When she awoke, she sat up with a start. Cockroaches fell from her face, and she spat one from her mouth. Throwing back the sheets, she found that both she and the bed were covered in them. Horrified, she brushed hundreds from her body, and then swept as many as possible from the bed. Her panties were full of the insects, and she could feel that at least one was actually inside her cunt. Screaming, she pulled down her panties, and emptied them. Then she stopped in a sudden realization. She was still wearing her panties. Moreover, there was no pool of liquid beneath her buttocks, nor any kind of stain on the sheets. There was no pain in her pussy. Her arms were unfettered.
“It was a dream!” she exclaimed in relief, and laughed aloud. Then she sobered somewhat, and grimaced as she stuck two fingers in her vagina to remove the roaches that had crawled inside. She found two, and hoped there were no more. Sweeping them off the bed, she lay back, panting. Just a dream…
But what a dream! It had seemed so real – and had seemed to last for hours and hours. There really was something wrong with her, she was sure of it. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and her feet crunched on roaches. With disgust, she saw that the entire floor was crawling with them. ‘I’ve got to get out of this place!’ she told herself.
Flinging open the curtains, she took off her panties and pondered what clothes to put on today. Opening her underwear drawer, she saw that it was full of roaches – so full, in fact, that none of her underwear was even visible. Screwing up her face, she reached in and pulled out the first thing she found, which turned out to be a pair of white lace-fronted panties. Roaches immediately dashed up her arm, and she brushed them off hastily. She did not normally like wearing the lace panties because her pubic hair showed through, but today she was not about to be fussy. She shook the roaches off them and put them on.
She did not fancy putting her hand back in the drawer, so she decided not to bother with a bra today. Opening her closet, she pulled out a blouse, and then dropped it quickly when she noticed a huge centipede crawling out of the collar.
“Centipedes now?” she cried. “What the fuck?”
The blouse fell to the floor and was quickly covered with swarming roaches. They were swarming up her legs, too, and some were worming their way into her panties. She flicked them off and then kept stamping her feet to dislodge any other would-be climbers.
She sighed, and decided she would get dressed later. She wandered through to the kitchen to grab some breakfast. Unfortunately, the kitchen was no better – there was less linoleum visible than roach back, and when she opened the cupboards, roaches poured out of them. The cereal packet was also full of them, and most of the cereal itself was eaten. The rest, she did not fancy.
Opening the fridge, she was surprised to find roaches even in there, though there were not nearly so many. They had not managed to get into the yogurt cartons yet, so she pulled one of those out and found a teaspoon. She ate it on her feet – there was no way she was going to sit down on that couch again!
Once she had finished the yogurt, she realized she needed to use the toilet. Tip-toeing over the floor, finding small spaces the roaches briefly left available for her, she made it to the bathroom, pulled her panties down, and sat. A few roaches tried to climb her legs while she sat there, but she brushed them off and fortunately none tried to climb on her from the other direction.
Having peed, she wiped herself and pulled her panties up. Then she realized she also needed to defecate, so she sat down again and started pushing. Surprisingly, there seemed to be at least as much in her bowels as yesterday, but when she had expelled it all and stood up, she was puzzled to see that the toilet bowl contained only pee. Shrugging, she flushed and washed her hands, then went through to the bedroom to continue getting dressed.
Noticing that her bed was once more covered with the horrible insects, she decided it was high time she called the building’s general manager. She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Mitchell? It’s Samantha Potter, from apartment 412. Listen, this place is just swarming with roaches – I’ve never seen so many in my life. They’re all over the floor, in the bed, in the cupboards, everywhere. I seriously need an exterminator in here, today. I can’t even sit down on the couch without them crawling all over me.”
“Come on, Sam, you know the score – it’s your problem. Rent your own exterminator.”
“I can’t afford one!”
“If it’s as bad as you say it is, I’m sure you’ll find a way.” Click.
Sam sighed and put the phone down. She was overdrawn at the bank, and although with her recent promotion she was slowly working that off, hiring an exterminator would set her back more than she could bear. There was nothing for it – she would have to get some bug spray, or powder, or whatever was on the market, and try to get rid of the roaches herself.
It was then that she noticed the wall opposite her bed. A vertical, crooked line of charred wallpaper ran from ceiling to floor. The sight made her heart sink. Had it really been a dream? If so, how had that line got there?
