUCK ME!!!!!

2 Coffee Shop 4:00 pm

Of course I'm waiting for her when she slips out through the front door of the shop at 4:01. "I've only got thirty minutes," she says as she takes my hand and starts to lead me down the street. 'There's a coffee shop just down the block."

"We open up the boutique at ten each morning," she explains as she leads me. "Gladys opens up then and I start only at noon. I get a half hour break at four."

I'm hardly listening; instead my eyes are concentrating on the body pulling me along in its wake. The beautiful breasts dancing under her sweater. The tiny waist. The flaring hips. The long legs that are hardly concealed by the pleated yellow mini skirt that dances off her thighs as she walks.

"Gladys leaves at six and I stay until eight when I close up."

"You're all alone at night?"

"Today I am. Usually Madame Benoit, she's the owner, is there but she had a conference today. She'll be back tomorrow," she says as we sweep into the coffee shop. She leads me to a booth at the back as she calls out a greeting to the two women standing behind the counter.

She's recognised immediately by the waitress and a 'Hi Angie' echoes back through the shop.

"Angie? Like in Angela?" I ask as we sit down facing each other. Our knees bump together awkwardly. My cock gives a start in response.

"So you're married," I say as I place my hand on top of hers and cover the ring. Our waitress has just delivered our coffee. We each order a Danish to go with it before she leaves.

"Two years."

"Impossible," I protest but then quickly add, "unless you got married at fourteen."

"Ha, ha. I told you I'm nineteen. And my name is not Angela, its Angelique."

"Yes you are."

"I am what?"

"Angelic." In fact sitting opposite this innocent, open faced girl is the closest I'm ever going to get to heaven.

"My husband says I look angelic but sometimes act-"

I interrupt, "Tell me about him?"

"About who?"

"This husband of yours. This man who's stolen you from the rest of mankind."

"Why?" she challenges but then starts up again almost immediately. "He's older than me. Almost seven years older." Her eyes search mine, watching for my reaction.

"And how old is your lover?"

"My lover? What lover?" I've surprised her with my question.

"C'mon, the secret boyfriend."

"I don't have one. Paul's my only lover," she answers, then adds, "Paul's my husband."

"That won't work if you want to appear in one of my stories."

"You're really going to put me in one of your stories?" She tries to sound nonchalant but I can hear the interest. I nod yes.

"Who'll I be?"

"You'll be a nineteen year old married angel named Angie who works in a lingerie store. In Chicago."

"But..."

"Who when her husband is away sometimes does things she'll never tell him about. Wild, sexy things."

"I do not!"

"It's my story."

"So what exactly will 'your' Angie do in 'your' story?"

"You're a very, very bad girl when he's out of town."

"I am?"

"Is he handsome?" I ask.

"Who?"

"Your husband."

"Is he going to be in the story?"

"It depends."

"He's out of town this week. At a company seminar til Sunday. And he is. Very. He's the handsomest husband in the whole world. And the kindest ... and sweetest ... and best dressed ... he's got blond hair and-"

"Does he have a big peeeeenis?" I ask with an evil leer.

'Shhhhhh," she admonishes as she looks around to see if anyone's heard. I grab her two hands in mine. "And yes Mr. Scouries, it is beautiful," she finally whispers. "His cock I mean."

"You're going to have to tell me all about it," I instruct. I see the protest on her lips so quickly add, "I'll have to know if I'm going to put him in the story." She hadn't answered my question about his size.

"It's private ... they're his private parts," she answers coyly. But I know instinctively she wants to tell me.

"There are no private parts in a Scouries tale my dear Angie. And you'll also have to tell me about all the other penises you've seen."

"His is the only one I've ever seen," she protests as her eyes again flick around the room. I know Angie's lying before I hear her words. I shake my head sadly.

"I've seen some on the internet," she finally admits. I raise my eyes questioningly.

"I saw one other one ... once..." Again she sees the immediate disbelief in my eyes.

"Alright two. But that's all." I wait. "I saw Johnnies ... but just for a second."

"Johnnies?"

"I meant Greg's," she corrects as her cheeks are suddenly engulfed in a sea of red blush. "So two ... and of course my husbands. But he's the only one who's..."

"Fucked you?" I finish for her.

"Made love with me," she corrects. She arches her back as she says it which only pushes her young beauties further out towards me. Under the table I adjust my legs so that they capture one of her bare knees between them.

"Not even with Johnnie?" I probe.

