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Bikinis and Bad Influences

I intended to be a good girl, I swear! But it was all her and our mutual faults! It wasn’t me, honest! All I did was dress in cutoffs, no panties, and a t-shirt and go about my business. They led me astray. First, she had to chat with me about my weekend and give me tips and pointers and descriptions that got me so worked up that I had to touch myself right at the front counter at work. The poor guy browsing books thought that I was all turned on by him! If he had stuck around after I declined his offer of dinner he would have gotten a free show because she wanted me to finger myself and tweak my nipples right then and there. Our reverie had me so worked up that I did!

With some minor relief between my legs, but my mind still reeling, I looked forward to the rest of my day. I lied to myself that it would make me forget all about the heat between my thighs. I was getting my costume fitted; well I guess the proper word is “garb”. I ignored the fact that I was headed to where Sylva lived because she was going to help me. Yes, that same Sylva.

I met Sylva quite recently at a medieval event my lover was involved with. When I first saw her she was chained to him and looking up at him with lusty, love-struck eyes. My first instinct was to claw out those eyes, but I warmed to her quickly. Before the night was over I watched her in a most intimate moment from afar and then got to sample the delights of her taste and touch in a threesome. Well, another event is coming up this weekend and I didn’t want to say anything to my lover about my “garb” because if I go I want it to be a surprise. I thought about messaging Kiera but I knew that as soon as we began chatting, I’d forget all about the adjustments I needed and I’d beg her to fuck me again. Kiera doesn’t make love or have sex; she fucks. So I asked Sylva.

“No problem,” she shot back within seconds of me sending the message. “I do costuming. Come over and we’ll get you all set up.” We made arrangements and I convinced myself that it was simply getting my garb adjusted — no sex.

Because I thought I might look pretty hot in it, and the fact that he’s into that sort of thing, I found a chainmail bikini for sale online and ordered one in “my size.” Apparently my size assumes no hips and huge breasts. The chainmail bikini was too loose on the top and too tight around my waist. The links cut into my feminine parts down there and not in a way that was even remotely close to comfortable or tolerable.

I found my way to Sylva’s place, an older farmhouse just outside the far side of the city, and pulled into the drive. It was slightly run-down and I noted tie dye tapestries in the windows instead of curtains. I was immediately reminded of my childhood home and looked around with a fond sense of nostalgia.

Knocking on the door I was surprised when Sylva threw it open immediately and hugged me like a long-lost friend. She was wearing a white tank top, obviously braless, and a Mediterranean style skirt that hung down to her ankles. Kissing me hotly on the lips she gently pulled me inside and welcomed me to her home.

Large pillows, gaming consoles strewn about, a large water pipe on the stained table, and various posters taped to the walls assaulted my eyes. My nostrils were assailed with the smells of lingering incense, patchouli, and stale smoke residue. It was a modernized hippie den!

“Don’t mind the mess,” she said gesturing around and heading towards the stairs. “We’re such slobs!”

“Reminds me of home,” I said because it did, indeed, remind me of the home I grew up in.

I followed her upstairs as she pointed out various rooms.

“Mary’s bedroom,” she pointed.

“My lair,” she giggled out.

“Our chillax room if you want,“ she giggled out. That room reeked strongly of previously-smoked herbs.

“My costuming room,” she said triumphantly.

She opened the door and the room inside was a huge contrast to the rest of the house. First and foremost, it didn’t reek like a hippie head shop. Secondly it was brightly lit and organized. Lastly, it looked exactly as one would expect a tailor’s workspace to look. It was feminine and comforting as well as functional.

“Ok,” she said to me. “Undress and put on the outfit and well see where it needs adjusting.”

I hesitated a moment.

“Don’t be shy,” she exclaimed. “I’ve had my mouth buried in your pussy; you can’t tell me that you’re bashful?”

“It isn’t that,” I said. “I forgot to wear panties today and I don’t know what to wear under it. Do you have something I could borrow? I’ll wash it and return it.”

She laughed with obvious amusement. “Silly! You don’t want to wear anything under it. Just strip down and climb in.”

I did and she didn’t even try to hide the lusty look in her eyes. I struggled with the bikini top first. A bikini top isn’t the easiest thing in the universe to put on to begin with. When one adds in the fact that it is woven out of little metal rings and has pretty much zero stretchiness, it becomes much more difficult.

Before I could even get the bottoms into my hands Sylva walked over and began checking the metal straps of the top. She ran her hands delicately across my sides, traced the line of the top strap, and then cupped my breasts in her hands. Raising and squeezing them both she looked at me and smiled.

