Dear Diary, My Trip To The Makeup Store

Dear Diary,

I’ve been waiting for this day all week—no, all month. Just thinking about it makes my heart hammer and my skin tingle. Tonight, I’m going out, really going out, dressed as her for the first time at a place that feels both thrilling and terrifying: the department store makeup counter.

I pace my bedroom, smoothing down the outfit I’ve laid out like a sacred ritual: the soft black skirt that hugs just enough, the delicate sheer stockings that glint under the lamplight, and the silky blouse that feels impossibly feminine when I slip it over my shoulders. Every piece, every fabric, every detail matters. I run my hands along the textures, inhaling the faint perfume clinging to them, imagining how they will feel against my skin—and how I will feel wearing them in public.

I’m nervous. My fingers shake slightly as I pick up the heels, hesitating before slipping them onto my feet. Each click against the floor is an echo of my heartbeat, anticipation building like a secret drumbeat inside me. I glance at the mirror, and there she is—the version of me I’ve been aching to show the world, even if only for a few hours. The thought makes me flush, a shiver of arousal running down my spine.

The automatic doors slide open, and a cool wave of air-conditioned air hits me, making my skin tingle with anticipation. The department store stretches out before me like a luminous playground, polished floors reflecting the overhead lights in endless ribbons. Perfumes hang heavy in the air, mingling with the faint scent of cosmetics and fresh linens, intoxicating in a way that makes my chest tighten with nervous excitement.

Every step I take feels louder than it should—the click of my heels against the tile echoing like a drumbeat announcing my arrival. I keep my head slightly lowered, heart racing, yet part of me yearns for someone to notice. I imagine eyes on me, a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even admiration, and a shiver of arousal zips down my spine.

The makeup counters come into view, sleek and glossy, adorned with neatly arranged palettes, brushes, and bottles that gleam under the store lights. The assistants move with practiced grace, greeting customers with smiles that are warm but professional. My stomach flutters. One step closer, and I’ll be in their world—their territory. The thrill of it makes me bite my lip, my hand brushing absentmindedly over my skirt, feeling the soft fabric against my fingertips.

I step up to the counter, hands trembling slightly as I rest them on the glossy surface. The attendant looks up—oh, she looks up—and our eyes meet. My chest tightens, a fluttering rush of nerves and excitement shooting through me. There’s a spark in her gaze, just the faintest hint of curiosity, maybe even amusement, and it sends shivers down my spine.

“Hello,” she says, her voice warm and confident. “Can I help you find something?”

I manage a soft, slightly breathless, “Yes… I was hoping… maybe you could help me pick out some lipstick?” My words feel tiny, fragile, but somehow they sound more feminine than I ever imagined.

Her smile widens, and my stomach twists deliciously. “Of course,” she says, sliding a chair toward me. “Come, sit. Let’s find a color that really brings out your features.”

I sit, knees pressed together, feeling the taut stretch of my skirt against my thighs. Every brush of fabric, every subtle movement, feels amplified, charged with a private, erotic electricity. She kneels slightly to be level with my face, her fingers brushing against mine as she selects a few shades from the palette. I feel my breath catch. That touch—innocent as it might seem—is enough to make me ache, a delicious warmth spreading low in my belly.

“Have you worn lipstick before?” she asks, tilting her head in a way that makes me want to melt into the chair.

I shake my head, cheeks burning. “Not… not really.”

Her fingers lightly graze my wrist as she reassures me. “Then we’ll make this fun. Don’t worry—you’ll look amazing.”

I nod, trying to steady my shaking hands, but the thrill of being so exposed, so feminine under her gaze, makes it impossible. I watch as she carefully swipes the first color onto a tester brush. She lifts it to my lips, and I inhale sharply, feeling the warmth of her hands so close, the soft brush grazing my skin. My body hums with arousal I can barely control.

“Relax,” she whispers, just barely above a murmur, and the intimacy of the sound makes my pulse spike. “It feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I breathe, almost a whisper. “It… it feels incredible.”

