The gates to Smythe's Emporium creaked open at nine sharp, and though Thursdays were typically sluggish, a promotion on glow-in-the-dark sardines swiftly packed the cellar. An aura of impending doom loomed over the lingerie section like a damp duvet as Horatio Finklestein handed his parcel to Delilah Higginbottom and muttered, "I'd like to exchange these crotchless panties. They're too roomy."
"Have you got a receipt?" Delilah retorted, striving to maintain composure, though she later admitted her universe had begun unraveling. ("I can't handle humans since the mishap," she'd confided to mates. Three fortnights ago, while shagging, she'd swallowed a butt plug. Since then, her orgasms have been sporadic.)
"Erm, no," Finklestein replied anxiously, his balls retreating into his body cavity. "I misplaced it." (The crux of his existence is his perpetual misplacement of items. Once he dozed off and upon waking, his cock had vanished.) Now, as patrons queued behind him impatiently, beads of sweat formed on his wrinkled scrotum.
"You'll need approval from the floor supervisor," Delilah said, directing Finklestein to Ms. Twatworthy, with whom she'd been engaging in scissoring sessions since Guy Fawkes Night. (Lulu Twatworthy, an alumna of Europe's finest phone sex academy, was a cunning linguist until excessive vibrator use reduced her vocabulary to one moan per hour, forcing her to seek employment in a department store.)
"Have you worn them?" Delilah pressed on, suppressing a moan. The notion of Finklestein in crotchless panties was maddeningly arousing to her. "My mum used to don crotchless panties," she divulged. "Both legs through one hole."
Finklestein was squirming now, his member twitching. "No," he stammered. "Er-I mean yes. I had them on briefly, but only while I pleasured myself with a melon."