“The problem I see is that your boobs are so high and plump that they are spilling out on the sides.” She caressed my breasts on either side to pontificate the side-seam against my flesh. “And it’s cut for somebody with a wider body than yours.”

She paused, her hands still on my breasts. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

Sylva let her hands fall from my breasts and she glanced down to my nude lower half. “So sexy,” I heard her mutter as she left the room.

I attempted to shrug into the bottoms. The cold metal felt stark against my skin. Barely getting the side ties to hold I checked myself out in the mirror. Despite the ill-fitting garments not molding themselves to my body shape properly, even I had to admit, as biased as I am about it, that I looked sexy in a warrior queen kind of way.

“Are they real?” Sylva said when she reentered. She was exhaling smoke and coughing a little. I turned and looked blankly at her. “Your boobs, are they real?”

“Yes,” I said. “If I were ever to enhance them I’d make them bigger.”

“I thought so,” she said. “From our, ah, recent experiences.” She giggled. “How do you keep them so high and firm? Mine sag a little, as you know.”

I shrugged. “Pull ups and rowing exercises.” I saw that Sylva held some pliers in her hands.

She approached me, holding up the pliers and operating them as if they were pincers. Gesturing towards my nipples with them she laughed and then set them down. She stood in front of me and reached around my neck and undid the top-clasp. Our faces were very close and it somehow became an intimate moment.

She pulled the top straps forward and the chainmail fell down and forward, exposing my breasts. Her hands reached around to the back-strap and her arms were wrapped around me in a sort of embrace. I could feel her drawing the strap tight, tighter, then loose again. Her fingers found whatever spot they were probing for and she unhooked the clasp. As the top fell off of me she bent her head forward and kissed my nipple. I moaned lightly in pleasure and surprise.

“Do you molest everyone you bring up here to help with their garb?” I asked coquettishly.

“No,” she said huskily. “Just the ones I masturbate over.”

“Excuse me?” I said with surprise.

“No,” she said sarcastically. “I finger-banged myself watching you and then ate your kitty because I don’t feel any attraction whatsoever!”

I didn’t know how to respond but my body definitely knew how.

“All we need to do is to loosen it a few links here and here,” she held up one on the cups in her hand. “And then move the clasp over to here,” she held up the portion of the back-strap pinched between her fingers. “You’re lucky I know a little bit about chainmail.”

I watched intently as she took the pliers and unlinked the strap, opened a slit in the metal weave on both cups and then transferred the rings she had removed from the strap to the open portions in the cups. She made it look simple and easy. I’ve tried sewing before and couldn’t even make a pillow case but she was deftly reweaving chainmail and talking idly with me as if it were nothing.

Giving her work a final inspection some mere minutes later she held it before me. “Try it on now!”

It fit much better now. My breasts weren’t loosely falling out of the sides and the back rested lightly on my skin rather than flapping about. The top straps were still a bit loose. A few practice movements revealed that if I ran or bent forward rapidly that I would have a “wardrobe malfunction.”

She quickly unlinked a small length of the back strap and reworked the leather thong tie until it fit properly. “OK, now let’s do your bottom.” She knelt before me with a glint in her eye.

She ran her hands all over my metal-clad groin and behind and tugged lightly on the side-straps. I fought down the urge to pull her face into my crotch.

“These straps aren’t right,” she observed. “Even if we let it out a bit it will bite into your hips and creep down.” She undid the side ties and peeled the bikini bottom off of me. She studied the metal garment quizzically.

I became very aware of her mouth just inches away from my exposed pussy. I also became very aware that the heat had welled up inside of me and that I was breathing in deep long breaths.

She turned her face up towards me but her gaze was drawn to the wetness between my legs. “Did I do that?” she smiled out as her hand slowly reached out and gently probed my folds.

I couldn’t resist bucking my hips towards her touch. I moaned again and threw my head back. “Yes, you and the fact that an online friend had me masturbating earlier,” I confessed.

Her gentle probe turned into a torrid caress, her fingers working over my clit. I heard the metal chattering as the chainmail bikini bottoms fell to the floor. “Tell me all about it,” she said to me, “Or I’ll stop.”

I relayed the private online conversation between my friend and me as she worked her magic on my soaking pussy. Her fingers rolled and caressed my clit and her other hand alternated between groping my ass and stroking my labia. The tension of the day, the prior naughty conversation, and her ministrations on my sex gave me a leg-buckling orgasm. I had to lean back against the table to keep upright.

“I need to taste you again,” she plead. She pushed her face into my crotch and ran her tongue up and down my slit. “I was being naughty, too,” she told me. “I was fucking myself when you drove up.”