Her fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary, teasingly brushing the corners of my mouth. My thighs press together instinctively, my heart hammering in my chest. There’s humiliation in my eagerness—being so responsive under her touch, so exposed—but it’s wrapped in a heady, thrilling excitement. I’m utterly at her mercy, and the thought makes me shiver in ways I’ve only dreamed of.

She picks up a foundation brush next, dipping it lightly into the creamy liquid. My chest tightens as I watch, every small motion magnified in my nervous, excited mind. When her fingers brush against my jaw to guide the application, a jolt of electricity shoots down my spine. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the contact—the softness of her touch, the warmth of her hands against my skin—and a low, involuntary shiver runs through me.

“You have such delicate features,” she murmurs, almost to herself, her tone making my stomach flutter. “We’ll highlight them beautifully.”

I bite my lip, cheeks burning, because I know she can see just how responsive I am. Every brushstroke against my skin feels intimate, thrilling, almost daringly erotic. I’m acutely aware of the subtle tremble in my hands, the quickening pulse between my thighs, the flush spreading up my neck. There’s humiliation here—I shouldn’t feel this way in public—but it only makes it more intoxicating.

Next comes the blush. She leans in close, guiding the brush across my cheeks. Her fingers brush mine again, and my breath catches sharply. I can feel the heat of her body, the scent of her perfume blending with the soft aroma of the cosmetics. My legs press together tightly under the counter, and I struggle to hide the way my body reacts. Each stroke feels like a secret caress, a delicate invasion that makes me ache with anticipation.

“And now,” she whispers, tilting her head with a teasing glint in her eyes, “let’s try a bold lipstick. Something daring, just like you.”

My hands shake as she lifts my chin, her fingers lingering at the curve of my jaw. When the brush finally touches my lips, the sensation is electric—soft, intimate, and impossibly arousing. I close my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. There’s a delicious humiliation in the intensity of my response, the way my body betrays me with every tiny touch, every gentle whisper.

She leans closer, her lips almost brushing my ear as she murmurs instructions. “Relax… just let it feel good.” The warmth of her breath sends a shiver down my spine, and I can’t help the soft gasp that escapes me. My body feels exposed, alive, and entirely under her influence.

I glance around briefly—the polished counters, the glimmering products, the other shoppers unaware of the private tension unfolding just inches away. The thought that anyone could see me like this, trembling under her attention, only heightens the thrill. I’m both humiliated and electrified, every nerve ending alive with a delicious tension I can’t contain.

Then, almost before I realize it, she leans even closer, whispering, “Would you like me to… show you something even more special?” Her hand brushes the small of my back, guiding me subtly toward a secluded corner behind the counter. My breath catches; every nerve fires.

I follow, heart hammering. She turns, her eyes dark with mischief and authority. With a swift motion, she presses her body just against mine, letting her hand glide over the curve of my waist. I tremble, flush, and feel a rush of humiliation and desire flood me. Semi-public, yet hidden enough that the fantasy feels electric—every sound, every whisper, every brush of skin magnifies my arousal.

Her lips brush mine lightly, teasing, daring me to respond. I gasp softly, knees trembling under the counter. She whispers encouragement, and my hands are almost paralyzed with need, aware of the audacious exposure we share. Every touch, every whisper, every stolen brush of skin sends waves of heat through me, the humiliation only heightening the erotic intensity.

Minutes—or hours, it feels like—later, we pull apart just slightly, breaths heavy, hearts racing. I’m flushed, quivering, utterly alive, and completely consumed by the thrill. The forbidden, fantasy-level daring—the attention, the teasing, the semi-public exposure—has left me trembling with both shame and exhilaration.

I retreat back to the main floor, clutching my purse, cheeks burning, legs trembling with lingering heat. Every glance, every imagined whisper from strangers, every tiny memory of her hands and lips lingers in a delicious ache that pulses low and deep. I feel feminine, exposed, powerful, and completely addicted to the thrill.

Tonight, I crossed a line I’d only dreamed of. And yet… I already know this is just the beginning.

Hugs...

Toni