Full Of Ideas

Her shop window always made him smile. There stood mannequins who looked glad to be alive—though, in point of fact, they were not alive—clad in cheerful fashions that evoked not only feminine desirability but also, and more importantly, feminine euphoria. They looked like happy young women who always enjoyed themselves, who laughed frequently and experienced top-notch orgasms on a regular basis.

Jerome had decided not to wear his sunglasses that day, preferring to indulge in a squinting appreciation of the first sun-kissed spring afternoon that had come his way. And when he accidentally made eye contact, through the window, with the shop owner, he was especially glad that he had not concealed himself behind a pair of movie-star shades.

On an impulse, he decided to enter the shop.

"Hello there." The proprietor was en route from the display window to the counter, but she turned her head as she greeted him.

Jerome noted that they were alone. He further noted that she had spoken in a relaxed, "You're welcome to join me here" tone, rather than the dreaded "Can I put a purchase in your hand and get you out of here as soon as possible?" manner afforded by some merchants.

Still, he felt a need to explain himself, now that he had inaugurated this party for two in the intimate quarters of a sunny little boutique. "Is it all right if I look around?" he asked politely, taking in the shop's cozy yet bright atmosphere. "I confess that I'm not shopping for women's clothes. But I'm wandering around town on my lunch hour, and it's so pleasant in here."

She looked genuinely flattered. "Thank you. It's pleasant to have you here."

He recognized her as the type of pretty woman who makes herself stunningly beautiful through her charismatic manner. As he ambled around, enjoying the colorful garments as if there were already soft, alluring forms breathing inside them, he nonetheless found it a struggle to keep his eyes from constantly wandering back to his hostess.

"How's business?" he inquired courteously, after he'd left her to her work for a few minutes.

"Oh, it's okay," she replied.

Jerome knew that in the euphemistic world of retail, "okay" was not good.

"Do you mind if I make a suggestion?" he suddenly asked, now looking directly her way under the umbrella of conversation. He observed how fluffy and soft her brown hair was, how nicely her lime turtleneck fit her, and how the tiniest touches of lipstick and eye makeup helped emphasize the sensitivity and intelligence of her face.

She seemed a little surprised by his question. "A suggestion? Sure, go ahead."

"I should explain that I'm not just a freelance kibitzer. I'm a professionally certified kibitzer. You see, I work in advertising. Sort of."

"Sort of?" She said it with a becoming laugh. "Listen, mister, are you here to sell me ads I can't afford?" She was pointing a finger, cartoonishly, toward the door. And yet her face showed that she would indulge him, even if it meant hearing a sales pitch.

"No way," he said dramatically, raising his own hand in a gesture of peace. "If I were the company salesperson, we'd be out of business in the wink of an eye." He underscored his point with an actual wink. "No, I'm at the creative end, such as it is. But the reason I said 'sort of' is that, unlike most of my colleagues—who create actual advertisements—my job is to try to figure out what people like . . . and want. Ultimately, of course, someone on our team has to come up with ways to emphasize the features of a product or service that match up with these supposed likes and wants. But the fun part is really the research, trying to gauge what makes people tick."

"That does sound like fun," she said. "So are you going to help me figure out what I like and want?"

Her remark, and the smile that accompanied it, hit him like a shot of whiskey. "Well now, one thing at a time," he said with a grin of his own. "Remember," he cautioned professionally, "we were talking about your customers." He stepped closer to her counter. "Though I admit, since you've raised the subject, that I am most definitely interested in hearing about your likes and wants."

She blushed, but her sly smile widened. "Like you said, one thing at a time. First, you'd better tell me about my customers. I wouldn't want you to forget what you were going to say."

"Good point," he acknowledged. He looked around the shop and resumed the business discussion with only a hint of reluctance. After all, the next best thing to flirting outright with this woman was interacting with her around whatever ordinary subject was at hand.

"It's just that I think you need more mannequins," he explained. "In here, I mean; the window is perfect as it is. My research shows that people shopping for clothes need to see as many of the selections as possible on figures, to help them visualize themselves with this or that look. That's why people like shopping at big department stores. I've actually surveyed shoppers, and a huge percentage of them said they found it easier to make selections with all those silly mannequins around."

