Fiction.

Let me tell you a secret: I am a compulsive kleptomaniac. I have been a kleptomaniac ever since I can remember. I’d steal anything that I could get my hands on when nobody’s looking—pens, paperclips, keychains, little toys, trinkets, and other things. I have lifted things from friends’ and relatives’ houses, to convenient stores, bookstores, and department stores. I remember when I was in kindergarten, I pocketed everyday blocks of Lego from the playroom until none was left and I had a whole set of my own. I pilfered my playmates’ toys, crayons, and coloring books in kindergarten. In elementary, I lifted my friends’ magic cards, stationeries, hair clips, coloring pens, and fake jewelries. And by the time I reached high school, I began shoplifting perfumes, purses, cosmetics, undergarments, shirts, jeans, and other types of clothing from stores that didn’t have shoplifting detectors. I’d visit stores with my wealthy friends, try the clothes on in cubicles with mirrors, and keep the little pretty things inside my bag or underneath my blouse or skirt. I steal things for the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the impulse, the relief from doing the deed and getting away with it, the pleasure, the gratification. It’s only getting caught that refrained myself from stealing for a few weeks, then my psychological disorder would resume its hidden agenda thereafter.

It was the first time, the first time I got caught. I went to the mall with my friends and I suggested we return to the clothing store I was secretly used of stealing from for the past three weeks. The store was named Fetish, and it sold the fashion of my preference—inky tight jeans and shirts in varying styles that weren’t available anywhere else. More importantly, all their clothes fit the size and shape of my lithe body. I was thirteen then, long and thin, and my little breasts have just begun swelling. I found a furry cream colored pants that’d suit me best with my previously pilfered chocolate brown spaghetti strap. My friends circled the aisles and found their own pretty clothes, and each of us tried them on in the cubicles. I had stealthily took two pairs of jeans, one I picked out randomly, and the cream pants folded tight and hidden inside the first. Inside the cubicle, I stripped off the checkered skirt of my uniform and tried the cream pants on. It fit me perfectly; the furry cream pants enhanced the shape of my legs and the curve behind my back. I swirled and twirled like a princess, imagining myself wearing it with the spaghetti strap. Satisfied, I folded the pants up to my knees and wore the skirt over it. Outside, my friends were paying at the counter for the clothes that they liked. “It won’t fit me,” I said disgruntled, handing to the saleslady the random pair of jeans that I had picked up from the stack. I began circling the rows of clothes while waiting for my friends to finish their purchase. Then suddenly, the saleslady lifted the hem of my skirt from my behind, saying, “Your skirt has paint!” I grabbed my skirt instinctively and felt my stomach tighten in fear. Her eyes dilated and her mouth gaped in shock and horror—she saw the cream pants beneath my skirt. “Shoplifter!” she whispered loudly to my ear. I don’t know if she grabbed my skirt intentionally or not, that she knew someone had been stealing their items these past few weeks. She yanked my arm and led me to the stockroom at the back. My friends looked at me confused as I was being pulled away by the saleslady. I told them not to wait for me any more; I’ll just go home on my own.

The stockroom was small and dim. The fluorescent light was unlit, and the late afternoon sunlight permeated through a small high window from the right wall. A built-in shelf of folded clothes labeled with sizes filled the entire wall facing us from floor to ceiling. An adjustable metal ladder was leaning at the center of it. To the left were stacks of large brown boxes, and to the right was a single bed with a thin mattress covered with striped blue and white bedspread. There was a small light blue pillow at the head of it. She locked the door behind us and faced me.

“Take it off,” the saleslady said in a low, angry voice. I raised my skirt, stripped the jeans off and gave it to her. My legs were trembling. I wanted to cry, or punch her unconscious and runaway. But my feet didn’t move. My hands remained at my back scratching my elbows, and I didn’t dare look at her face.

“You’re the one who’ve been stealing clothes from my store, aren’t you?” she began, and made me realize she was actually the proprietor of Fetish. I remained silent and continued staring at the foot of the metal ladder to my right. “Look at me!” She raised her voice and jerked my chin to face her. Her face was sharp and angular—a smooth forehead, defined cheekbones, sharp eyes, thin nose, thin lips, and a pointed chin. She was prettier up close. We faced each other nearly nose to nose that I smelled her face powder, her soap, her shampoo, her perfume. I didn’t open my mouth, never admitted my crime. All those weeks of shoplifting from this store has finally come to an end.

