Girl on the Net

As part of operation ‘give myself some time off and a bit of leeway to commission new guest audio’, here’s another piece of improv erotica written using prompts suggested by my extremely lovely and creative Patreons. If you’d like to read all the improv erotica (including a lot that’s never been published here on the site), support the audio porn project at any level and click this link. If you just wanna listen to a story about a lady getting horny in the changing room of a clothes shop, click ‘listen now’ above.

This story was written with the following prompts:

Name: Jo

Kink: Leather

Location: Changing room

Object: Shoe

Party outfit

Horny in the changing room

This is The Dress, she knows it the second she puts it on. The others all feel wrong somehow – too tight, too loose, too stiff, too formal. But this one? The silky fabric drapes perfectly from her shoulders, skimming her hips. It shifts against her skin like fresh bedsheets on hard nipples and she knows she’ll be wearing it without a bra.

It’s that kind of dress, you see, which is lucky, because she’s planning to wear it to that kind of party.

The kind of party where you don’t want a dress that must be unzipped and wrestled over your head, but one with a loose skirt that can be lifted at a moment’s notice. One that’s eminently tactile. Twisting and turning in the mirror, running one hand of it from the hem up her thigh, she imagines all the other hands that’ll do the same when she wears it out. Imagines a gaggle of horny friends reaching out to stroke the smooth skin between stocking-top and knickers. Pictures flexing her thigh muscles as someone grips nice and tight.

There’s a rustle from the room next door and she hears someone asking a friend for their opinion.

“Too flowery? I’m not sure it’s very ‘me’ to be honest.”

A mumble from someone nearby – could be a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, more likely just someone with no opinion who’s keen to move on to McDonalds or the Apple store.

Now that she thinks about it, Jo could do with a second opinion herself. Slipping her knickers down and picking up her phone, she prepares to pose for a photo.

Snap.

One quick shot in the glaring fluorescent light of the changing room: skirt hiked to flash one hip, a bit of stomach and a tantalising glimpse of the neat line where her pubic mound meets the top of her thigh. Perfect.

Good enough for the party?

The answer buzzes back almost instantly: perfect. There won’t be a dry seat in the house.

And then: are those the shoes?

A pair of heels discarded in the corner of the changing room – she’d been considering them but decided against. Too clunky for such a delicate dress, she’d look like she’d raided the dressing-up box.

Not these, she sends back, with a photo attached to shows detail. Thick leather uppers with straps that hug the ankle like a garter snake. Chunky tread designed for stomping rather than delicate steps. Unless you like them?

The reply, again, is swift:

I do. Show me.

She puts them on, and takes a look at the full ensemble. The people in the next booth over have left now, and the silence in the changing rooms makes her hyper aware of each whirr of her phone as a new message arrives. There’s nothing wrong with receiving messages, of course, but something about the way each one makes her cunt twitch gives her flushes of seedy excitement.

Contrary to expectations, the shoes go very well with the dress. The leather is dark and heavy, almost masculine in feel. The heavy soles counteract the silken lightness of the dress, making her feel like she’s delicate but bound. The straps round her ankles evoke bondage rope and struggle-fucks.

She’s surprised by how much she loves them, and celebrates by taking another photo. This time with one foot on the stool in the corner of the room. A fuck-you power stance that shows off a glimpse of her cunt.

Good god, comes the reply. I cannot wait to defile you.

Stifling a giggle, she takes two more pics. One from above, showing foreground cleavage and fluttering skirt and somewhere down in the background, those shoes. The second one bolder: more obscene. Leaning in to the way those shoes make her feel, she kneels on the stool in the corner, angles her phone till she can see herself in the mirror – skirt hiked around her waist, ankles crossed and back arched, the dark mound of her pussy peeking out from between her cheeks – and clicks the shutter.

I’m undone, comes the reply, and she laughs out loud at the double meaning. A shop assistant hears and bustles in.

“Can I help you?” she trills, and Jo replies quickly “no thank you! I’m all good!”

Got to go, she texts. Time to pay for these lovely goodies. See you at the party?

Wait – not yet! I’m so close. Could you do one more thing for me before you go? First take one shoe off…

She grins as the instructions buzz through in a series of four more messages. Each one makes her twitch again, but the one with the word ‘thwack’ causes her to fully gush and squirm.

Yes, she replies. I can definitely do that. Then listens intently for the shop assistant to wander back out to the shop floor…

Black leather shoes and fairy-silk dress all bought and paid for, Jo finds herself swinging the bag and bouncing gleefully out of the shop. She’d been dreading this trip all week, but the ease with which she found her outfit has given her a boost in confidence. When she walks into the party tonight, she won’t cast her eyes down or shift awkwardly in her dress: she’ll stand straight and tall and smile proudly at everyone. Eagerly awaiting the moment when the chitchat ends and the fucking begins.

When hands – so many hands – reach out for the flesh of her thighs.

And lift that pretty silk skirt to reveal the bright red mark on her arse, made by her brand new shoes.