She frowned. "Great. So unless I can make this pretty little shoebox look like a sprawling department store, I'm out of business."

"Not at all." He touched her arm sympathetically, for the merest instant. "Look, I used to manage a small shoe store, so I know how to do a lot without much elbow room. In your case, I'd say all you need to do is free up 20% of your floor space, and you can get enough fashion statues in here to be effective."

"Mannequins," she said pensively. "Maybe you're right."

"When it comes to these sorts of things, I have to confess that I usually am," he said with a sheepish wince. "Rest assured, however, that though I'm not often wrong, I happen to be very good at being wrong when the occasion arises. I can be wonderfully and dazzlingly wrong, at times."

Again she rewarded him with easy laughter. "Good to know, for future reference. But I think, in this case, you really are right." She turned serious. "Today is unusually quiet, but normally I get a fair number of people in and out of here. And yet, not enough of them buy things—or even try anything on." She beamed at him gratefully. "Thank you. This is very helpful. And to think I mistook you for an advertising salesperson."

"Forgiven," he said with mock formality. "And as for the suggestion—my pleasure. I'm full of ideas, you know."

"I'm sure you are," she said with an arched eyebrow, offset by a conspiratorial smirk.

Jerome glanced at his watch. "Oh, dear. I have to get back to the office. But perhaps I can return with some more suggestions, if you're interested."

She raised both her eyebrows this time, in a gesture of unabashed flirtation. "I'll always be happy to hear your suggestions, mister," she said provocatively. "But tell me—don't you have anything better to do than come around here making suggestions?"

"No," he said matter-of-factly, "I don't. Things to do, yes—lots of things. But not better things."

She shrugged, but she looked richly please. "I won't argue. The way business is going, I can use all the help I can get from professionally certified kibitzers. So I guess I'll see you soon, uh . . . ."

"Jerome."

"Thanks, Jerome. I'm Linnaea."

"Now you tell me!" he said peevishly. "What an elegant name. If I'd known, I'd have been calling you Linnaea throughout this entire conversation."

"There's always next time," she reminded him. "I hope you'll be back in the wink of an eye." She reciprocated his wink from earlier in the conversation, which made Jerome stir in his trousers.

***

He stopped in as often as he could—usually a couple of times a week. Linnaea was consistently glad to see him, whether he caught her on a slow day or in a bustling moment. And though he didn't always have relevant suggestions for her business, they invariably enjoyed bantering. Jerome began to wonder how far this would go. Was it only a titillating, superficial flirtation? Or was it the prelude to something more deeply satisfying?

One afternoon he walked in to find her hand-lettering a large posterboard sign:

WATCH FOR OUR NEW SPRING MANNEQUINS
You'll love seeing them in YOUR new clothes!

"You see, I was serious about taking your suggestion," she said, studying her handiwork. "By the way, did I spell 'mannequin' right?"

"It's perfect. I couldn't have spelled it better myself."

He let a moment pass before he proceeded. "I wanted to ask . . . are you doing anything particular this weekend?"

"No. Nothing particular," she said with deadpan aplomb. "Things in general, but nothing in particular."

"Then I'd like to invite you to do something in particular. In particular, I'd like to take you to dinner tomorrow night."

She extended her hand. "It's a deal. On one condition."

He took her hand even before framing the question. "What's the condition?"

"Well, I'm full of ideas, too, you know," she said, deliberately keeping hold of his hand. "So the condition is that, after dinner, I get to show you some of my ideas for a change."

He absorbed this for a moment, a delighted smile creeping onto his face. "Granted," he said softly.

"I'm already looking forward to it," she told him. "Dinner, too," she added.

***

As they stepped onto the sidewalk after their restaurant meal, it began to rain vigorously.

"That's funny," said Linnaea. "The forecast didn't call for any sudden rainstorms."