She looked at my eyes and lips and back, touching my left ear and the left corner of my jaw. “What do you want me to do with you?” She looked at me with knotted eyebrows and searching eyes, her right hand now caressing my left cheek. “Do you want me to call your parents?” I shook my head. “Do you want me to report you to the authorities?” I shook my head again. Then her facial expression changed to that of a worried, caring mother. “Do you want me to tell your school, your principal?” I shook my head once again. She lightly brushed my hair with her fingers, and fondled with my ear. Her face relaxed, and she bobbed her head to the other side. “What do you want me to do with you?” I shrugged my shoulders and the look on my face begged her to release me.

“Can I just go home?” I finally said after a few moments of silence. She stepped closer to me, and I felt her breasts touch mine. “I’ll just pay you back,” I added.

She smiled and continued fixing my hair and touching my left temple and cheek. She looked at my mouth and whispered to my ear, “I can’t let you run away just like that.” She looked back into my eyes, hand touching my face, the corner of my mouth, my chin, my lips.

Then she kissed me. I froze, eyes wide open, staring at her closed eyes, and feeling the weird sensation of her wet lips smooching mine. I didn’t know how to react. I was her captive, weak, fragile, and innocent. I let my hands fall to my side, clenched into a fist. I had never kissed anyone before, and the thought of a young woman kissing me appalled me with fear and disgust. I pressed my hands on her chest and tried to move her away from me. Our lips parted for a second, and she opened her eyes momentarily, then kissed me again, her hands clasped around me. I couldn’t break away; her embrace was too tight. I tried pushing her away, but the more I did, the more pulled me toward her. My arms limped and fell back to where they were before.

Her lips were soft and smooth, and her bubblegummy tongue slid into my mouth. She kissed me softly and tenderly, and in an instant, I marveled at the sensation I received. I surrendered myself and closed my eyes. What is just a kiss compared to an expensive pair of pants? She kissed beautifully with her mouth, her hands roughly pressing my back to her. I parted my teeth and let my own tongue slide out. Her right hand began gliding inside the white blouse of my uniform, caressing my back and unstrapping my bra. I pulled her closer to me, kissing her more passionately and letting myself wallow in this wonderful sensation of massaging each other’s tongues. She pulled up my skirt with her left hand, and her hand slid into my panties. She touched me softly, at a part of myself that was wet and pleasurable. It was an incredible feeling, this being kissed and caressed and touched. I moaned lightly and breathed rhythmically through my mouth. Her other hand found its way to my breasts, touched them and clasped them, then roved downward beneath my skirt. She pulled my panties to my ankles and made me remove it. I felt like a prostitute, but it didn’t matter to me now. She pulled my hand and led me to the bed.

“Lie down,” she instructed me. “You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you? Have you ever done this before?” I shook my head as I lay on the bed, my knees trembling in nervousness. “Just relax. I’m not going to penetrate you.” She opened my legs and I felt the cheeks of my genitals part away from each other. She sat in between my legs, lifted my skirt, and lowered her head toward my wet and open private part.

“Please,” I said, “Don’t do this to me.” But she kissed me and licked me right away. My body shook, my knees trembled all the more, and my palms became clammy. The tip of her tongue slowly circled something down below that began to harden and stiffen outward. I closed my eyes and moaned; I moaned an irrepressible moan, and the pleasure was new and indescribably gratifying. I couldn’t close my mouth. My mouth went dry and my back arched in ecstasy. She licked it like it was melting ice cream, and my legs folded and had spread wider apart. I held her hair, gently gripping her hair in between my fingers. She licked me up and down, in circles clockwise and counterclockwise, slow, rhythmic, delicately. She licked everything, the cheeks, the hardened part, the opening, but concentrated on just one part. Then something build up in me. Something was growing and intensifying inside me, and I felt like pissing. My heart beat faster, my breathing quickened, my muscles tightened, and I couldn’t repress myself from moaning louder. My feet stretched pointed and shivered. I gripped her hair firmer and wailed, crying in sorrow and grief and pleasure. And then, something exploded in me, fluid flushing out my opening, making me momentarily rigid. My whole body relaxed, and my legs straightened limply.

She lifted her head and smiled at me. “I knew you’d like it,” she said.

“But you made me do it!” I spat. I covered my legs with my skirt and sat up.

Then she began kissing me again; she began kissing me on the lips. And I tasted myself in her mouth. The taste was strangely sweet and slimy. She leaned back opening her eyes and stood up. “Take your panties,” she said, “and you can keep the cream pants.”

I never returned to that store again. The last time I went to the mall, her store had disappeared and was replaced with a coffee shop with two round tables outside. I never told anyone about the incident, but I still kept the cream pants in my closet even if it doesn’t fit me any more. I have kept it at the topmost drawer, along with the briefs, boxer shorts, and panties that I filched and collected ever since that day.

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