She went over and inspected it more closely. The wallpaper looked unbroken. This was very strange indeed. But she shook herself – the mystery would have to wait. Right now she had to go out and get some bug powder. She opened her jeans drawer and recoiled at the sight of yet more roaches, crawling in and out of every pair of jeans she owned. She shut the drawer again. Jeans (or any kind of pants) were not going to be practical under these conditions – if a roach crawled up the inside of a trouser-leg there would be nothing she could do about it. Skirts were the only sensible option, and the shorter, the better.
She returned to the box of Eric’s gifts. The shortest skirt there was the tight black Lycra one – that would be perfect. She pulled it on and hoisted it up over the bulge in the back of her panties … and then she gasped. She had taken a dump in her panties again! No wonder the toilet bowl had contained only pee – she had forgotten to pull her panties back down before defecating! She turned first one way and then the other in front of the mirror, assessing the bulge with a critical eye. It was rather lumpy and uneven. Reaching back, she pressed the lumps in, and squished and kneaded the whole mass until it was a uniform, smoothly rounded bulge. She smiled to herself and nodded approvingly, before she caught herself and shook her head – what was she thinking?
Cursing, she pulled the skirt up around her waist. Its hem flared out over the bulge, and failed to cover all of it, but that would not be a problem once she emptied her panties. If she could. That thought made her pause in sudden worry. Now that she had filled her panties, would she be able to empty them? Last night suggested otherwise. But she could hardly stay in all day!
Picking up the phone again, she called her sister. “Hi Andie,” she said. “Are you still in town?”
“No – I checked out this morning and I’m on my way back home. Why? Is something wrong?”
Sam’s heart sank. “Never mind. I woke up to find the apartment crawling with cockroaches and I need some bug spray or something. I was hoping you could pick some up for me, but it’s okay – I’ll go and get it myself.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, after last night, I’m a little afraid to leave the building, but don’t worry – I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Okay – you’re sure you don’t need me to turn around? I’ve only been on the road a half hour or so.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m just being silly. Don’t worry about it.”
“All right then. Good luck with the roaches!”
“Thanks. Talk to you later then. Bye.” Samantha hung up and put the phone down. She crossed the room to her closet and opened it, wondering what top to wear, since she had decided against a bra. Perhaps another t-shirt would be best. She closed the closet door and opened her t-shirt drawer. Crawling with roaches, of course. She slammed it shut in annoyance, and went over to look in the box. Rummaging through it, she pulled out a little white tank top and tried it on. Looking at herself in the mirror, she decided it provided adequate coverage, though her nipples were faintly visible through the thin material.
Looking down, she realized that her few steps across the room and back had caused her skirt to ride up somewhat. Its hem was now bridging the very top of the bulge, which was therefore now completely exposed. The front had been pulled up by the ascent of the back, and a little lacy white triangle of her panties was showing. ‘Damn’, she thought to herself, ‘I must remember to make sure that it’s pulled down properly before I go out.”
She brushed her teeth, washed her face, put on some make-up, grabbed her purse, and left the apartment. Just in time, she remembered her skirt, and pulled it down at the front until it covered her panties. Exiting the lift on the ground floor, she walked out into the street and stood in line at the bus stop.
“Hey, lady!” said a man’s voice behind her.
“Yes?” she said, turning to face him. He was rather shabbily dressed, and middle-aged.
He gestured in the direction of her skirt. “Shouldn’t you, uh, go to the bathroom or something?” he suggested.
Realization dawned, and she looked over her shoulder at the bulge in her panties. “Shit!” she exclaimed. She hurried back to her apartment building, went in, and stood shaking in the lobby. “What is wrong with me?” she demanded of nobody in particular.
She took the lift up to her floor, and re-entered her apartment. ‘Okay,’ she told herself. ‘You are not leaving until your panties are empty.’
But half an hour later, as she was leaving the apartment for the eighth time that morning, she reached back to check her panties, and discovered the bulge still there. ‘This is ridiculous!’ she scolded herself. ‘Well, it’s quite obvious that you are not going to succeed in emptying your panties, so you might as well decide whether it’s better to stay in the apartment all day, with thousands of cockroaches crawling all over you, or face the world with your panties full of poo.’
Pleased with that logic, she made her decision – she needed bug spray, and she was damn well going to get it. She marched back to the lift, fully aware that her panties were bulging with poo, but unaware that her skirt was now just a wide belt leaving fully three inches of her panties exposed at the front.
Not that it would have made much difference – the huge bulge at the back was incriminating enough. She was going to have to go stealthily, avoiding people as much as possible. There was a convenience store not far away which she could reach by means of a few alleys that were almost always deserted, and she was sure she could get something there that would kill cockroaches.
