Dry Cleaning

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Dry CleaningShe looked bored when I first saw her, standing outside her shop, smoking a cigarette. It was the Saturday morning of an August bank holiday and unusually peaceful outside, with little traffic and, from what I could see, few passers-by. No doubt she was taking advantage of her lack of customers for a quiet moment to herself. My house overlooked her shop and the handful of others in the little arcade in my street. They were the usual things: a newsagent / grocery store, a take-away, a betting shop, a pub and this, the dry cleaners. It had opened some five years earlier, much to my delight, for it could not have been more convenient. Over the years I had watched staff come and go with idle curiosity. Now there was Pam, according to the name-badge on her company shirt — a rather sterile-looking navy blue with white details, which made her look as if she should be working in a dentists’ surgery. She was in her mid-thirties and, although no knockout she was certainly pleasing to the eye: shoulder-length brown hair, soft and curved with generous breasts and a splendid habit of leaving undone one more button on her shirt than strict modesty would advise. Whenever I went into drop off some clothes, I always made sure to find some reason for her to take down a note or two, and I always looked. I think she knew; she certainly guessed and it was clear that she didn’t mind in the least. Pam had a flirty way about her: a knowing smile and a naughty twinkle in her eye that suggested to me that she knew exactly what she was doing. For the past six or nine months, then, we had maintained this low level, occasional, tacit agreement to tease and be teased, and to enjoy the impure thoughts that resulted. The dry cleaner’s always opened early so it must have been only around 8.30 am when I saw her taking her break outside. I had been out the night before with friends, celebrating the bank holiday. We had had quite a few drinks so, on my return home, I had stripped off completely to try and catch some sleep despite the heat and humidity that a British summer can occasionally provide, and had fallen fast asleep. That Saturday morning I had woken up with a slight headache and a major case of the hangover horn. My cock was protesting at the lack of attention it had received recently due to pressure of work and was standing proud, demanding relief. I ignored it, loosely threw on my thin summer dressing gown — a rather fetching thigh-length emerald green silk number that I had picked up on a business trip to Hong Kong some years previously — and went to put on some coffee, grab some orange juice and think about breakfast. I planned to indulge in a lengthy, luxurious stroking session later; my cock could wait for that. My bedroom was on the third floor of my house. Its window was one of my favourite features: long patio doors that opened onto a tiny balcony, its tiled flooring barely large enough for a kitchen chair and table, but sufficient for me to step outside, breathe fresh (London) air and, in my head at least, announce my arrival into the world that morning. I opened the window/doors canlı bahis şirketleri and took a step outside to look around and enjoy the sunshine. Then I saw Pam, lost in her thoughts, taking the occasional puff of her cigarette. I watched her for a few more minutes: those really were superb breasts, I thought to myself, and there was an argument to be made that they required a slightly larger shirt. The uniform details, particularly the pocket, had the presumably unintended but nonetheless splendid effect of accentuating her chest. From this slight angle, I tried unsuccessfully to see if I could see down the top. I failed but that became irrelevant because it was then that Pam noticed me. Looking up, she nodded her head and smiled brightly. Remembering how little I was wearing, and fully conscious that my morning wood remained insistent, I tugged the gown together slightly. She frowned and gave me a look of disappointment. I shrugged, raised an eyebrow and pointed to me. She gave an exasperated look — duh! — and nodded. I hemmed and hawed a little, my head moving from side to side, but did nothing. She turned to go back into her shop, or so I thought, and briefly cursed myself for my lack of courage. With her back to me, she paused for a few seconds. I admired her arse (highly spankable) and then she turned back towards me, raised an eyebrow and smiled again. If I was not mistaken, two more buttons were now unfastened on her shirt, enabling me to see the smallest hint of black and pink bra underneath. Then she nodded to me, ‘your turn’. I took one step back into my bedroom, to make myself that little bit less conspicuous to the casual observer. I slowly began unfastening my gown, my cock growing with each second. For a while she could not have seen much — a tenting, perhaps, then a shadow — but after what felt like an age, my gown was fully open and my turgid member sprang free into the sunlight. Pam’s grin at seeing me like this could have restored terminally sick patients to full health. I shrugged off the gown completely and stood before her, my hard prick twitching at her attention. Very casually her right hand closed and she began to move it up and down a few times in the internationally recognised signal for wanking. My eyebrows shot up in surprise. Here? Now? She nodded firmly and mouthed ‘Go on.’ By now I was aroused beyond all reason, so shrugged aside the potential risk and, spitting on my hand for lubrication, reached down and took hold of myself. She stared at me intensely. I began stroking, slowly at first and then with greater speed and vigour. My excitement was multiplied a hundredfold by the slight danger but, most of all, by having Pam watch me and push me on. As she continued watching, I stroked faster and faster, my body thrusting forward and my arm jerking back and forth with increasing vigour. I could feel that familiar sensation; I knew I was close and so raised my other hand, fingers spread. One by one I brought a finger down. Five. Four. Three.At two, Pam opened her mouth in my direction, extending her tongue greedily. canlı poker oyna It was just too much and I came immediately, grunting as my seed exploded onto the balcony tiles. Smiling broadly, Pam licked her lips lasciviously and gave me a small round of applause. After a small, final wave goodbye, she stepped back into the shop. And there everything could have finished, except I was still horny, on a sunny summer’s day with little else to do. So a couple of hours later, my breakfast eaten and the papers read (all done while idly caressing my re-stiffening prick), I flicked through my wardrobe. Finding a suit that could conceivably require a clean and press, I finally dressed myself, going commando in just an old white linen shirt and a baggy pair of khaki shorts. Any cockwatcher nearby would tell you that I was tumescent, at least, but the tent was partly hidden by my shirt-tails, the trip across to the dry cleaners’ was short and few people were around. Walking into the shop, I found Pam serving another customer and so patiently waited my turn. Eventually we were alone. I moved forward to the counter and opened my mouth, about to speak, when Pam gave me a look of warning and nodded her head backwards. My attention diverted momentarily from my erection and Pam’s breasts, I noticed the sound of somebody working away in the back of the shop and, looking at Pam, grimaced in annoyance. “Could you clean and press this suit, please?””Of course. Any particular areas requiring attention, sir?””Well, the trousers, of course. They always seem to get dirtier than the jacket.” I smiled. She smiled back. “That’s very common, sir. Happens to us all.” Patting the suit down, she ran her hand briefly over the crotch and looked at me, then my shorts. My erection was obvious. Licking her lips again, she placed the suit on a pile of other clothes and went to her computer. “It’s Mr…””Grant”, I said. “J. Grant.” Pam typed in the words and I saw my name and contact details appear on screen. “It’ll take a little longer than usual. Y’know, the Bank Holiday. Wednesday alright for you, Mr Grant? Just bring along the ticket, whether you collect it or…” She looked at me enquiringly. “Nobody else to collect it but me”, I said. “Wednesday is perfect, um…” and here I stared at her breasts hard while pretending to look at her name-badge, “… Pam.” “Super. Enjoy the rest of your weekend now.” “I will, Pam, certainly now.” Much of that day disappeared in a haze of reading and idle masturbation to a variety of online resources, my mind returning periodically to that morning and to Pam and propelling me to a second and then a third superb orgasm. Later, much later, I had finished watching a film on TV, had drunk a few glasses of wine and had tried to catch a breeze in the stultifying humidity. Turning to my window, I watched people walk past below, to or from somewhere, chatting to themselves. It was about 11.30pm and I was considering goin into bed when my mobile phone bleeped. The message gave no name or number, and simply read: “Mr Grant, your suit will now be ready for collection on Tuesday bets10 güvenilir mi afternoon. Please confirm receipt of this message.” My mind raced with possibilities but, given the risk that it was no more than a new automated service with typically dismal sense of timing, I typed back a brief but anodyne message of thanks. About half an hour later, in bed stroking out the day’s final, sleep-inducing orgasm, my phone bleeped again. This time there was a photograph. It showed a woman, lying on her back, on a bed. The picture had clearly been taken by the woman in the photograph, from the head down, so was completely anonymous. That did not really interest me. What did was the body. It was naked, except for a pair of powder blue panties, pulled down to mid-thigh. In one corner of the picture was a breast, its nipple engorged with arousal. Below that was a body, slightly plump, glowing a little with perspiration. It led to a bush, trimmed closely into a neat landing strip. This was thrust lustily into the air, legs spread and knees bent, stretching the blue panties to breaking point. And there, hovering just under the bush was the photographer’s hand, two fingers plunged deep inside her quim with a wet, glistening thumb strumming her clit. Looking up from the hand for a moment, I noticed the arm. It was clad in a sleeve — a navy blue sleeve finished, I could just see, with some white trimming. Beneath the picture was a simple, short message: “By way of thanks.” This confirmation, combined with the unveiling of a body that had been the subject of so much speculation over so many months, caused me to explode, instantly and violently. Powerful jets of cum shot over my chest, hitting my chin. I exhaled in wonder and relief. A few seconds later, taking hold of my phone with my clean hand, I took a picture of my sticky, sated prick, cum dripping onto my body from its head, typed “Thank YOU!” and pressed send. Nothing more happened that night or, indeed, that weekend. So on Tuesday afternoon I went to collect my suit. Once again Pam was at the counter, with her colleague in the back. The naughtiness of her smile made me hard yet again. Then the bell rang and a woman came in, waiting her turn behind me. Pam took my ticket and came back with my suit. “Everything alright?” I asked. “Yes, Mr Grant. Except for one thing. You left something in one of the pockets. A handkerchief.” Noting my surprise, she continued quickly: “It’s alright, we spotted it in time.” She paused. “We didn’t wash it. Now it’s back where we found it.” Handkerchiefs come in useful to clean my glasses and, unasked, I receive a regular supply as birthday presents from my aunt, so I thought nothing of it. Back in my bedroom I took off the cellophane wrapping and removed the dry cleaning labels, then remembered the handkerchief. A brief rummage found the right pocket. I pulled out some material. No handkerchief, but a pair of powder blue panties. On the front, written in felt tip, were the words ‘Enough now’ and a smiley. Underneath, in red lipstick, was the mark of two lips that could only have come from a prolonged kiss. Elsewhere on the panties was a hint of a stain. I lifted them up to smell, and smiled. Pam was right: she had not washed them. Once more, for the final time, her actions prompted me to remove my clothes; my work that afternoon would have to wait.

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