This story is for all of us who have had fantasies about the endless beds on display in a furniture showroom. Especially when the salesman is hot!
Fabulous Furniture
…
“Can you feel how the mattress supports your spine?”
Lucy opened her eyes.
“How about stretching out properly?” he suggested. “You’ll really appreciate this mattress then.”
“May I?” she stammered.
“Of course, madam. We wouldn’t want you to buy one of our products without experiencing it to the fullest.”
Lucy hesitated before sliding farther onto the bed. She wanted him to keep on massaging her legs, but how could she tell him?
Connor appeared to intuit her need. He sat on the bed and resumed his attention to her feet and legs. Lucy surrendered to his exquisite touch. He was only trying to sell her a bed, she knew, and he was very good at his job. He used his hands like an expert, working on her calf muscles, dissolving all the tension away.
Somewhere at the back of her cautious, conservative mind she knew she shouldn’t be allowing Connor to go this far. That same sensible voice continued relentlessly, telling her he was taking liberties way outside the boundaries of a salesman/customer relationship.
For the first time in her entire life, she chose to ignore the sensible voice, the voice that told her to buy severely cut navy-blue suits for work, suits that would last for the next ten years. If she was unlucky. The voice she heard now was Megan’s, telling her to have a little bit of fun while she could, that Todd loved no one but himself, that she really was an attractive woman.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, although Connor showed no sign of doing so. Now he was massaging her knees, sometimes brushing the backs of them where she was slightly ticklish, before exploring, albeit tentatively, beneath the hem of her skirt.
“I will if you want me to. Just say the word.” He looked up into her face. From his expression, all his Christmases had come at once.
Lucy was grateful he’d stopped addressing her as “madam.” It made her feel old. Or, she thought, like she ran a brothel. She giggled.
“Please, don’t stop,” she repeated. “What you’re doing—it feels wonderful, truly wonderful.”
He took this as permission to explore further. The heat of his hands seared her skin through her pantyhose.
“If I could…” He hesitated, swallowing nervously. “If I could remove your tights…”
She nodded, unwilling to trust speech. Yes, please, she wanted to shout, and not only my tights. Her clothes were suddenly too tight, too restricting, too hot. The underwire of her bra cut into her breasts. The waistband of her skirt dug into her flesh. Her sensible, straight skirt stopped her moving her thighs, which wanted to open to Connor almost of their own accord.
He slid his hands up the outer sides of her thighs, past her hips, until he reached her waist. Slowly, carefully, he rolled the pantyhose down her body until he reached her toes. Her skin tingled everywhere his fingers touched.
…
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