Once she left the building, therefore, she ran for the alleyway and ducked inside. It was empty. Hurrying down it, she came to a more major street, which she would have to cross. Looking left and right, she waited until the traffic was light and nobody was looking her way, then she made a dash for it. A couple of shouts followed her, but she ignored them and was soon across. She ducked into another alley.
A couple of minutes later she was entering the convenience store. She sought refuge in a deserted aisle and began looking for pest control products. By happy coincidence, she found what she was looking for in the very same aisle. There were two products that claimed to kill cockroaches. One was a poisonous gel that she would have to squirt under the refrigerator, behind cupboards and counter tops, and in fact anywhere she had seen a roach. The other, called ‘Roach Killer’, was an aerosol that she would merely have to spray at the roaches and they would die. Unfortunately, she would have to leave the apartment for a couple of hours because of the fumes. Nevertheless, she preferred this solution. She picked up half a dozen cans and took them up to the counter.
The cashier rang them up, then sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Sorry,” said Samantha in embarrassment, then she cringed as another customer came up behind her.
“Disgusting,” muttered the forty-something woman. Then she said aloud, “Pull your skirt down, for heaven’s sake!”
Samantha did so, for all the good it did. Then the cashier finished ringing up her purchases, and she handed him her card. Another customer, this one a man in his twenties, joined the line. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed loudly. “Miss, do you know you’ve crapped yourself?”
“I’m sorry!” she wailed.
“I thought so!” said the cashier. “You’d better get out of this store, Miss.”
“You have my card!” said Samantha.
“Oh … yeah,” said the young man. He handed her card back, and the till slip. “You’d better sign this,” he said.
She bent over to sign the slip, and everyone behind her took a step backwards. The woman immediately behind Sam covered her nose with her hand.
“That’s a pretty big dump!” exclaimed the young man.
“Christ!” said yet another customer as she joined the queue. This was a young woman. “What a dirty skank!”
Feverishly, Samantha handed the slip back to the cashier, and grabbed the bag he had filled with her cans of bug spray. “Thank you. And sorry everyone!” she said, whereupon she fled the store.
She managed to make it back to her apartment without getting waylaid, though she attracted a few shouts along the way. She then went from room to room, using up the entire contents of every one of the cans she had bought. By the time she had finished, she was coughing badly and was desperate to get out into the (relatively) fresh air in the corridor outside her apartment door.
Some of her poo had worked itself forward along the gusset of her panties and formed a ridge between her pussy lips, and as she paced up and down the corridor it rubbed slickly against her clitoris. After a few minutes she found she was quite horny. Her skirt had ridden way up again, and she absent-mindedly began stroking her pussy through the exposed front of her panties. It felt wonderful. Just then, however, one of the other doors in the corridor opened, and a young couple emerged.
Blushing crimson, Samantha pulled her skirt down and backed away. Slipping into the stairwell before she would have to explain herself, she climbed up a few flights until she had reached the door to the roof. Opening it, she went through, leaving it ajar so that she would be able to get back inside later.
Finding a secluded spot, she sank to her hands and knees and tucked one hand back beneath her, down the inside of her panties, and masturbated for all she was worth. Spreading her knees apart and gyrating her hips sensuously, she found that the sensation of the poo caressing her anus and pussy was adding considerably to her pleasure. She rolled over on to her back, and while she continued to rub her clit with one hand, she used the other to mash her poo, through her panties, into her pussy.
Try as she might, though, she could not seem to reach orgasm. Half an hour later, her right hand tucked in the front of her panties was plowing through a mass of poo which she had pulled forward. Sticking poo-covered fingers, and plenty of poo itself, inside her cunt had brought her closer to her climax, but though she was rubbing her clit as fast as she could, something was still missing. Eventually, her arm and hand worn out, she gave up and howled in frustration.
Withdrawing her hand from her panties, she looked around for something to wipe it on. Nothing presented itself, so she used her tank top, making large brown smears all over the hitherto pristine white material. By now thoroughly messy, she looked at her watch. She still had well over an hour to wait until she could go back into her apartment. She sighed, sat up, and resigned herself to sitting it out right here. It was not long, however, before her hand was back in her panties, rubbing her poo-smeared clitoris and dipping fingers into her poo-filled cunt.
Time seemed to pass terribly slowly, but eventually the two hours were up and she got to her feet. She managed to make it back to her apartment unseen, and she went inside, wondering what she would find.
Cockroach corpses littered the floor – thousands of them. The spray had been pretty effective. But there was still movement among the bodies – roaches she had somehow missed, or perhaps ones that had entered the room since she had sprayed. The dead outnumbered the living by maybe three to one, but that still added up to a huge number of survivors. She sighed.