"Noooooo! N ... O. And there's no Johnnie."

Of course there is. And I know that I'll eventually find out who he is.

"So how'd you meet this old guy you married anyway?"

"He's not old!" But she proceeds to tell me. She'd been sixteen. A sophomore in high school. She had a boyfriend but she was still a virgin. And then there was another boy in school who she started to like. She couldn't make up her mind between them. She was ready but wasn't sure.

"And then something happened," she says over her coffee to me. But she drops her eyes as she says the words.

"What?" I encourage.

"It's a secret. I can't say." I knew that whatever it was it had involved this Johnnie guy.

"I can't put it in my story?"

"No! You can't put any of this in your story."

"It's your story too. So what happened then?"

"Paul came into my life. He saved me."

"Saved you?"

"If he hadn't appeared at exactly the right moment I don't know what would have happened to me."

"How old was he then?" I tried to do the math in my head. "Twenty-three, twenty-four?"

"He'd just turned twenty-four."

"And he was hanging around sixteen year olds? What was he, some kind of perv?" I ask even though I know that there probably wasn't a male on the planet who on meeting Angie at sixteen wouldn't have lusted for her.

"He met me at Wendy's. He was a customer." Reading the confusion on my face she added, "I worked there, on the cash, three nights a week."

"He met you at Wendy's?" I can't believe the guys luck.

"He came back the next night. Then the next. He's a businessman ... he has an M.B.A ... a good job ... we own a house now."

The prick! He sweet talked the poor teenager. He caught her on the rebound from her high school beaus. At least that's what I accuse in answer to her description of him.

"No he wasn't! He was so nice. And well dressed. Daddy and Mommy liked him the first time they met him. Mom said he was a gentleman. He treated me like a princess."

Of course he did! Who wouldn't have?

We talked continuously for twenty minutes until it was time for her to go back. She wanted to know about my writing and I wanted to know everything about her. She told me all about her life. How within months Paul had proposed. Her parents had been delighted even though she hadn't even finished high school. He married her during her Christmas break of her junior year. She'd just turned seventeen. They honeymooned in the Bahamas.

Then I'd told her about my life. How I lived in Miami Beach. That I was just up in Chicago on business for a few days. That I was going to spend the weekend with my sister up in Madison.

"Your sister? In Wisconsin?"

"She's a Professor at the University up there. It's a Valentine's Day surprise."

"Valentines Day? But she's your sister."

"Her husband died. She finds this time of year hard," I answer. I'm not being completely honest with her. I can see she wants to ask a question, another question about my sister, so I quickly change the subject. "How come you guys haven't had a baby yet?"

"We're trying," she responds but I can't miss the sad catch in her voice. And know that they're having trouble conceiving. It must be his fault, this handsome husband, I decide, there is no way this voluptuous young beauty isn't fertile. Immediately I decide I want to put my child in her!

"So when are you going to give me my lingerie lesson?" I ask as I walk her back to the shop.

"You really want one?" I nod eagerly.

"And you're going to put me in a story?" I nod again.

"We close at eight; maybe if you're not busy you could come back then. I could show you ... Paul's away so I don't have to rush home right after work."

Of course I agreed. Fuck Paul! If she was my wife I'd of had her locked up at home and wearing a burqa.

3 Chez Paris Lingerie 8:00 pm

There are no customers in the store when I arrive back at five minutes to eight.

"Will you really put me in a story?" are the first words out of Angie's pretty mouth as she locks the door and pulls down the blinds and then hangs the closed sign in the window. She turns down the lights so there's only a soft glow in the shop. "I've already closed the cash," she says as she takes my hand and leads me through the shop and then through a door and into the brightly lit, mirrored private showroom it the back.

"I thought I'd start with these for your lesson," she says as she points to one of the three display tables in the room. The table is awash in pink lace and frills. "These are from our Valentines Day collection," she says as she leads me over to the table. "Lots of hearts," she adds as she lifts a pair of panties from the pile. I take out my camera and start to shoot.

"You're supposed to photograph the underwear," she chides as I snap three or four of my beautiful host. She's smiling as she says it.

"You're going to be the heroine of the story ... I have to have some of you too. So I'll remember what you look like." As if I'd ever forget her!

"What am I going to do in your story anyway?"

"I told you before. Your character is going to be a bad wife. I won't know exactly how bad until I start writing."

"And she'll have my name?"

"Yes, and she'll look just like you. And she'll work in a lingerie shop. And be nineteen and married."

