More Stories to Make You Blush

 

S
EVEN
N
EW
N
AUGHTY
T
ALES

 

M
ARIE
G
RAY

Copyright © 2007 by Guy Saint-Jean Éditeur Inc.
Cover and internal design © 2007 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover illustration: Lucie Crovatto
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Previously published in 2001 by Green Frog Publishing.
© Guy Saint-Jean Éditeur Inc. 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gray, Marie

 [Nouvelles histoires à faire rougir. English]

 More stories to make you blush : seven new naughty tales / Marie Gray.

    p. cm.

 ISBN-13:

 ISBN-10:

 I. Title.

 PQ3919.2.G7646N6813 2007

 843'.914--dc22

2007028601

Printed and bound in Canada

WC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

 

 

 

I remember that morning very well, Wednesday, October 12. Now, there was a morning I never should have gotten out of bed! When the alarm clock rang, pulling me out of a deep slumber, my wife was still sound asleep, her flannel nightgown buttoned up to the neck, her face smothered in “rejuvenating” night cream. I vaguely recall that I'd been having a dream before the alarm went off with its god-awful racket. I dreamed that my tender spouse, divested of both nightgown and cream, had slid under the sheets and was heartily sucking me—something she hadn't been inclined to do for many long years. I love her dearly, but at this stage of the game, our relations are increasingly platonic.

But back to the morning of October 12. I'd had a bad cold for about a week. The day looked pretty gray, though at that hour it was too dark to tell for sure. A little voice in my head kept urging, “Stay in bed! Treat yourself, just this once! When've you ever been sick?” I was sorely tempted. It's true: I'd never taken advantage of my sick days. I thought of how wonderful it would be to shut off the damn clock and sleep all morning in the warmth of the conjugal bed. But duty called. I like my work. I'm a security guard for the Fashion Gallery department store, and after many long years of service I spend my days comfortably seated, watching monitors that display whatever's happening in different parts of the establishment.

But I didn't get the job—a job made in heaven!— because of my pretty face. I could spend the whole day sitting without having to do rounds of the departments. I didn't have to carry a weapon (I hate firearms!) because I was out of harm's way. Not that much ever happened. I had only witnessed two armed robberies in my entire career. Not bad for almost forty years of service. Still, I far prefer the security of my job, especially at my age. I don't want to be chasing petty thieves or loitering teenagers. And let's be frank: why would I spend the day standing when I could be sitting?

They also had to find someone who would keep his mouth shut. The Fashion Gallery had no intention of letting people know that they followed their women customers right into the fitting rooms! That would've been a disaster. All sorts of organizations would've stuck their noses in, and that would've been it; no more cameras in the fitting rooms. And yet, it's right in these little booths that most shoplifting occurs.

In any case, it was me who got the job, thanks to my experience, discretion, and professionalism. And I've caught more than one woman shoplifting! Sure, it'd be tempting to sit and watch the fitting rooms all day; the ladies who shop at the Fashion Gallery are usually fairly well off, beautiful, and elegant. But I'm too old for that kind of nonsense, and I secretly hope our competitors choose their employees with care when it comes to handing out this kind of task.

Anyway, that morning it was the call of duty that gave me the courage to resist the coaxing of my inner voice. With great difficulty I hauled myself out of bed, casting an envious glance at my better half (still sleeping), and headed for the shower. I thought I'd forgotten my dream, but the memory suddenly returned at the sight of my erect member under the spray of hot water. I imagined the mouth of my sweet Margaret gently taking it prisoner, and licking it with appetite like she used to do, back in the days when she slept naked and without face cream. Absentmindedly, I soaped my cock, sliding my hand up and down, feeling my heart beat faster. When was the last time I'd stroked that lazy rod? I was pleasantly surprised by my state of desire and thought of waking Margaret to share it with her. But the moment passed, and I figured she wouldn't be quite as receptive as my hard and swollen member. I came with a shudder, hurried to clean myself up, and went to work.

The morning was slow. Not a single thing happened to break the tedium, that is, not until
She
made her entrance—the one who would wake my groggy instincts with a jolt and turn my life upside down.