Stripping off her messy top and skirt, Samantha got a dustpan and a trash bag and began shoveling roach bodies into the bag. Sometimes she collected live roaches as well as dead ones – this did not break her heart. When she was finished, the bag was full. She tied the top and left it by the door.
The roach numbers had very definitely been thinned. There were a lot more gaps for her to place her feet into as she walked across each room. She did not relish having to go back to that store for more spray, but she would have to if she wanted to finish the job. She sighed and wandered through to the bathroom to take a shower.
It was not until she began scrubbing her nether regions that she realized she had got into the shower with her panties still on. Lumps of sodden poo were dropping into the bottom of the tub, and the lace had gone completely transparent. She pulled the panties down and stepped out of them. Kicking them to the far end of the tub, she watched them suspiciously, as if they might disappear and magically reappear around her loins.
They did not, however, and Samantha finished getting clean. Switching off the shower, she climbed out of the tub and dried herself, then took another look in the tub. Her panties were still there. Relieved, she wandered through to her bedroom, naked. She glanced out of the window and noticed five or six pairs of binoculars pointing at her. She frowned and resolved to report them all to the police.
Opening her closet, she gasped in shock. Her clothes were covered in little maggots, and they appeared to be eating everything! Her work suits were full of holes, and her dresses were tattered rags. What the hell were those things?
Slamming the door, she immediately began to worry about Monday morning. With no clothes suitable for work, she would be in a real fix. If she lost her job, she would soon be homeless. She badly needed a new suit – or at least a decent second-hand one. But where would she get one?
Fishing her Yellow Pages out of a cupboard, she found the listings for clothes stores. One advert in particular caught her eye. It read: ‘Mr. Howell’s Clothing Emporium – Quality New and Used Clothing at Unbeatable Prices!’
Within minutes, she was leaving the apartment again, wearing her denim microskirt from the night before and a yellow halter-top that Eric had given her. She had also put on a thong from the same box – she normally did not wear thongs but her underwear drawer was still seething with roaches (she had forgotten to spray in her drawers).
The store was not far away, and she reached it without incident. Inside she was met by an elderly gentleman who smiled too much. “Hello, hello,” he said with a bow. “Welcome to my humble establishment. I am Mr. Howell.” His eyes took in her microskirt and he licked his lips. “My … that’s a nice skirt,” he said. “Very nice.”
Samantha frowned at him. “Yes, well, I’ve just come to buy a nice smart suit for work. My other suits have just got … damaged … and I’m pretty desperate. I’m also on a tight budget, so essentially I’m in need of something smart but cheap. Can you help me?”
Mr. Howell bowed low. “Of course, Madam. In fact, we are currently running a special offer – new tailored suits at the same price as a used suit of the same specifications. I am sure we can fit you out with something that will more than match your expectations. What is Madam’s budget?”
Samantha bit her lip. “Forty dollars,” she said. She hoped he would not laugh in her face.
“That will be fine,” he replied. “In fact, we can fit you out with an entire change of clothing for that much.”
“Oh! Good,” said Samantha. She would have to take steps to ensure that anything she bought did not suffer the same fate as the clothes in her closet.
“Please, follow me,” said Mr. Howell. He led her through the store to an open fitting area. Sam looked around nervously – she did not see any sign of an enclosed dressing room.
“Now, if you could slip your top off, I’ll take your measurements,” said Mr. Howell.
“Excuse me?” said Sam, hardly believing her ears.
Mr. Howell looked at her quizzically. “I can’t be accurate about this if you are still wearing your top,” he said. “I am a professional – I do not approximate.”
“But I’m not wearing a bra!” she said.
Mr. Howell waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that – I’m quite used to it.”
“You’re used to women coming here and stripping topless so you can measure them?” inquired Samantha in disbelief.
“Oh yes! Quite used to it. Now come on – don’t be shy.”
Reluctantly, Samantha pulled her top up over her head. Mr. Howell took it from her and put it over the back of a chair ten feet away. Sam, feeling very exposed, crossed her arms across her chest.
“Arms out please,” said Mr. Howell, coming back over.
Feeling rather awkward and uncomfortable, Samantha did as he said, while the man produced a tape measure and went around behind her. He put his arms around her chest and drew the tape measure taut, brushing both her nipples with his hands as he did so. The end was at the front, and he had to come around to check the measurement. His gaze, Sam noticed, took in both breasts, and he seemed to spend a lot of time adjusting the tape, uncovering and then covering up her nipples several times before he was satisfied. With the constant rubbing that her nipples were receiving, they began to get hard and grow prominent.
