She brought me to a clothing store. Well, it looked like a clothing store but there was no big sign outside and we went in through a door in the back. On the inside it looked a lot more like a store. There were no shelves but there were racks with clothes hanging on them. There was a display in the middle with t-shirts stacked on it, but they weren’t the same t-shirts in different sizes, they were all different. There was a counter for a cashier but instead of a computer it had a notepad on it. There were huge mirrors all over the store and those fluorescent lights that make you think your face is dirtier than it actually is. To one side there were what seemed like dressing rooms, but the lights in that area were turned off. There were no price-tags on anything, not that I could see anyway, but the clothes looked clean, if not new. It could have been a thrift store but that’s not what was odd about it, it was odd that it was late in the evening, and we were the only people there. She had unlocked the back door herself to let us in.
“What is this place?” I asked her, once I had taken it in.
“It’s a clothing store, of course!” She said putting her bag down on the display table, and turning more lights on inside.
“How did you..” I started to ask but I realised there was no way to really articulate what I was thinking. What did I really want to know? How did she manage to rent a clothing store? Or did she create it? The answers to both those questions were rooted in money, she paid someone to let us be there, and asking for an explanation seemed naive, so I didn’t asked.
“Why did you bring me here?” I asked instead.
“You seem exceptionally stupid today!” She said, in her light and candid manner, “You remember that story you told me yesterday? It made me want to take you shopping.”
A shiver ran up my spine almost immediately, and the millions of new questions sprung up in my mind.
“Do you remember the story?” She asked.
I remembered. I hate shopping, and when I was a young girl my mother used to force me to go shopping all too often. When we shopped she always remarked about how terrible everything looked on me, and any time I wore anything form-fitting she would tell me my curves made it look so vulgar. I hated the experience. One time, during one of those shopping trips, I was standing in front of a mirror outside one of the dressing rooms looking at my reflection in a red dress that was very short and very clingy. A beautiful older woman emerged from another one of the cubicles, and she was trying on the same dress, she looked gorgeous in it. Immediately, I wanted to drop to my knees and lick all the way up from here.
“You look so beautiful,” I had told her.
“Thank you,” she said, glancing in my direction and smiling a half-smile.
“Do you think it looks good on me?” I don’t know what made me ask that question, but it slipped out.
“Hmmm,” she said looking at me, pursing her lips like my mother often did, she touched my abdomen, not sexually, just to draw attention to the area, “It’s not the right fit here, it doesn’t look so good on you.”
She hurt my feelings, but I got so instantly wet I had to excuse myself back to the cubicle. A lot has happened in my life since that little, barely significant moment in the clothing store, but even today when I think back to that moment it makes me feel small, dirty and horny. Hearing her reference that story inside that makeshift clothing store made my heart pound harder in my chest. I couldn’t identify her intention. I couldn’t tell if she wanted to make me feel beautiful or wretched. I didn’t know what question to ask.
“You do want to shop, don’t you?” She asked, turning to the mirror and admiring herself.
I don’t blame her for wanting that, I spend a lot of time admiring her too. She’s a beautiful woman. Tall, clear-skin, hair always neatly tied in a bun, clothes always wrinkle-free.
“I guess,” I said looking at her, and as she turned to look at me I realised my indecisive response was making her want to hit it and so I rephrased, “I do, I do want to shop, I just don’t like it very much.”
“Well, maybe today we can change that,” she said, walking to me.
Her words seemed gentle, even kind, but the click-clack of her heels as she walked on the tile made my heart pound in my chest.
“So, should I pick something?” I said walking towards the display, if only to have something to steady myself against.
“Of course not,” she said, “Little girls don’t pick their own clothes.”
She walked to the racks and grabbed a few hangers. She took her time about it. Pulling things out, examining them, and putting them back or draping them over her arm. When she walked back to me she had five or six things draped over her arm, and at least two of them had sequins and rhinestones on them. I am not that girl. I am not any of these girls.
“Here,” she said handing a yellow dress that looked two sizes too small, “Try it on.”
I started to tell her that it looked too small but she glared at me with her eyes and I fell silent and took the dress from here.
“Do you know where the light switches from the dressing room are?” I asked her.
“You don’t need those, little girl,” she said, hooking her fingers into my shirt and moving it upwards, “You can change in front of mommy.”
I always hate it when she calls herself that, I hate it until my face is between her legs and she’s grinding against it, and then I can’t get enough of hearing it, or muttering it under my breath. I hate it, but it makes me want to lift my skirt and show her my pussy. I pulled my skirt down after she removed my shirt and I started to take the dress off the hanger when she stopped me.
