Bootycall 2 - J. D. Hawkins Page 0,14

as we pass by some of the shops, a little part of her still feeling like these kinds of places are out of her league, so I decide to give her the superstar treatment. I take her to a boutique that carries high-end designs, expensive stuff, glamorous stuff – and I’ll be honest here – sexy stuff that I’d eat my arm to see Gemma in.

“Hello, Mr. Marlowe. It’s been a long time since your last visit,” the impeccably dressed sales assistant says as we enter.

“I’ve been busy working,” I tell him.

“Oh that’s very exciting,” he says, nodding.

“Tell me about it.” I try not to sound sarcastic. I fail.

The sales assistant just offers a smile. “The usual then, sir?”

“I’m actually looking for something for my friend here,” I say, gently nudging Gemma forward.

The assistant looks her up and down, then smiles a good old-fashioned milky smile.

“Wonderful. Follow me.”

The assistant leads us into a back room with multiple mirrors and a luxurious couch, then leaves. I sit down while Gemma stands awkwardly in the doorway.

“What is this? What’s going on?” she whispers, as if we’ve just walked in on a cult ritual and not a boutique shop.

I shoot her a confused look.

“This is…shopping.”

She shakes her head and looks back into the shop as if suspicious that somebody will find us in the back.

“This is not shopping. Shopping is pushing and shoving with other women who are either extremely mean, or intimidatingly beautiful, realizing that you’re a bigger size than you thought you were, then finding out all the good stuff’s gone, and then buying something you never have an occasion to wear. Is that champagne?”

I pause, mid-pour.

“Yes it is. Take it. You look like you need it.”

With a sigh she steps towards me and takes the glass, downing more than half of it. The assistant returns, pulling a rack of clothes behind him.

I look at Gemma, whose eyes are so wide I can see more white than blue. She stands up slowly and steps toward the rack in a zombie-esque trance.

“These…are…beautiful,” she mutters, gently pulling aside the dresses, jackets, and skirts to get a good look at them. Suddenly she turns to the smiling assistant with a suspicious glare. “How did you…these are…just…how?”

The assistant shrugs modestly. “I simply looked at what you were already wearing, your hair style, make-up, body type, and made an educated guess. It’s really not that extraordinary when you’ve done this as long as I have.”

“Don’t believe him,” I say, stepping toward the rack once I’ve poured a glass of champagne for myself, “Greg’s a psychic. He just pretends to be human to avoid being burned at the stake.”

He laughs, and Gemma turns back to the rack.

“If none of these are to your liking, I can bring another selection, or you can just browse the sales floor.”

“’Not to my liking?’ I would sell a kidney to have just half of one of these.”

I pull a slinky dress off the rack.

“What about this?”

She looks at it and smirks.

“I think that’s very much your style, but I doubt you could fit in it, Dylan.”

I laugh a little.

“You should try it on,” I say.

She takes a longer look at the dress, tenderly fingering the fabric like it’s a fragile antique.

“It’s beautiful. But it would never fit me.”

“Ah, if I may,” Greg says, raising a polite finger. “That dress should fit you quite well. It’s a very fine silk, which will hug the body and perfectly complement your figure, madam. The plunging v-neck will draw attention to your qualities, while the knee-length skirt will reveal your shape with finesse, whilst retaining a chic modesty.”

“Shit, Greg,” I say, “I bet you could talk a nun into bed with that mouth. Jesus. All that just to tell her she’s hot enough to wear a trashcan.”

“Shall I fetch her our finest trashcan, then, sir?” Greg deadpans.

Gemma giggles at our banter and grabs the dress, before moving behind the curtain to change. I swap a raised eyebrow with Greg, before settling down on the couch in anticipation of the greatest show I’ll see all fucking year.

It doesn’t disappoint.

I was never one for fashion. It’s one of the only industries I think is more full of baloney than movies, but as I watch Gemma wearing clothes like a fucking art form I’m ready to change my mind.

All I can think about is getting her out of that dress. Throwing her on a bed, ripping off her panties, and tasting her. Her pussy is so sweet and