“Okay,” said Mr. Howell to himself, and then he lowered the tape so that it slipped beneath her breasts. Pulling the tape taut, he peered so close at the numbers that his forehead was practically between her breasts. “Thirty-four D,” he said at last. “A very attractive measurement, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Samantha did, but all she said was, “Thank you.”
Her waist measurement was not nearly so traumatic, but then Mr. Howell said, “Okay, slip off your skirt please – I need to do your hips now.”
“Surely you can do that with my skirt on!” said Samantha plaintively.
Mr. Howell simply stared up at her. With a sigh, Sam unzipped the skirt and let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, and the old tailor picked it up and placed it with her halter-top. When he came back, he looked at her thong and said, “Oh dear me!”
“That thong is entirely wrong for you,” said Mr. Howell. “Present from a boyfriend, was it?”
Sam nodded. “Yes,” she replied. “Ex-boyfriend.”
“I’m not surprised. Well, you’d better take it off and I’ll get you one that suits you better.”
“Take it off?” Samantha looked around her, scandalized. There was nobody else around, but…
“Of course. Don’t worry, we’ll have you dressed again in a jiffy.”
Blushing crimson with embarrassment, Sam kicked off her shoes, and then pulled the thong down and stepped out of it. Mr. Howell took the thong and both shoes, and set them down with her skirt and top. Then he went off and disappeared around the corner.
Samantha stood there naked, hands clasped over her pussy, wishing she had the courage to go and put her clothes back on. But Mr. Howell might be back at any moment. Two minutes passed by, and then two more. She was beginning to get a little cold. Perhaps she should just get dressed and leave…
Five minutes later still, Mr. Howell returned, carrying a little bowl of water, an aerosol can, a towel, and what appeared to be a ladies’ razor. “Sorry that took so long,” he said. “I’ve given your measurements to our best tailor – he’ll have a wonderful suit ready for you in no time. You’ll be able to pick it up tomorrow after three o’clock. We close at four. In the meantime, we can fix you up with a blouse and some underwear.”
“What’s all that for?” asked Samantha in some concern.
“Well, the thongs I have in mind for you are rather skimpier than the one you were wearing. Your pubic hair would be peeping out of the sides at the front, so I need to give you a bit of a trim first.
“You’re going to give me a trim?” exclaimed Sam.
“It’s all part of the service,” said the old man cheerfully, and he sprayed a liberal quantity of foam directly on to Sam’s pussy.
‘This is insane!’ Sam said to herself, as Mr. Howell began rubbing the foam into her pubic hair with his fingers. Then she gasped as one finger slipped between her pussy lips. “Oops,” said the man apologetically. But over the next half minute he committed the same offence again … three times. Then he took up the razor and started shaving her. Sam closed her eyes and put her hands over her face in shame.
“There!” said Mr. Howell. “That’s better.”
Samantha looked down and gasped. “You shaved it all off?”
“Well it looks much nicer that way,” said the man matter-of-factly. “Not to mention that it’s more hygienic, and it covers all eventualities as regards the wearing of thongs.”
Sam, lost for words, could only gape in disbelief as he dried her most intimate parts with the towel.
“Now, wait there while I fetch those thongs,” he said, and he disappeared with the towel, razor, bowl and can of foam. A moment later, a young family walked around the corner, including two boys aged about seven and ten years respectively. The mother gasped and put her hands over her sons’ eyes.
“Come on children! There’s nothing to see back here,” she said briskly.
”But why was that lady not wearing any clothes?” asked the youngest lad, while the father rather reluctantly followed his wife back around the corner, though he stared at Samantha for as long as possible before he disappeared from sight.
Samantha could have died of embarrassment right then and there.
Soon enough, however, Mr. Howell returned. “Here,” he said, “try this on.” He passed a thong to her.
She pulled it on hastily, glad of some coverage – any coverage at all. This, however, was hardly what she had in mind. “Good grief!” she said.
The thong was transparent at the front. It was so sheer that a breath of wind could have put a snag in it. Her newly-shaven pussy lips were clearly visible through it. “I don’t think so!” she said, and she took it off at once.
“Hmm, perhaps this one then?” suggested Mr. Howell. He passed her the next one.
She pulled it up, and stared at it. This was even worse than the last. Sure, it wasn’t sheer, but…
“It barely covers my…” she began, but words failed her. The front of the thong plunged so low that the miniscule triangle of material only just concealed the division between her pussy lips. If she pulled it up at the back at all… She tried it, and sure enough her pussy groove popped into view immediately.