I first saw her on the monitor for the main entrance. She was around twenty-five, blonde, classy, and beautifully groomed. I see pretty women come through those doors every day, but this one was enough to knock the wind out of you. She seemed in a hurry, like a lot of customers who come looking for a specific item over their lunch break. She headed straight for the lingerie section. I watched her body, her every move. She moved gracefully despite her elegant high-heeled shoes and form-fitting suit. Her hair was perfect—not a strand out of place—and I was sure she was wearing one of those alluring and very expensive perfumes like Shalimar or Opium. At the women's lingerie section, she removed her gloves with a slow and deliberate gesture, which gave me a hard-on for some inexplicable reason. She looked so sure of herself !—probably the difficult type who demands top quality and flawless service. Luckily, the young salesgirl knew her stuff. She suggested a few different styles and showed her to the fitting rooms. I took a deep breath. It was the chance of a lifetime, but I told myself there was no way I was going to take advantage of it, except it would've taken superhuman strength to resist. I was at a loss to understand why I felt this sudden, irresistible attraction to a woman I didn't know. I'm usually so respectful of our women customers' privacy, but I was totally unable, in body and mind, to take my eyes off the fitting room monitors. Instead, I tried desperately to guess which one she'd be given. The clerk led her to number three. The beautiful stranger went in. I gave myself a one minute time limit, barely enough even to get a clear view of her. After that, I told myself, I would go back to my responsibilities.

Before I go on, I should explain that I've always been faithful to my wife in thought, word, and deed. Last month we celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. I was moved, happy, proud, and considered myself lucky to have spent so many years by her side in quiet happiness, free of dramas; and I hoped to spend the rest of my life that way. I'm still hoping! I may be moved by the sight of a pretty young woman wearing a skirt that's too short, but that doesn't mean I don't love my wife, even if I sometimes try and guess what's underneath that skirt. These things happen! I think Margaret still loves me, too. If not, she wouldn't be so sweet and considerate with me. Our children left home years ago, and my wife and I still enjoy each other's company. The quiet evenings we spend watching TV with a couple of beers prove how comfortable we are together. It's modest, but it's cozy. Still, it's been awhile since Margaret stopped watching her weight or wearing flattering clothes like the woman in the store.

The cameras in the fitting rooms are behind the mirrors. I could see her gorgeous face more clearly now. Her careful makeup brought out her pale eyes whose color, unfortunately, I couldn't see. All you can see on these blasted screens is umpteen shades of gray! But no matter, she was a striking beauty. She hung up her purse on one of the hooks and with her long fingers unbuttoned her suit jacket. I told myself that was enough; I wouldn't watch her take off her blouse, skirt, and the rest. But under the jacket she wore nothing but a bra. A cleverly folded scarf had created the illusion of a blouse. I'd been caught at my own game! It was too late to tear my eyes away. I was mesmerized. Her magnificent brassiere was made of lace, and as she unhooked her skirt, I saw she was wearing matching panties. The skirt slid to the floor and she slowly picked it up, hanging it up carefully so it wouldn't get wrinkled. Why did she have to be wearing those stockings that miraculously stay up on the thighs? They were very pale and silky, enveloping her willowy legs and resting on her white skin. With precise gestures she took off the bra, then slipped off the panties, before removing the new lingerie from the hangers. It crossed my mind that she shouldn't be taking her panties off—they ask the customers to leave them on when trying on clothes—but this thought vanished from my mind as quickly as it had arrived. She had a splendid body: big firm breasts, a narrow waist, rounded hips, and flat stomach; I knew she was a real blonde from the pale bush between her legs. She turned and I admired the roundness of her buttocks, the slender and elegant back, the slim arms hooking up the new brassiere, and sliding the panties up her luscious legs. The lingerie set suited her to perfection; the salesgirl had given her admirable advice. The lace was so delicate you could see her nipples and the little shadow over her sex. She examined herself with a serious look, turning to study her body from different angles, obviously asking herself if the items were really what she wanted. After a few moments her face lit up with an angelic smile. She liked what she saw; her mind was made up. I was hoping she would try the other braand-panty sets that she had brought in, but she didn't. She was satisfied on the very first try.

She started to get dressed, taking off the new lingerie, which allowed me to admire that fabulous body in its nudity before covering it up again with chic clothes. She went out and paid for her purchase, a little smile of satisfaction on her face as she waited for her package. The smile stayed on her face as she went through the store. I gave a nervous little jump when, just before going through the door, she turned, looked back, then raised her head to the camera over the entrance. I blushed like a teenager who's been caught red-handed. I had the strange feeling she knew I was there; that she guessed I had been greedily watching her and found her beautiful—so beautiful that when I got up from my station there was an obvious bulge in the lap of my pants, like the center pole of a tent, pointing straight up and hard.

* * *

That evening when I got home I could only mumble a vague reply when Margaret greeted me with her eternal, “Paul, is that you? Did you have a good day?” I hurried into the bedroom to take off my clothes and jumped in the shower to cool down my fevered thoughts. She found it strange that I was taking another shower, but I explained that there'd been trouble with the air-conditioning and it had been hellishly hot all day. I was filled with a horrible feeling of guilt telling her this lie, and I went over and kissed her. I was as surprised as she was by the tenderness and depth of that kiss. She stepped back, turned red with confusion, and fixed me with her most piercing gaze— the one you couldn't hide anything from.