"In my opinion, sudden rainstorms are always uncalled for," said Jerome. They had ducked under an awning, and he wondered what the next move was. "So," he said with false nonchalance, "I heard a rumor that you're full of ideas. What's your idea regarding how to proceed with this suddenly-rainy evening?"

"I'm glad you asked," she said assertively, taking him by the elbow and guiding him toward a taxi that had appeared, as if by magic, at the nearest corner. "My idea is that we seek shelter in my apartment."

Thanks to her adroit handling of the situation, they managed to arrive in a condition of relative dryness. Her flat was as cheerful as her shop, if a little more cluttered and disorganized.

"Okay," she said to her guest. "It was my idea to come here. So it's your turn."

He studied her. She had worn a simple but delicious outfit to dinner—an aqua print minidress, which was complemented by a string of iridescent glass beads that she had strung herself.

"My idea, at the moment, is that you'd look interesting wearing nothing but those beads."

"Interesting?" She made little attempt to stifle the chuckle his choice of words had provoked.

"I was trying to be subtle. What I really meant was 'ravishing.'"

Linnaea swallowed, as if caught a bit off guard by the intensity of the adjective. Then her eyes lit up with confidence. "Don’t ever feel that you have to be subtle when you're complimenting me," she purred. "I can take full-strength compliments without a problem." Then she grabbed his face with both hands, kissing him enthusiastically.

In her bedroom, where she had shed her dress and her soft tangerine panties, the beads directed Jerome's focus to her naked, easygoing breasts, as he'd known they would. The arc of scintillating glass showcased the warm globes for him, and soon they were receiving an orgy of tactile attention from his hands, while his mouth made gentle love to their delicate nipples.

Rolling with him on her bed, Linnaea wallowed in these sensations until it seemed her precious bosom had taken as much pleasure as it could tolerate. She indicated this by sitting up, and smoothing her wild hair. Then she playfully pushed Jerome into a standing position.

"Please," she said liquidly. "I want to watch you undress."

So he stood there and, with a slow dignity, kicked off his shoes, slipped off his sport jacket, stripped out of his turtleneck and socks, and let his trousers fall to the floor, keeping his gaze on her whenever he could. Linnaea was sitting with her legs spread over the edge of the mattress, feasting her eyes, and Jerome saw that she had placed a delicate hand beneath herself. As he watched her, she began to bounce—slowly and sensually at first, then building to an energetic rhythm, grazing her fingers against her wet, yearning lips with each beat. Soon a finger entered her cunt, and Jerome practically froze in place as he saw her initiate a frantic self-fucking.

The realization that she was starting without him snapped him into action. He yanked his boxers down and off, approaching the bed as he did so. He felt the spring-like motion of his erection leading him toward Linnaea and her soft, wet destination.

He bent into her and began kissing her wetness—softly, lingeringly. Linnaea moaned appreciatively, but she soon pulled his head up to her level. "I'm so wet already," she whispered. "Please just fuck me, before another minute elapses. I promise you can lick me later, for dessert."

As if exercising a practiced talent, he gently clutched her left ankle and softly tickled behind her right knee while he penetrated and slowly, slowly fucked her ravenous hole. In reality, he had never done this exact combination of things to any woman before. But somehow his instincts had suggested that this woman would love this combination, that it would drive her wild to be slowly fucked while held by the ankle and titillated behind the knee.

Her response showed that his instincts had been sound. She writhed for him with an air of impossible luxury, and she daintily fingered her clit so that the combined sensations of the fucking and the clasping and the tickling could be led together through the door marked "orgasm."

And what an orgasm it was, from what he could observe. Her shrieks were pleasantly piercing, her enigmatic smile was radiant, and her eyelids looked like perfect little seashells as she pressed them closed in ecstasy.

It made him think of the orgasms of a dozen cheerful mannequins, magically come to life and living magically to come. The image led Jerome into his own place of pleasure, of sensation so smooth and wide as to have no edges and no texture. He pumped uncontrollably, coating Linnaea's softness with his own ecstasy. And he heard one flesh-and-blood shop owner giggling girlishly beneath him as a roomful of imaginary, orgasmic mannequins danced around their heads.