“Too low-cut,” she said peremptorily, and took it off.
“Well, I thought it looked very nice on you, but it’s your decision,” said Howell. “Try this one then.” He passed her a third thong.
She pulled it on, and uttered a disgusted sound. This was almost as low-cut, and so narrow at the front that one side immediately slipped between her labia.
“Here, let me get that for you,” said Mr. Howell. He dropped to one knee and took hold of the front of the thong, tugging it out from between her pussy lips. Then, to Samantha’s utter astonishment, he teased her labia apart with two fingers, ran one finger up her groove from her vagina to her clit, and then gently eased the thong into the groove. Her labia closed over the material, which now covered just her clitoral hood and nothing else.
“How does that feel?” the old man asked.
“That’s not how one wears a thong!” exclaimed Samantha. “That’s … obscene!”
“Not at all!” said Mr. Howell. “This particular thong is designed to be worn that way. Does it not feel nice? Walk around a bit – see how you like it.”
“Walk around?” echoed Samantha.
“Yes – try it!” encouraged the tailor.
Samantha dubiously walked to the edge of the fitting area, then turned and walked across to the other end, then turned again and came back to the middle. The thong rubbed against her clitoris most distractingly all the while, and she felt pleasantly familiar tingling sensations in her loins. “It’s not bad,” she conceded grudgingly.
“Excellent!” said the old man, pleased. “Now, I have just one other…”
Samantha took off the thong she was wearing and pulled on the one he was now offering her. This was the most low-cut yet – almost an inch of her clitoral hood was exposed by the thong, whose front triangular section was only half an inch across at the top. It quickly narrowed and slipped between her labia, becoming a string which extended back between her legs to halfway up her buttocks at the back. There it split into two strings which rose up over her hips and plunged down at the front to meet the tiny triangle. It was quite the most ridiculous ‘garment’ she had ever worn.
“Try walking in that one,” advised Mr. Howell.
She did so, and felt her clitoris being stroked with each step. It made her weak at the knees. “This one’s … quite nice,” she said faintly.
“Wonderful! Well, I’ll put these last two to one side, then. Now, if you’d like to just slip out of that one…”
She slid it down her legs, and gave it to him. It was a little damp, but he made no comment.
“Right,” said Mr. Howell, “I’ll find you some bras to try on.”
He disappeared for another ten minutes, during which Samantha idly stroked her clitoris, though she snatched her hand away when he returned. He handed her a bra, which she eagerly tried on – she was glad of the opportunity to cover her breasts, which had been exposed for the last forty-five minutes.
Sadly, the bra did a somewhat inadequate job. It was as sheer as the first thong she had tried on – her breasts were not so much covered up as framed. Having said that, it was one of the most comfortable bras she had ever worn.
“I hate to say it,” she said, “but I actually like this one. Shame it’s so revealing, though.”
“Where’s the shame in that?” said Howell with a grin. “The others I’ve got are the same style, just different sizes, so if you like that one, there’s no need to try these. If you could just give me that one…”
Reluctantly, Samantha removed her only covering and gave it back to him. “Back in a moment,” he said, and was gone for another ten minutes, during which an old lady and a woman with her pre-teen daughter paid her an unexpected and very brief visit.
A full hour after she had first stripped off her bra in order to have her breasts measured, Samantha finally was given the opportunity to cover them back up – properly this time. For Mr. Howell had arrived with a selection of blouses, the first of which he now handed to her. She eagerly tried it on (sans bra).
It was very nice, she had to admit, though it did have one rather major flaw. The stitching was excellent, the design elegant … but the material was so thin that her nipples, and indeed the faint outline of her breasts, were clearly visible. She mentioned this to Mr. Howell.
“The bra will help with that,” he said. “Not much, but it will help. You like it, though?”
“Yes, it’s very nice. But may I try some of the others?”
“Of course!” agreed the tailor. He waited until she had taken off the first one, then he handed her another.
This one was just as see-through – it was merely a different design, and it had short sleeves. The third blouse was not quite so transparent, but it was quite tight, and its top button was on a level with her nipples, which meant that a large amount of her cleavage was showing.
“I think I like the first blouse best,” said Samantha, taking off the tight one.
Mr. Howell nodded. “Then we’re done,” he said. “Forty dollars, you said?”
“Yes,” said Samantha. “I suppose I could go up to fifty…”
“That would be better, certainly,” said Mr. Howell. “For fifty dollars I’d be willing to throw in the blouse, three bras and three thongs.”
