tagErotic CouplingsGetting Dressed

Getting Dressed


[A little quick one for the women in my readership. My goal is to make you come. Here's how I want you to go about it: masturbate for a few minutes before reading this story, until it starts to feel good. Then stop and read the story, without any touching. And then, at the end, lick your lips slowly, and use a favorite toy on yourself... letting your imagination go wherever this story sends you. Email me and tell me how it felt -- use a throwaway email address if you're shy.]


I usually start with the shoes.

Red strappy, opened toed, or black shiny and pointy?

An open toe shoe is so very sensual. Toes are sensitive, ticklish. I can never put an open toed shoe on without thinking about a man's finger very, very lightly playing along my toes. Almost tickling. Forcing me to draw in a breath. Or sometimes I imagine a tongue there, but it's not because the man is kneeling at my feet. No, he's got me on my back, tied up, and now he's toying with me, mockingly licking a toe in a parody of subservience, watching as my helplessness slowly overloaded my senses...

Men love it when a woman gasps. The way it moves the breasts...

But the black shoes are so refined. Almost demure. Or they would be, except for the five inch heels. Every step in those heels reminds me how precariously balanced I am, how easy it would be to tip me over. You can't get up again quickly on heels. Men know that.

The red shoes only have a four inch heel, but also those thin straps, climbing my leg. Putting them on is bondage; they tell a man I like the feeling of restraints. They are a little, naughty, intimate confession of sensuality.

The black shoes, oh, there was that one time at the formal dinner party, I reached over with my foot and stroked Grant's leg... he suddenly reached down and plucked the shoe off my foot, and left it in his lap. So of course I couldn't leave the table, half barefoot. He smiled at me, across the table, and his smile said: earn it back.

So I'd leaned over, showing him cleavage... why is it that showing off like that, showing a man what he wants to see, is so very hot? He stared, and I could see him picturing his tongue in there, then his cock. Fucking my tits in his imagination, during that awful, somber speech... then he smiled at me. Cleavage wasn't enough. He wanted more.

I leaned back, and slid my toe up his leg, and along the inside of his thigh. I couldn't reach all the way in, which is just as well because who knew what he'd do then... but I wanted to feel his erection. He slid forward slightly... and suddenly my toes closed around the thin heel of my shoe, and snatched it back. His smile turned evil... I shivered. He got me alone that evening, and I found out what his smile meant.

But the red shoes... that evening with Eloise's boyfriend, Jim. Junior year. Eloise was suddenly sick and we took her home, Jim driving and me holding Eloise's hand and convincing her not to throw up as best I could. Once she was home, Jim had to drive me back to my car, and once in his car he commented on the shoes. I hadn't meant to be them to be sexy, really -- I'd worn a plain blouse and jeans shorts, and the shoes had been just for fun... hadn't they? Jim had looked at me a few times before. I'd looked back; he had that jock physique. Maybe that was what the shoes were for.

I'd laughed at his comment, lifted my foot and placed it on his leg so he could examine the shoe more closely. It had all been meant as a joke, but he grabbed my ankle and began unstrapping the shoe, and I gasped and asked him what he was doing. He got my foot free and massaged it... we were both so fucking horny, and I gave an involuntary little moan as his hands moved up my bare leg... When he grabbed my hair and pulled me into a kiss, I found myself kissing him back. Passionately. I knew Eloise was still a virgin, and I... wasn't. I knew what he wanted.

His cock was huge, practically pushing out of his jeans, but I told myself I'd be good, he was Eloise's, I was being a little stupid but I wouldn't... wouldn't... and then his hand was on my breast, that huge, muscular hand, and my nipples were so hard, and he knew what to do with them... I pulled his hand away before I lost all control, but then I started kissing and licking it, and peering up at him... he struggled to hold himself back, and that was hot, so I leaned in close and smiled up at him and kissing his thumb, so wicked, and my forearm brushed his cock... he went wild. I whispered no, over and over, but it didn't sound convincing even to me. And then he pinned my wrists down and I went all little-girl-sweet and sexy-scared, and I was so desperate for his cock... we spent the night and he fucked me three times, hard, rough, half-punishing me for not stopping him. I came so hard I sobbed, twice. We never told Eloise, and I honestly don't think she ever guessed.

Yes... I think... the red shoes. It wasn't going to be a night to be subtle.

Which led to the stockings question. Yes or no? Colored or nude?

Stockings don't always play well with strappy shoes, but I had some that would work. So it came down to the look of the thing. Bare legs meant ten minutes of rubbing lotion up and down the length of them, and in the mood I was in, that could lead to more than my legs getting rubbed. Mmmhmmm, yes it could, but I wasn't going to give myself that release this time. There were plenty of times before a date that I'd let myself have a quick little orgasm, just to take the edge off... but... not this time.

