I pick one off the rack, walk over to the dressing room, and hand it to the woman helping her. “Tell her to try this one on.”
She waggles her eyebrows at me, and even though I have a desire to put distance between myself and what she’s inferring, I keep my mouth shut and don’t even try to explain. There’s no good way to explain who and what Lyssa is to me in this moment, anyway.
Lyssa giggles in the dressing room. Yells, “Mason, are you out there?”
“I’m right here,” I say.
“What’s this for?”
“Your wedding night,” I say. “Unless you have something already.”
“I don’t,” she says. “But I love it. It’s very grown up.”
“Good,” I say, cringing at her words. The saleslady is waggling again. Oh, wedding, that waggle says. I ignore her. Because I do not want to discuss the wedding I’m not a part of.
When Lyssa gets tired of trying things on, she emerges triumphant and hands the saleswoman a whole armful of pretty bras and panties. And the nightie.
“Fits,” she says, shrugging one shoulder at me.
I pay for it all, because I did promise her new underwear.
But I like paying for it. Feels good to have a lot of money. I’m not poor, by any means. But that’s mostly because I’m a saver by nature. My jobs are here and there. Sometimes I’m super busy, sometimes I’m not. I’ve learned to live below my means.
When we’re done there we head into another boutique that sells dresses and Lyssa chats with the saleswoman about something that might be appropriate for a wedding.
“What do you think I should get, Mason?”
“Up to you,” I say.
“No, really,” she says. “I want to know your opinion.”
This exchange earns us a weird look of confusion from the saleswoman.
“Not pink,” I say.
“No.” She laughs. “I still want white.”
“No ruffles,” I say.
“Done,” she says.
“How about this one?” I point to a very sophisticated dress on a mannequin. Long, fitted, satin, two slits up the side, crystal beads covering the tight bodice, and strapless.
“I’d like to try that one on,” Lyssa tells the woman.
She smiles at me as she turns to follow the woman to the dressing room, and I look around. Wondering how one chooses just the right dress for her wedding day. Then feel guilty for choosing Lyssa’s dress for her.
I wander over to the dressing area just as the saleswoman—Margaret, her name tag says—comes out, almost bumping into me.
“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”
“Totally my fault,” I say.
“You’re Mason?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And you’re not the fiancé?”
“No,” I say.
“Hmmmm.”
“What?”
“She wants you with her. She’s in room six.” And then she gives me a stern look, which I fail to understand.
I wander in, looking for room six, and find the door open. “You beckoned,” I say.
“Unzip me,” she says. “And close the door.”
I close the door, notice that the room is walled in on all four sides for maximum privacy, then walk over and pull her zipper down as she lifts up her hair. My cock suddenly reminds me that I did this very thing a few hours ago and it ended up getting sucked. Cocks remember stuff like that. They are easily trained that way. Get it once, they expect it every time.
I suck in a deep breath as she lowers her dress over her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground.
She’s not wearing a cotton bra anymore. And her panties were definitely not made for a little girl.
“I see you wore something home from the last store.”
“Do you like it?” she asks, looking at me in the mirror.
And again, my cock is saying… Are we having a Groundhog Day? Because I could swear we just did this. And if it happened once…
Easy there, fella. Don’t get excited. It’s not gonna happen again.
He doesn’t listen. Because Lyssa looks like a fucking lingerie model in her matching yellow bra and panty set. All she needs is a pair of those huge wings and she could be on the runway.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lyssa says.
“Knock, knock,” a voice says on the other side of the door.
Lyssa goes over to the door, opens it a crack, takes the dress, and says, “No, thank you, we’ve got it.”
Then shuts it in her face.
“Lyssa,” I say.
“I said thank you,” she protests. “I wasn’t being rude.”
“Maybe she should help you get the dress on?”
“No.”
I cock an eyebrow at her.
“What? I’m not seducing you. I’m standing way over here, see? And besides, you picked it out. Don’t you want to see it on?”
Which is dumb. Because I could wait outside and still see it on her when she’s finished.
“Put the bags down, Mason. I need your help.”
I drop the bags and walk over to her as she unzips the new dress, removes it from the hanger, and says, “Hold it, so I can step in.”