“Don’t you…” began Samantha plaintively, “Don’t you have any … regular panties?”
“Certainly!” said the tailor. “But, ah, you came in wearing a thong, so I assumed that was your preference.”
“Could I try some ordinary panties?” asked Samantha.
“Of course. I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, and disappeared around the corner again. This time he was only gone for five minutes. When he returned he held two pairs of white panties. He handed the first pair to her, and she pulled them on.
“What on Earth?” she exclaimed in disbelief. The panties were of a reasonable cut at the back – brief, but not as skimpy as French-cut. At the front, however, it was very low-cut and narrowed to a string just beyond her clitoris, with the result that of course it settled immediately between her pussy lips. Somewhere between her vagina and anus it widened out again rapidly. “Where do you get these things?”
“Oh, we make them ourselves,” said Howell cheerfully. “How does it feel? Walk around if you like.”
Samantha did so, and decided she rather liked them after all. “What else have you got for me?” she asked as she took them off.
The next pair were similar at the front, but a little skimpier at the back, and they were tied at the sides. The third pair provided more coverage at the front, but they were very sheer and her pussy lips were very visible through the material. At the back they were quite conventionally cut – brief, but not as brief as the first pair.
“Well, I think I like the first pair best,” she said, taking off the latest pair. “Though the second pair was nice too.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Howell. “Since you’re such a nice young lady, I’ll throw in three pairs of panties along with the three thongs. Two of the first pair you tried, and one with the tie-up sides. How does that sound?”
“That’s very generous!” said Samantha. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, if you’d like to put your own clothes back on, perhaps you could accompany me to the till.”
Samantha got dressed into her own clothes, and despite the shortness of the microskirt she felt more than adequately covered. She went to the till and handed Mr. Howell her card. He rang up her purchases and she signed the slip.
“Remember,” said the tailor. “Tomorrow, between three and four. Your suit will be waiting.”
“Don’t I get a choice of color, fabric, style, and so on?” inquired Samantha.
“It will be dark blue, and made of fine 100% wool. Put yourself in our hands, Madam – we know our job well.”
“Okay,” said Samantha. “That sounds pretty good. See you tomorrow then.” She left the shop with her blouse, bras, thongs and panties, and returned home, where she set about making a drawer roach-proof before putting her new clothes in it. She hoped that Clingfilm would keep the insects out.
She ate Ramen noodles for lunch – the roaches had not got into the packages – and then went out for more bug spray. She came back with six more cans, bitterly regretting the cost but thinking it still preferable to paying for a professional pest control service. She sprayed every room again, this time remembering the drawers and her closet, and went out to the local library for a couple of hours. Afterwards, she had supper at Macdonald’s before going home.
Roach carcasses were everywhere, but still there were a few survivors. Sam scooped up all the bodies she could find and dumped them into another trash bag. She surveyed her living room with satisfaction. The floor was now ninety per cent free of roaches. She could still see a few hundred, but at least they were not wall-to-wall the way they had been that morning.
She watched television for a while, and only had to flick cockroaches from her bare legs seven or eight times. At ten-thirty she decided to get an early night, so she went to her bedroom and flung back the bedclothes. Twenty-odd cockroaches and a couple of centipedes scuttled for cover – she knocked them on to the floor. Putting plugs in her ears, she brushed her teeth, removed her make-up, and went to bed wearing just her panties. She did not bother to close the curtains, and she left the lights on in the hope of discouraging cockroaches. Not that these ones seemed especially bothered by the light.
She awoke with a start. She was pinned down again, her arms strapped in place, stretched out to either side of her. And she was naked. “Not again!” she cried.
Lurid light was pouring from the crack in the far wall, which had opened up again. It widened still further, and suddenly her bed shot forwards, carrying her at breakneck speed towards the light. She screamed and braced for impact, but the bed sailed through the crack and began plunging downhill through a cave whose walls seemed to be made of moist, pulsating, purple flesh. It was terribly hot and a bright red light was emanating from somewhere up ahead.
Abruptly the bed stopped moving, and her arms were suddenly free. She sat up and rubbed her wrists, looking around fearfully. She figured she was dreaming, but it seemed so real… She pinched herself.
“Ow!” she said.
She had no idea where she was, but she did know that her bedroom lay behind her. She leaped off the bed, intending to run back up the tunnel. But as she landed, her feet sank into the squishy floor to ankle-depth, and when she tried to pull them free she found they were stuck fast, as if in the most glutinous mud imaginable. Only it was not mud – it was some kind of red-brown-purple goo, very thick and sticky. With great effort she managed to wrench one foot free, but her other foot was now even more deeply entrenched. She sank to her hands and knees.