From the warm confines of my tub, I looked over at the hanging selection of stockings. Red shoes meant bare legs or nude stockings. Unless...

Unless I put on the dark, silk Gerbes. And if I did, I'd have to wear the black dress.

Fuck, if I was wearing that, I might as well skip the panties question. They'd just get ripped off of me anyway. I was suddenly shivering. There's bad, there's fuck-me, and then there was that dress. This was supposed to be a theater date.

I pictured his hands moving over my breasts, offered up in that dress; the thin, thin low cut silk, clinging to every detail of my hard nipples, conveying every touch of his fingertips, every evil bite of his fingernails. I pictured his tongue sliding down into the cleavage, as his fingernails moved along my bare back, and then him pushing me to my knees in it, his tie coming off and becoming a collar and leash on my throat-

Fuck! I was starting to masturbate. No. Mustn't, not tonight. My imagination had gotten a little away from me there. I blamed the dress. The wicked, bad, tight dress, and it would be clinging to my little, trembling, size two body, his eyes working their way up my crossed legs, over my breasts, across my lips and then, wickedly, into my eyes-

Shit. Really losing it here. Maybe I'd better rethink the shoes. The shiny black, navy blue skirt, white blouse and pearls. Respectable. This didn't have to be the night where I just... fuck, though, our last date. He'd arranged it, just for a moment, that I was eye-level to that immense bulge in his very, very tight jeans. My mouth had actually started watering, and it wasn't the only part of me that was. I'd known right then what I'd wanted for this date. The way he'd looked at me, the slow, knowing way he'd smiled, when my eyes had drifted to that immense bulge...

He was always so in control, polished, self-willed. I wanted to see what happened when all that iron control ran into the wrecking ball of lust, when his hands closed around my arms and dragged me to the bed, not hearing a word I said. Rape fantasies are bad and I couldn't tell him what I wanted. That was what that dress was for.

I squirted out some lotion and rubbed my legs, enjoying the feel of it, dunking them back into the warm water when they got cool. Lotion. So I wouldn't need stockings. But this was a ruse, because the decision was made. I was going to put on the red shoes, and the grebe stockings, and the tear-it-off-me dress. And I'd go to the theater, blushing. And I'd sit next to him, my hands folded in my lap, and try not to stare down into the huge lump in his suit pants, or up into his grey, mocking eyes, and every single person in the theater would know what was going to happen to me when he got me home.

I had to pull myself together. Panties. I needed to think about panties. Because in that dress, I wouldn't be wearing a bra, so all that was left was the panties.

Panties. Black thong. If they were getting torn off, there'd be less to tear. Fuck, that date with Kevin... he'd found out about my thong and he'd done that little game where he tugged on it, over and over, and he'd gotten it just right; my clit came out to see what all the bumping was about, and oh, oh, the way he'd built me up and up and up until I was ready to come from that alone; and then he'd stopped. I'd said something pointed about men who didn't finish what they started; that had been a mistake. He'd taken off my panties, tied my wrists up with them, and spent the next hour showing me what a man can do with a single fingertip, without actually letting a woman come. He didn't fuck me, either. He told me not to come until I saw him again, which was three days later...

Fuck. Hands off the clit. I needed to get out of this tub. I needed to think about jewelry. Pearls. No. Getting pearls restrung is not cheap. Choker collar -- no. Hell, no. I might as well slather myself with baby oil, lie on the bed with my legs apart and scream take me now. The last time I'd worn it... that was Kevin... no, not thinking about that. Maybe a simple silver chain... hell, it didn't matter. He'd be looking at my cleavage and waiting for me to spill out of the dress. The jewelry was for other women, not him; and other women would understand the need for practical, easily repaired jewelry. Hm, pearl earrings? Pretty much mandatory at the theater.

I got out of the water, making sure my hair stayed dry. Toweling off just made me hornier, and I looked in the mirror with the towel wrapped around me. Jogging had really paid off for me. Twice. Once tightening up my legs, and once because that was where I met Peter. Peter, who was going to invite himself in this evening and start undressing me. He'd be listening to my dress, not my lying "oh Peter, no, we just got to know each other, Peter stop" words.

I had to get moving, the makeup would take time.

I put on the black thong, and the stockings. I caught myself in the mirror, and shivered. The next time I was dressed exactly like this, there'd probably be a thick cock in my mouth. No, don't think ahead. Fuck, he wouldn't come in my mouth. He'd save that for when I was bent over the bed, no, damnit, do not think ahead.

I strapped the shoes on; and then I had to look in the mirror. Full breasts, the large nipples begging for attention, the sleek legs sheathed in smooth thin silk... he'd fuck me in them. I'd stroke him with that silk, wrapping myself around the back of his legs, those long, hard, muscular legs...

Hair. Check. All intricate and glossy black and twisted... I pulled one strand free and let it lie against my cheek, and down towards my breast. And he had to do was grab that, and... fuck, stop thinking about it.