"You sit over there ... on the settee," she interrupts. "And you can take notes; I'll hold each set up and describe it for you."

"She'll be very bad," I say as I sit. "My story Angie I mean."

"But I'm a good girl."

"It'll probably be a Loving Wives category story."

"Yuck! I don't like those ones. You're not going to make me sleep with someone besides my husband are you?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

I don't answer her question, instead I say, "Hold them in front of your body ... so I can get an idea of how they'll look on you."

"I've never cheated on my husband," she says as she holds the hanger containing a pink, wispy, translucent number in front of her.

"Take the bra off the hanger. Put in on outside your sweater."

"But-"

"It's not cheating if you love the other man. He'll be a younger man. Hardly more than a boy."

"I love my husband!" she insists as she fits the bra over her breasts. I snap six quick pictures.

"A woman can love two men."

"Not if she's married, not me," Angie retorts with conviction.

"Try that one next," I instruct as I point to another set. "And then of course there will be the third man, the stranger, he'll be older," I say as I watch my little angel slip another bra over her shoulders and breasts atop her sweater. My camera clicks again.

"A third man? I'm going to sleep with two men besides my husband? What kind of woman are you making me? How old will this old man be? And who's my lover?"

"You're going to sleep with at least two others beside your husband," I say as I get up from the sofa. "Try this one next," I say as I hold up a skimpy black lace number I've picked up from another table. "The first one, the stranger, he'll be about my age."

"Your age? That would be way too old for me." She's firm in her rejection of this fictional forty year old seducer I've conjured up. She takes the hanger from my fingers.

"No, this time I want to see this one modelled the right way ... not over your sweater."

"I can't ... you'll see..."

"Please, it's for the story ... for the readers," I implore softly.

"It's wrong-"

I gently guide her towards one of the small changing rooms that opens off our mirrored display room. "It's no different than if you were trying on a bathing suit for a customer. The story Angie, remember the story," I urge.

She turns back to face me and asks, "So how old will the lover be?"

"He's young. Younger even than you," I answer, guessing at her secret. Then I shut the door of the room.

"Eighteen?" she asks through the door.

"Exactly eighteen," I agree. "Yes, he'll be a horny, big cocked eighteen year old who wants to fuck the old married woman."

I hear a giggle through the door. "I'm not old," she calls. But it takes her minutes before she shyly emerges from the cubicle. Her breasts are spilling out of the black lace that's struggling to contain them.

"You're beautiful, no wonder the man in my story wants you," I intone reverentially as I lift the camera.

"Don't, no pictures," she orders but makes no real effort to cover herself as I circle her like a vulture, snapping pictures continuously. The matching black lace 'cheekies' highlight the smooth firmness of her bum.

"Describe your outfit for me ... so I'll know what to write."

"Will the story Angie be wearing these when she's with the old man?" She asks.

"No, these are for the young lover. The boy who makes love with you in your husband's bed."

"My own bed? Where will Paul be?"

"Who? The cuckold?"

"He's not!"

"It's just a story. Now describe this outfit."

"It's a push-up bra. In lace. Black lace. They call it floral lace because of the pattern," she explains as she fingers the bra. "It's got a plunge front-"

"I'll say!"

"Shhh, don't interrupt," she orders and then puts her hands under her breasts and gently lifts them, almost as if she's making an offering. "A plunge front with a kissing center."

Fuck, does it ever, I think to myself as I eye the deep valley between her breasts.

"It has more cleavage this way. Underwire cups. And of course with adjustable straps. It closes on the back." Angie, in her enthusiasm to display her knowledge, has almost forgotten that she's practically naked in front of a man other than her husband.

"Let me see," I say, then put a hand on her shoulder and then turn her so she's facing away from me. She watches me in the mirror.

"What are you doing?" she asks as she feels my fingers on the fragile clasp that holds the bra in place.

"I'm going to have to explain to my readers how the shy teenager struggles to get your bra undone. I just want to check how it works," I say as I easily undo the bra. Angie's hands race to hold the black lace up on her breasts. I see a nipple. Pink. Erect.

She dances away from me, all the while struggling to keep her teenaged breasts covered. She doesn't completely succeed. I snap more pictures.

"We better stop now. I'm going to change back," she announces firmly from the doorway to the cubicle. But she lingers there, waiting. She's enjoying our flirting as much as I.

"I want you to try one more."

"But-"

"Just one. This is the one the girl in the story will be wearing when the older lover takes her."