Her hands reached around me and pulled my pussy into her face. Her mouth covered my wet pussy and her tongue danced on clit softly and delicately. She pulled her head back slightly and looked up at me. “You’re so sexy, let me taste you again.”

Her lips clamped down on me and her tongue grew pointy and hard over my now-swollen clit. She rolled her tongue over me and then sucked it in between her lips. She continued swirling around my clit until I was forcing her bleached-blond head into myself and humping her mouth. She quickly brought me to the cusp of orgasm and then tapered off.

Pausing the intensity, she then ran her tongue down my pussy, savoring the wetness on my lips, all the way down to my asshole. She ran it up and down until I became lost in the sensations of her expert tongue. As soon as my breathing began to quicken again she roughly pulled my body against her mouth and clamped down on my clit once more. Her tongue lashed my most sensitive button hard and fast and she didn’t relent until I had a screaming orgasm.

Sylva rode me with her mouth until my spasms subsided. She then stood up, wiping my wetness from her mouth, and kissed me deeply. Her hands sought my metal-clad breasts and we shared a deep, passionate, soulful kiss. When our embrace broke she bent down and retrieved the bikini bottoms.

“Thank you,” she said to me as if I had done her a favor. “I’ve been dreaming about that for weeks!”

“Um, don’t you want me to do you?” I asked. I shouldn’t have asked, I should have just thrown her down and done it.

“Let’s call it a sixty-eight, I do you and you owe me one!” She continued. “Let’s get you fitted. After we’re done I need to find a ride to the tourney tomorrow.”

I took the hint. “I’m not sure that I’m going to go yet-“

Her abrupt laugh cut me off. “If you weren’t going you wouldn’t be having me fix your chainmail now, would you?”

I blushed and pondered the pattern of the rug on the floor. “Well if I go then he’ll think that I’m his to command,” I lamented.

Sylva’s expression grew serious. “And if you don’t?”

“Then some other whore will!” I stamped my foot like a child.

“So then it’s settled,” she concluded. “You’re going and you know it!” She tittered at me with delight.

“Besides,” she added. “You owe me one.”

Sylva then went a chest of drawers and pulled out some leather straps and pieces of fur. Grabbing some measuring rules and a craft knife she proficiently cut some straps and hand-stitched a length of fur around them. Grabbing what looked like a heavy-duty hole-punch she cut holes into the ends of the four straps she had just made.

Sylva cut the leather laces from the sides of the bikini bottom, leaving a few inches on all sides and then laced in the straps. Pulling some more leather lace from another drawer she then wove them onto the ends.

“There you go, all fixed!” she said. “I added some wide strapping so it doesn’t fall down or cut into your sexy flesh. The rabbit fur will keep it from biting. You have plenty of lacing here at the ends so you can adjust the fit however you want.”

She handed it to me, our fingers touching. “Try it on,” she squealed out.

I did and from her approving looks and the Viking-warrior vixen image that faced me in the mirror I gathered that the fit was now excellent. It was also much more comfortable than before. Other than the additional weight from it being metal, it felt like I was wearing a regular bikini.

I did some test movements; stretching, bending, mock-running, bouncing. Other than looking dangerously close to falling off, everything remained in place. The metal now moved with my body rather than confining, gaping, or restricting. There was only one problem that I saw.

“Uh, Sylva,” I began. “My pubes are showing through this like a neon light.”

She stared at me and nodded. “Well, I think it’s so sexy. Nobody will mind.”

“But I look like a cheap whore!”

“High class escort, maybe, but not cheap,” she corrected. She licked her lips as she stared at my trimmed red hair visible under the metal links. “I think it’s hot, I wish I had your body. You’ll have everyone begging to taste you! You could always shave it off, or wear something under it if you really want.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “I don’t want to flash some uptight fair-goer or freak out some kid.”

She shrugged. “It’s a private event, not a public show. It is a border war with another group. Let me guess, he just said ‘event’.”

“Oh,” I said. “Maybe he did and I just wasn’t paying attention.”

Her voice adopted a children’s teasing, sing-song tone. “Somebody’s defending, somebody’s defending!”

We laughed and hugged and kissed once more, both of our hands exploring each other’s bodies. I asked her how much I owed her for the work.

“Since we’ve settled the fact that you’re going, can you give me a ride and we’ll call it even?”

I laughed at her, “Sure, I’ll pick you up at about 6:30 and you can ride with me.”

“Yes, I’d love to ride you.” She smiled back. “See you tomorrow.”

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