Makeup. Must do makeup. I dropped a towel across my legs and sat at the mirror, daubing bits of color on. This was always the worst part, when the pre-date sexuality hammered me the hardest. I'm putting in all this careful work and it's to make myself more fuckable for him. Not "prettier." Not more elegant. Call it what it is. Enlarge the eyes, make the cheeks and lips redder. All the same things that arousal does. And the soft caress of the brushes, the scents, the soft pressure on the lips, the reminders of past dates... makeup is sex. One touch of a vibrator now, and I'd be moaning on the floor. I put the pearls earrings on and look in the mirror. I looked exactly like a woman who knew she was going to be fucked.

Now the perfume. Along the side of the neck; at the wrists, behind the knees, under the breasts. I was shivering from my own touches.

All that was left was the dress.

The dress would turn me into a slut. I knew that. Every dress turns you into something, that's what dresses do. When you just want to be yourself, there's jeans and an old t shirt. But dresses are alchemy; they change you. This one would make me into a plaything for the male eye and the male hand. I'd walk across the floor, in my red heels and my black, thin, stretchy, translucent-in-parts dress, knowing I'd put it on so I would be looked at and hungered after. And I knew from experience, that being in a room of men that wanted me, turned me inside out. You can't help thinking about what they are all thinking about. My fantasies would run wanton, wild. The dress would compel me to be bad...and make me want to be worse.

I hung the dress in the air, next to my body, and looked in the mirror. There was still time for the black shoes and navy dress. This dress was so light it felt insubstantial. Like it would be no protection at all. Like I'd be... naked.

Oh fuck, not that fantasy. Any fantasy but that one right now. The man with his tie around my throat, like a leash, and I'm otherwise naked except for heels, and he walks me into a theater. He's paid off the management so they let us in. Everyone sees... everything, my arousal, my silent, blushing submission, the way he marches me to the seats. His hands trace me, over and over, during the performance. I'm not allowed to make any sounds. I have to cope silently with anything, anything at all, he does...

I'm tugging at my thong, helplessly. I have to come. I toss the dress over a chair and the panties slide down my legs; I kick them away. This won't take long. I sit on a corner of the bed, legs wide apart, and flop backwards, picturing being taken by the hair and forced to kiss up the leg of my date, as he stands over my naked body, in the theater, it's such a sick, hot fantasy. My legs tense, I can feel my pulse everywhere, I'm going to come very quickly-

"Get off the bed."


I get off the bed. Shaking. Furious. He's like an hour early. Well, forty five minutes. And he's in my bedroom. And I'm in heels and stockings and pearl earrings and perfume and nothing else. Shit!

He's in suit pants and a crisp shirt and tie. He walks over to the bed and drops two small pieces of cardboard on it. Tickets.

"What the hell-"

"Before we go to the theater -- there's something I want. First, though... check out the tickets."

I'm so shocked I fall for it, bending over the bed to look at the tickets. One hand tangles in my hair, and the other connects with my ass. A shock spasms through me. He spanked me!

I've never been spanked before. I've done my share of sexual play, but this just never came up. Some women love it and some don't. From the surge of desire I feel, I suddenly find out which camp I'm in.

"PETER! No! What's gotten into you? We're going to the theater-"

"Yes we are. If you can still walk... after I fuck your brains out."

I'm still pinned by his grip in my carefully twisted, all-made-up hair, and I'm bent over the bed, ass out. His other hand slides over my ass, and it's exactly like the fantasy; I'm as good as naked and I have to do what he says-

He fingers me, suddenly. I'm ashamed at how wet I am. Then I'm shaking.

Then I'm whimpering and clenching down on his finger, helplessly.

I'd scream at him later. He's going to make me cum, and I'd be all... fuck, you know how it is, sometimes you feel a little bitchy after a man first takes you, but if he gets you to cum hard enough that doesn't happen and you just curl against him and smile instead. I was going to be all snuggly and warm and I-m-a-good-girl and happy and aching-hips in the theater with him, and people would think: now there's a girl who's been put firmly in her place by a guy who knows how. Oh shit, oh shit-

"S-stop... please stop... P-Peter... I was going to get all dressed up for you-"

He's not listening to a word. Another sudden slap on my ass, harder -- my mouth closes. My knees are suddenly weak. There's an unzipping noise.

"Hands flat on the bed. Legs together. Up on tiptoe. Now. The only word I want to hear is 'please', and only when you need to come so bad it hurts."

He's using that this is not negotiable voice, and my body just obeys him, and then his junk is up against me, rubbing, already so hard... he must have been watching me from the doorway and I hadn't noticed. Too lost in my own fantasies. Fuck he's... pressing in, grabbing that strand of my hair, gripping my body... oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck yes...

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