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I wake up a little flushed, a bit dry mouthed and very, very horny. Highlights of the red hot dream I just had are swimming in and out of my memory, dwindling frustratingly fast, but the pulsing of my swollen clit is strong, so strong I have to check the position of both hands. Thoroughly expecting the fingers of my right hand to be buried deep inside me, my thumb still strumming my quivering stiff bud, I'm surprised to find them far from the central action. Both arms are by my sides, hands palm down on the mattress, the only giveaway my body hints at are my legs splayed, knees akimbo. I raise my hips wantonly, squeeze my kegel muscles a few times, desperately trying to grasp the last of the now fading orgasm I've obviously enjoyed in my sleep. Why didn't I wake up in time for the big dramatic start, and not just the afterglow!? And why are my sex dreams always about solo fun these days!? Three years of unforced chastity is the most likely reason.

The fizz in my body is flattening rapidly to nonsparkling, so I throw off my duvet, close my knees together and fling my legs over the side of the bed.

"Right! This isn't getting the child fed! Get up ya lazy goat and get the weekend started!!"

I'd moved to London three years ago, because of my job. The drastic change of pace at the central headquarters of the financial company I worked for meant I'd little time for a social life, hence the sexual drought. This weekend was one of the rare few work free ones I've had, and coinciding with a bank holiday I fought hard to get off too, I plan to damn well make the most of it.

The long, grueling hours thankfully didn't go unrewarded. The hike in pay was what lured me to the bright lights of the big city, but ironically, I never got time to spend it on much other than sky high rent and takeaway meals. My wardrobe was dull and out of date, I hated my work clothes and despised my casual, slobbing around gear. Today was the day I'd rectify that. I'm going shopping. Big time shopping. A spree to end all sprees. Then I'm going to work on finding time and places to wear my new purchases, and hopefully end my drought in the process.

A train ride, two short tube rides and I'm smack bang in the middle of a very busy Oxford street. Intimidated and uninspired by the identikit high street chains though, I shuffle my way towards the funkier, fragrant doorsteps of Carnaby Street. Street art, buskers, little colourful market stands spilling over with silk scarves and naturally dyed cotton bags, with little mirrors and busy embroidered appliqués soon have me smiling, and I can feel my shoulders relax. It isn't until I feel them collapse into their natural position that I realise they'd been scrunched up around my ears. In a much better mood now, and ready to spend, spend, spend, I stop a pretty girl in a stunning pale blue, ethereal floaty shirt dress, with tiny pearl button detail down the front, a dress I longed to own myself, and felt confident she'd be the one to point me in the right direction to start my revamp.

"Hi, I just adore your outfit, please tell me you got it around here somewhere?"

"Oh! Thank you! A girl can't hear that enough!" She blushed and hoisted her hand painted leather bag further up her shoulder and spun 180 to point back down the road. "Do you see the store with the giant Medusa head just above the gold shop canopy? Vintage Cavern. That's the best place in London for dresses, skirts and the most amazing slips and vintage style camisoles. You'll be spoilt for choice! It's more like an indoor market though, so best to stop by a cash machine first, they don't take cards."

She ends her suggestion with a bit of an apologetic grimace, then smiles gaily and with a jangle of tinkly bangles she throws me a tiny wave and wishes me luck, disappearing into the coffee bar we were stood right outside. I shout my thanks to her and head straight for the cash point and ready myself for a good delve into this cavern I was now incredibly curious about.

It's wall to wall chiffon, billowing silks, satins and soft floaty linens. I'm in retail heaven. I want one of everything. Before I can get overwhelmed by the choice I tackle the nearest rack to the door, and flick my way through the mismatched hangers, first looking for something in my size before pulling it out to examine, to avoid disappointment. I hate when I fall for the perfect skater dress in a divine pattern, with just the right neckline, only to discover its two sizes too small... having already wowed my imaginary new friends in it, at an imaginary bar...

I'm right in the middle of the Tardis like shop before I realise I've spent nearly half an hour caressing and holding up dresses, tops and skirts against me, dwindling my choice down to the maximum five items allowed to be tried on at any one time in the changing rooms. I step through the rich gold velvet curtain into a warren of cubicles, branching out into little corridors with a mind boggling lack of thought into practical use of space. The numbers stencilled in poker oyna white on each door don't seem to follow in numerical order either. Curious. Assuming there must be a method in this chaotic madness, I head for the cubicle at the end of one 'branch' of the warren, the first I can spot with an open door, and excitedly hang up my choices, eager to strip off and start trying on.

The first skirt and cami top are definite winners. I'm loathe to take them off again, they feel so good on, and flatter my hourglass figure so perfectly I could get away with pretending they were made to measure. Shaking my head to dispel the beginnings of another fantasy with my imaginary friends, where I'm bragging about my imaginary personal dressmaker, I reluctantly take them off and try on the sheer button through tea dress, reminiscent of the one that lured me here, now almost an hour ago. It's so sheer I'm regretting not hunting out a full length slip to go under it, my boring white jersey bra and sensible briefs do nothing for my silhouette in it. Opening the door of the cubicle I stick my head out in the hope of attracting a member of staff to go do the hunting for me, but there's no one about. The door to my right creaks open and a hippy chick older lady strolls out, juggling an armful of outfits with a big satisfied smile on her face.

"You ok there love? That's a pretty dress, would be better without those big drawers though!"

She laughs, her brash cockney drawl drawing an embarrassed smile from me, mortified to be caught, practically in my undies.

"I know!! I should've found a slip for under it, was hoping a member of staff would be milling around to help, but looks like I'll have to do a quick change back into my jeans and go search myself."

I roll my eyes comically, crossing my arms, belatedly covering my body and backing into the cubicle.

"What size love? Just a cream or nude slip, yeah? I'll find someone on the shop floor to go get you one, or ask at the till when I'm buying these, alright? Yeah. You are cubicle number 12, yeah?"

She's so vocal, forthright and hard to refuse so I thank her and tell her cream or nude would be perfect, in a size 12, ta very much. I duck back into the cubicle and close the door behind me.

Nude. Better without those big drawers. Nude...

If I'm fast I can wriggle out of my M