The door chime rings, bringing me out of my head and into Sally’s Specialties. This place has a distinct scent, like mildew or old books. I have to assume it’s from decades-old costumes sitting abandoned on the shelves. A friendly older woman with bubble-gum pink hair welcomes us. “Take a look around. Fitting rooms are in the corner. If you need something you don’t see, I might have it in the back.”
Olive and I nod and thank her before making our way to the first row of costumes. There’s a wide variety of outfits, ranging from Morticia Addams to Barbie and Ken. Nothing that feels like a perfect fit though. Olive is running her fingers over a long green velvet dress fromShrekwhen I startle her from behind.
“How do I look?” I ask, laughing to myself.
I’d put on a long curly blonde wig that I think is supposed to be like David Lee Roth. It looks ridiculous with my dark brown beard. Olive can’t help the laugh that bursts out of her.
“I think maybe you weren’t meant to be a blond,” she says, still wheezing.
“Oh, come on. You know it’s doing things for you.” I grin, then admit, “Okay, so I think we aren’t going to find somethingprepackaged that works for us. Let’s go look at the racks back there and see if we can piece something together.” Looking at three circular racks with mismatched merchandise, it seems like previous customers have come in and disassembled the prepackaged costumes, leaving behind bits and pieces.
“You lead the way. I’ll try anything at least once,” Olive says, winking at me like she’s up to no good. I know she’s teasing me, but she better be careful if she doesn’t want me to make a move in the fitting room.
We grab several items off the racks and pile our clothes into the dressing area. My fingers are working to unbutton my shirt when Sally (or at least that’s the name on her badge) whips open the curtain and scolds us for sharing a room. The pink-haired wonder doesn’t allow any funny business in her shop, or so she says. I can’t help but notice the way her eyes linger a tad longer than necessary on my exposed abs. It’s a little creepy if I’m being honest.
Olive grabs her pile of clothes and scurries into the room next door as I continue to mumble about being adults and not behaving inappropriately. I can hear Olive giggle as I slide into my first outfit, a bad John Travolta inBoogie Nightswith brown bell bottoms, a hippie vest, and a flower-print bandana.
Olive must have stepped out because I hear her say, “Sam, you ready?”
I pull back the drape closing my room, and I’m instantly transported to heaven. Olive is in an orange jumpsuit with pink flowers that’s so snug it’s like a second skin. “You look, uh, that’s hot as hell,” I mutter, appraising the outfit that leaves little to the imagination.
“I really wish I could say the same, but I’m thinking maybe seventies is not it.” She tries to keep her lips in a tight line but a smirk sneaks past them. I take three steps toward her and scoop her up, blowing raspberries on her neck.
“I said no funny business,” Sally shouts from outside the fitting area.
Reluctantly, I set Olive down, and we hustle back into our respective dressing rooms. After several nonstarters, I slip into a three-piece gray suit that’s supposed to make me look like that one guy from the TV showSchitt’s Creek.
“Sam, put on that suit and get out here,” Olive chirps as the idea of us being Moira and Johnny finally clicks into place in my brain.
Seconds later, I slide out of the dressing room and she appears in a black dress with a white ruffled shirt. She’s gorgeous in anything she puts on, even a ridiculous Halloween costume.
“What do you think? If I throw on some fake eyebrows and trim the beard, it could work,” I say.
“Yeah, it could work.” She shrugs, turning to go back and change out of her outfit.
I pause for a second, weighing my options about disappointing Sally. When I finally push the curtain aside and slip into Olive’s room, she’s pulling the zipper of the dress down. I place a hand on her back, taking over the task. “You shouldn’t be in here,” Olive whispers.
I ignore her and kiss her neck as she shushes me lightly. My hands dip into the dress, sliding it off her body, then I quickly unbutton the top, sending it trailing to the floor.
“You’re exquisite,” I say softly, pressing kisses across the back of her neck and down to the top of her shoulder.
She’s facing the mirror in nothing more than a black lace bra and panties. The sight of myself wrapped around her, those perfect lips of hers opened just slightly, makes my cock bounce behind the zipper of my pants.
“Shh, baby. You can’t make a sound,” I warn.
My fingers trace the changing emotions blazing across her exposed tattoo. In some ways, I know I shouldn’t even look at it.It’s not like I don’t know what her body needs and when it needs it at this point. But also, it’s sorta nice knowing for sure, like having a visual reassurance that we’re on the same page.
I dip my hand down into her panties, sliding my fingers over her soaked center. I swipe one finger over her clit while dipping another deep inside of her. Olive’s breath hitches, and a low groan catches in my throat. I lean into her further, my lips over the shell of her ear as I whisper, “Can you be silent, baby?”
Olive nods, but there’s a hesitation in her eyes. Each time she notices me looking at her arm, her hesitation seems to deepen. I lock eyes with her in the mirror, trying to reassure her that she is my focus, not the tattoo. I pull my finger out from between her legs and push it into her mouth. Olive sucks tenderly, licking it clean. I slide my hand back down her belly and work her clit between two fingers, rolling it and applying perfect pressure. I suck on her neck and use my free hand to play with her nipples. Olive arches back into me, closing her eyes briefly until the tension builds. Her arm illuminates in flashes of fireworks and pops of colored confetti. I don’t want to look, but it’s impossible to ignore. I slip two fingers deep inside her, pumping in and out until her legs shake and she begins to cry out. Quickly muffling the sound with my hand over her mouth, I kiss her cheek and remove my hands, stepping back so that I’m no longer touching her. Olive mimics my move, stepping back and slumping against me. She’s sated and breathing deeply from her orgasm.
“We, uh, we better get changed before she comes back,” I whisper, sliding my fingers still soaked from her into my own mouth. Olive flushes, her cheeks and chest turning a bright red.
She spins to face me. “What about you?” she asks.
“I’m good. I’ll just go change and meet you out there.” I would love to continue this and take her right here, right now. But I’m already pushing my luck with Sally, and honestly, watchingOlive come is more beautiful than anything else in the world. I’ll never look at this store the same.
As I exit her dressing room, I can’t help sneaking another glance at her arm. New additions have popped up as permanent fixtures: a pumpkin muffin that makes me hard each time I see it, and a beautiful cabin with a woody backdrop that feels like it could be my home. Back in my own dressing room, I pull on my clothes quickly. There’s a guilty feeling gnawing at my stomach. I know that Olive has spent most of her life trying to be what everyone else wanted her to be (and failing, her words, not mine). And based on the way she’s been covering up her tattoo more around me, I get the feeling she thinks I’m using her tattoo to do the same, to become what she wants me to be. But it’s not that at all—sure it’s helpful, but it’s also fascinating. There isn’t a doubt in mind that without it we’d be exactly where we are right now.
