The man's taken his slaves shopping ; currently they're in a nice dress store, tearing it apart scrap by scrap, under the stolidly benevolent gaze of the fat young woman in thick glasses supposedly representing the owner and authority on the floor (such as to the degree of kicking some uninteresting, older women out -- "Can't have more people in the story, sorry! You have to wait for someone to leave to come in."). A coupla local teens, with an absolutely typical local matron in tow, self-evidently looking for an occasion dress for the occasion of a marriage in the clan of the younger have no problem getting in, however -- a quizzing look from the shopgirl and a slight nod from the man decide their fate in a glimpse.
The perambulating jodejuguetes proceed forthwith to carefully examining each item on offer in the recent chaos while transparently pretending to not have realised what just happenedi ; their caretaker / chaperone sits herself tiredly on the other chair, at some distance opposite the man's. They converse placidly for a little ; she regretfully reminesces her water left behind as she confesses him her menopause, and the attendant hot flashes. He assures her he doesn't get them, not being menopausal. She finds this the funniest, most tasteful thing ever uttered, coquettishly batting her hand in his general direction for accentuation.
Meanwhile his slavegirls go in and out of the vestidores, sometimes even remembering to pull curtains, but generally displaying themselves. Sometimes they're almost dressed, oftimes they're almost naked, but throughout they're trying on, dress after dress. "Esta si, esta no" he divides them into piles for the information of the dotting shopgirl. She's too nothing in particular to participate as a woman to these proceedings, and she knows it, too ; but she's also evidently come to terms with it a while ago, just like the matron has -- it doesn't mean she can no longer be useful at all, so she does her very acceptable best.
He's rather had enough of the young'uns dry and distant examination of wares, and of looking them over in their (identical) sneakers and form-fitting jeans. The term doesn't connote anything even remotely sexual. Civillian girlies' jeans are form-fitting like a Roman legionnaire's loricata was form fitting : functionally and defensively, boiled by day's Sun after day's Sun, year after year, in his sebum and sweat, fitting every implicit movement crease of the body through having matched it so many times, protected it from so many environmental angles... They're not bad, though, bodily, if maybe mentally a little dim -- the assistant especially, her jaw a little slack, her comportment betraying her deep, enduring inner familiarity with the equally enduring outer failing as well as the shockingly disproportionate proportion of her inner life and mental power dedicated to fixing it (as best it can be) after the fact. But while they're a little shorter than women, being ticas, they've got the tits, and they've got the asses, and even some waistline thrown into the mix!
"Hay que provar, hay que sentir el vestido sobre la piel." he orders, and within the minute the younger's in the only remaining cabina de prueba, trying out some pearly white thing rather promising for her figure.
"Quien se casa ?" he continues, with her assistant seated precariously against him, one half buttcheek on the upholstered square meter holding his jacket, hat and switch as well as a large pile of shopping bags on most of its surface.
"Su hermana." she retorts, submissively, just as the future sister-in-law emerges. Her tits indeed greatly beenfit from her obediently having taken "advice" ; the credible proportion that can be seen of the credible rack nature's provided her do indeed and visibly breathe easier for being released from childhood's prison, and rather seem to thrill to contact with the trappings of womanhood. Other than the very flattering dress, squeezing her quite squeezable ass just right, hugging her suddenly huggable waistline correctly, she's wearing a pair of colorful, teeny socks.
"Take the socks off" he commands her, "feel the floor on your feet."
She peels them off and hands them over, he passes one along to matron and the other to the eager assistant. "Smell her socks." he says plainly, and they do, pensively, carefully inspecting the shed byproduct of the emerging slut, first at the toes, then at the heel, then all over, then more carefully in between the space left by each absent toe... the younger one starts drooling a little, visibly, perhaps invisibly as well.
The gathering mists do not escape the notice of the girls' familiar owner. She orders her around, with suddenly practiced manner : "Start masturbating, Pizdi. Quiero escucharte gemir." Then she lifts her occasion dress high up, and removes her equally colorful, equally girlish cotton panties. "Smell my panties as you do, too. Put your nose right in the wet spot. Lick it a little, too." she rattles off.
"Si, mamí!" comes in due time the necessary, obedient reply.———
I ain't saying it's right. But you're saying a foot massage don't mean nothing, and I'm saying it does. Now look, I've given a million broads a million foot massages, and they all meant something. We act like they don't, but they do, and that's what's so fucking cool about them. There's a sensuous thing going on where you don't talk about it, but you know it, she knows it, fucking Marsellus knew it, and Antoine should have fuckinging better known better. I mean, that's his fucking wife, man, he can't be expected to have a sense of humor about that shit.
Boys generally need to be as old as Vincent to realise how this works, at least half the time (Marsellus' man in Inglewood for instance hadn't yet figured it out), but in girls it's innate, they know it as they breathe. [↩]