There were creatures burrowing through the muck, she noticed. Long, thick, jet black worms, pointed at both front and back, and segmented like earthworms or leeches. Only these were at least a foot long, and over half an inch wide at their widest point, halfway along their length. Samantha tried to ignore them, and concentrated instead on trying to wrench her left foot out of the goo.
Somehow, though it took almost all of her strength, she managed it. On all fours she did not sink quite so quickly, so she managed to make some progress by ensuring that no hand or knee ever sank so deep that it could not be retrieved in a short time. Leaving the bed behind, she crawled naked up the tunnel, covering ground at a couple of feet per minute.
But then it all went horribly wrong. The floor started subsiding, and a hole appeared a few feet in front of her. Samantha found herself on a slope of rapidly increasing steepness, being tipped towards the hole which was both widening and dropping quickly away from her. Soon she was clinging to the side of a vertical shaft, whose bottom she could not see. She screamed in abject terror. A rushing, liquid sound came to her ears now, and a second later she was being showered by a torrent of foul-smelling white liquid with the consistency of wallpaper paste. The stickiness of the brown goo kept her in place for only a moment before she was swept away and washed down the shaft.
She landed with a splash in a small pit, which contained more of the foul-smelling liquid. This quickly drained away (though she could not see to where), and the flow from above slowed to a trickle, then stopped. A moment later, it had all gone away or soaked into the floor.
Rather winded by her fall, Sam did not notice at first that the goo on which she was sitting was as populated with black worms as the tunnel above had been. Then she squealed as something slithered into her cunt. She snatched at it, but was too late. Getting up on to her hands and knees, she shouted, “What’s happening here? Where am I?”
There was no reply, but almost immediately thousands more black worms began to emerge from the walls of the pit. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands perhaps. They formed growing piles along the base of the pit walls and many of them started to slither towards her. The piles of worms thus spread out, and although she backed away until she was in the center of the pit, the worms soon reached her from all sides.
Some of them tried to climb up her legs, but they were ineffectual climbers and she knocked them off easily. However, more and more worms kept pouring into the pit, and the floor was covered with a growing depth of them. In fifteen minutes or so, the pit was a foot deep in worms. Ten minutes after that, the only way she could keep them from her cunt was to stand up – which she feared to do in case she sank irretrievably into the goo.
The worms swarmed inside her. She tried to keep her vagina covered with one hand, but the worms were so pointy and squirmy that they slipped through her fingers with ease. Three had entered her before she even had time to gasp, and nine more followed over the course of the next minute. Then the worms reached her anus, and one by one six more forced their way into her rectal orifice. Samantha screamed again. But it did no good.
When her anus and cunt felt as if they would both burst if a single extra worm tried to get in, one wall of the pit split open with a deep, horrible groaning sound, forming a doorway. Two ‘demons’ – similar to the creature who had dream-raped her last night – stormed in and each grabbed one of her arms. She was pulled to her feet and dragged through the doorway between the demons.
“Where are you taking me?” she wailed. “What’s going on? Where is this place?”
Neither replied, but they continued to drag her until they came to a small cavern, in the center of which was a stone structure that looked like an altar. On to this she was unceremoniously flung, and her arms were strapped down. So were her legs, but only after her knees had been bent double and pressed to the top of the altar beside her shoulders. Bonds of some kind held them fast, though it was a very unnatural position and she was terribly uncomfortable.
A new figure approached the altar. Samantha took one look at it and screamed her lungs out. The … thing – no name was ugly enough for it, Sam thought to herself later – was all decaying flesh and maggots and putrescent slime. Its face was half hanging off, and its lecherous grin showed just two orange-brown teeth. It climbed on to the table and positioned itself over Sam, drooling green slime from its mouth over her naked breasts.
It thrust a long, thick, maggot-ridden penis into her cunt, despite the fact that the worms still inside her were packed tightly. Her belly swelled as the disgusting creature’s cock pushed through the worms, forcing everything outwards, wider. It started to thrust inside her as she screamed in ineffectual fear and disgust, and then it vomited over her face and chest.
Its stomach must have been huge, for several gallons of nasty, yellowish, lumpy liquid cascaded over Samantha’s breasts and belly, and poured over her eyes, cheeks, chin and even into her mouth before she had the presence of mind to close it. The two demons who had brought her in massaged the vomit into her breasts, and she vaguely noticed that maggots were wriggling in the mess. ‘Why can’t I pass out?’ she wondered miserably to herself, before passing out.