"He takes her?"

"Yes," I answer as I pick up an ensemble from the third table. She scampers over, her curiosity drawing her.

"The white one? With the garter belt? And stockings too?"

"Yes," I answer as I hand her the lingerie.

I can see immediately that she likes the choice. "It's expensive. It's a limited edition. From France," she explains as she takes it from my hand. "It's a ruffled Chantilly lace v-string. And the garter belt is in a matching mesh lace ... I love it in white. It's my favourite."

"And the bra?" I ask.

"It's a push-up, corset demi bra," my expert tells me.

"Try it on."

"It's very-"

"Revealing?" I supply.

"Yes."

"PUT IT ON!" It's an order.

"But-"

"That's what the man in the story says."

"He orders her too? Like you just did? He yells at her? Is he in the boutique in the story?"

"Yes, in a room just like this one. As soon as he came into the store our fictional Angie knew he was rich. She knew that she could sell him hundreds and hundreds of dollars of lingerie if she played her cards right. Maybe thousands! That she could earn a big commission check. In the story he comes in just before closing."

"Like you did tonight," Angie supplies. I nod.

"He's a European. He wants her to model the lingerie for him. She knows she shouldn't but then she thinks of the money. She tells herself that nothing will happen. That he's civilised."

"She's greedy isn't she? That's not like me," my Angie says even as she takes the clothes from my hands. "She should have known you can't trust Europeans. What is he? French?"

"Italian," I supply.

"They're the worst."

"But she thinks she's safe. He's dressed like a gentleman. She knows clothes. His suit is Italian, she knows it must have cost at least three thousand dollars."

"So she goes and changes into this? For an Italian?" Angie asks.

"Yes she turns to go into the cubicle. But he stops her."

"He does? Why?"

"He says, 'No Angelique, I want you to change here, right here in front of me'. She thinks he's kidding at first but he isn't."

"What does she do?"

"Why don't you tell me what you think the Angie in the story will do."

"I'll bet she'll probably do it. She'll have to if it's going to be an erotic story. A Scouries story. She will, won't she?" she asks.

"Yes."

"She shouldn't. She's making a mistake," my Angie warns her fictional namesake.

"If it was you how would you do go about it? Would you strip right in front of him?"

She shakes her head no. "I'd probably sit on the sofa. Like this," she says as she sits down on the soft velvet surface of the oriental style settee. She's now completely into the part. And as she does she lets the black lace bra that she'd been holding to her breasts fall. I pick up my camera.

"What is she thinking as he watches her?" I ask.

"She's a little bit afraid. Nervous. But excited too," my young beauty says as she slides the black panties down her legs. "She's never done anything like this before for a customer."

"So why does she do it now?" I ask as I point the camera lens at her now exposed sex.

"She can't stop herself."

"But her husband," I protest.

And as Angie bares herself to me, as her triangle of trimmed pubic down comes into view, I smell her sex, her need. The lips of her vagina are already engorged with blood, a drop of moisture glistens at her gate.

"It's like she's fallen under his spell," the cute wife admits as she looks shyly up at me.

"Does the man have an erection?"

"Yes he does, and she can't help but notice it ... but it seems almost too big. His pants are tenting out, way out." As Angie talks she's attaching the garter belt around her waist but her eyes have darted across to the bulge that's protruding from my pants.

"Is it bigger than her husband's?"

Quickly Angie pulls the sheer white stockings up her legs and attaches them to the belt. She reaches for the bra.

"She thinks so," my married angel responds as she fits the bra over her beautiful breasts.

"Does she wonder what it'll feel like inside herself? If his big cock will feel different than her husband's does? Better?"

"I love my husband's cock," Angie says as she bends to pull the wispy white panties up over her feet.

"No, I want you to leave those off!" I order.

"Is that what the lover in the story says?"

"Yes, now stand up. HURRY!" I pull the young teen to her feet, then lead her over to the large wall mirror. I stand behind her and watch her reflection in the glass. "What is my story Angie thinking now?" I ask. My hands have closed around her arms, trapping her between them.

"She's scared ... and excited. She can see his eyes ... his hungry eyes. They're devouring her. She knows he wants her, that she's made a mistake."

"He can smell her," I whisper in my Angie's ear. "Her sex! He knows she's wet, that she wants him. She can feel his hardness against her bum." And as I murmur the words I pull her back against me, moving her so my erection traces the crack between her cheeks.