“Wait,” she said, “Take everything off, I want to see how it fits on your entire body.”
For a few seconds, I hesitated. She walked behind me and put her hand over my breast, squeezing just a little, and breathing on my neck.
“You don’t need to be shy in front of mommy,” she whispered into my ear, making the hair on my skin stand up, “I’ve seen you naked many, many times before.”
She was right, of course, but there was something different about it then. As I pulled the straps of my bra off my shoulders, after she unhooked it and placed her hand on my back, it felt like I was showing her something I had managed to keep hidden until that moment. As I pulled down my underwear and stepped out of it, it felt like I was giving away the last morsel of power I had hidden underneath my pillow for a rainy day.
“That’s better,” she said, turning me around to face her, “Now put it on.”
The whole time that I pulled the dress on, I looked at my feet, as if accidentally glancing in the mirror would destroy me. I tried to pull it down on all way but the cinch at the waist was stuck over my abdomen, and the dress just hung there; the hem dangling just a few millimetres higher than my clit. I looked at her, expectantly, waiting for her to realise the dress was too small.
She looked at me, slowly from the top of my body to the bottom, and then she let out the tiniest laugh. Barely a complete sound, but so condescending it could have been a speech.
” That’s not going to work, is it?” She asked, “Not unless you want to show your pussy to everyone you meet.”
“I don..” I started to say but she cut me off.
“Oh, but you probably do want to do that, don’t you?” She said picking up another dress from the pile on the display, “How about you save being a little whore for another day.”
The next dress was red, and that’s a colour I rarely wear. They think everything shows when you wear white, but white hides a lot things, nothing is hidden in red. It was a stretchy dress but quite long, and I slid it on very easily.
“At least that fits,” she said grabbing my exposed upper-arm and squeezing it as if I had made her angry by being in that dress, “But good god is it unflattering.”
She turned around, as if the sight of me made it difficult for her to keep her eyes open, and when she turned around again, she had a different look in her eye. It was a look that made me weak and preemptively beg for mercy from whatever was coming. She took a slow, small step towards me, and, almost out of nowhere, slapped me across the face.
“Take it off you dumb ugly cunt,” she said pulling my hair, “I’ve never seen a person look worse in red.”
As I got out of the dress, hiding my face behind it a little longer than I should have, she unbuckled her belt, and slid if off her pants. Before I could get it off my head, she had already struck me on my thigh. I screamed as I threw it down on the floor and the sound reverberated around the room.
“Maybe this will motivate you to look better,” she said, striking me against my tummy, a few times in rapid succession.
I love it when she does that, when she beats me for something impossible to achieve, but it hurts too, it hurts like pulling out a thumb-tack you just stepped on. It’s such a relief but you get blood all over your face. She gave me a bright and shiny dress next, a black one with sequins that were green, it had a big skirt and little cut-outs in the waist. Even before I put it on, I knew she was going to hurt me. She pulled me to the middle of the room, right underneath the lights and in front of the mirror and she walked around me in circles, examining the dress, and her shadows made the lights on me reflect straight into my eye, it was nothing but it was blinding. With each step she took her belt landed against the little exposed sections of my skin.
“I understand why it was so hard for you mother to shop with you,” she said as her hands wandered underneath my dress, “It’s impossible to put you in anything that hides all the filth and vulgarity.”
She had me try on a dozen more things and there was something wrong with each one. With each dress she beat me more, until there was nothing on me but welts and bruises. Finally she started ripping the clothes off me and throwing them on the floor, and eventually, I was left standing there naked, and covered in her rage.
“Why?” She screamed, louder than her belt, “Why does nothing look good on you, little girl?”
And with each blow I was telling her I was sorry, I was sorry for not being the pretty little plaything she wanted. She stopped to undo her trousers in between, and then again to take off her blouse, until she was naked, and even the unbearable pain of her belt couldn’t keep me from staring. She pushed me to the floor and I lay on my back, looking at her reflecting through the lights on the ceiling.
“What can I do?” She asked, putting her foot against my tears, “What can I do to make you look better?”
Standing over my face and my neck, I should have been able to see her pussy so clearly, but all I saw was the shimmering lights so when the first drops of her warm piss started dripping over my face, I was surprised. It passed in a moment, and the warmth started to feel like a welcome change after the scratchy clothes and mindless assault. I felt like she had wrapped a blanket around me, and hidden me from myself. When she finished, she knelt down beside me.
“There,” she said leaning over and putting her nipple in my mouth, “You look better now that you’re covered in mommy’s welts and waste.”
I couldn’t look in the mirror, but she was right, I am sure of it. Pretty dresses aren’t the right fit for every little girl.
Written by Ancilla
