Little Black Dress

The band was launching into a peculiar Latin-jazz rendition of "Free Bird" as Cesare the waiter refilled our glasses. I caught Deirdre's eye, where candlelight danced, and wrapped my wrist around hers for another champagne toast to her smile. She showed it to me, and we drank with our eyes locked.

We had a cushy booth to ourselves, a table for six that I'd secured by mentioning it was our anniversary and, of course, slipping the maitre'd a 50. We'd feasted, with all the trimmings, on pate de foie gras, lobster bisque, oyster shooters, pink prime rib as tender as a mother's love, and crepes Suzette, and Cesare had instructions to make sure our next bottle of Moet & Chandon was always on ice. I had given her the emerald bracelet that had caught her eye in Tiffany's window. She liked it.

We'd sat out most of the up-tempo dances; I'd never really seen the point of dancing apart. If I was going to dance with her, I wanted to hold her, touch her, feel soft skin through soft clothes, pull her close. I did it—them—the fast dances—usually, for her, because she loved to get out there and move, and she could move, I gotta admit. She didn't care that I looked like a spaz. When we danced, people around us thought it was so sweet of her to dance with the developmentally disabled guy. But tonight she seemed content to sit with me, and I was more than happy to just be there at her side. We'd held hands like kids, playing with each others' fingers, feeding each other, taking any excuse to touch.

Under the tablecloth her hand touched down on my knee. I had been yammering on about drowning in her eyes, and I sort of trailed off as her hand slid up my thigh. I saw that smile again, now with a tinge of wicked. We continued our small talk as I put my hand on her long, slender leg and played along.

I was stroking her upper thigh with two fingers under her skirts, and she had her hand well up my leg when "Free Bird" drew to a close and they began a nice slow number. We got up. I stayed close behind her as we moved to the dance floor so my semi-erection wasn't overly obvious. Hell, everyone was looking at her anyway. I'd told her that morning to make sure her little black dress was ready to be seen in public tonight.

Oh, it was. It was a sleeveless, backless number, secured behind her neck with a couple of snaps. The front was kind of gathered and billowy, with a slit that ran down from the base of her throat to her solar plexus. Well, I say 'billowy,' but it still managed to drape itself over against the top curves of her breasts, and a hint of high, proud nipple made its presence known just before the fabric dropped. A zipper at her lower back cinched it tight all around her waist, and it stayed tight from there on down and ended about eight and a half inches above her pretty knees. Rrruff.

We hit the floor and went into a clinch, cheek to cheek. She smelled great, and I buried my nose in her hair, all done up in swoops and ringlets and tendrils. The band was playing "They Can't Take That Away From Me" (reggae version) and I sang softly along in her ear, only occasionally off-key. She giggled.

We danced a little closer. Her hand, the one I wasn't holding, played with the back of my neck. I pulled her still closer with my hand at the small of her back, and she pressed every available inch of that sweet body against mine. But then the music called for me to spin her out, pull her back to me, and drop her into a dip. So I did, and wrapped both my arms around her when I pulled her back up. She gasped a little, and both hands went around my neck, and we danced our way to the edge of the crowd.

I noticed her breathing was a little more rapid. My suave and exotic dance moves, I supposed. All of a sudden she kissed me, on the cheek, featherlight, and whispered in my ear, "Ricky, you're a nice man. I like nice men." And then she pressed her hips against my crotch. I slid my hands a little farther down her back and kept her that close. She swung her hips to the music and rubbed against me. My erection rallied.

"Mmmm, SUCH a nice man,"she murmured, and nibbled at my earlobe. "So good to me. I want to be good to you, nice man,"

I replied with something urbane, like, "Oh, you do, huh?"

"Yes, my darling man," she said. "I would like to get you home..."

"Yeah?" Damn, what a master of repartee.

"...tear off your pretty tux..."

"Uh huh?"

"... and fuck your brains out."

I couldn't even come up with something stupid for a second there. Finally I said, "I like the way you think, lady."

"I thought you might." She laid her cheek on my shoulder and spoke into my collar, and whispered the most remarkable things:

"Yes, I plan to run you ragged, my dear. You'll get me naked too of course, and I want your hands all over me. I want you to take my ass in your big hands and squeeze, and I'll grind against your prick—like this—" and she demonstrated—"and I want you to fondle my breasts, and kiss them, and lick them, and suck them. Oo, I love when you suck my nipples. Do you love my breasts, baby? Do you like to squeeze my tight, firm little ass? Do you absolutely worship my body? Oh, I know, you've told me. It's all yours tonight.

"I want you to take me. I'm going to drive you crazy until you take me and fuck me like a nasty big animal. Oh, you can take me any way you like; I just want you inside me. You can have me on my back, and I'll put my knees over your shoulders, and you'll wrap your arms around my thighs and you can pound my pussy. D'you like to hear the slap against my booty as you pound yourself inside me?

"Or do you want to take me from behind? Mmm, let's do that too. I'll get down on all fours, and you can ram your cock into me like I was your little bitch in heat. Or I can get on top and slide my little wet pussy down your cock and ride you...up...and down...

"Oh, but first, I want to suck you. Mmm, yes, I want that—ungh, yes, that—in my mouth, so I can lick it and suck it and play with your balls. And then I'll lick you clean when you come.

"So you're going to have to get this dress off me. It's a flimsy little dress. You could probably just tear it off me. Would you like that? To just rip the clothes off my back? Mmm..."

The song ended. She broke away from me and spun around to applaud. "So. Whaddya think, Ricky? Should we get outta this dump?" she asked, over her shoulder.

I stood up close behind her and let her feel my hard-on against her heinie. She pushed back against it. I said in her ear, "Go to the ladies room and take your panties off. Bring them to me. Go."

She turned her head and gave me a dimply smile that would glaze a crème brulee.

I watched her walk away toward the restrooms. Nobody's got a wiggly strut like my baby girl.

I paid the check and had the car brought around. I had time to get her wrap out of the coat check and was waiting for her in the front. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, then turned to me, giggled, and tucked the panties into my cummerbund.

I opened the door for her and we went outside. As the valet was getting out of my car to hand me the keys, I pulled the panties out and held them up to my nose like a hankie. I took a deep sniff. Deirdre giggled again.

I opened the door for her and she wriggled in, doing that amazing leggy maneuver women do so nobody can see anything. At least the valet saw nothing. She gave me a nice flash; a glimpse of warm dark triangle between her silky thighs. I closed the door and put my fingers on the passenger window, and she mirrored the move from her side. Then I hustled round to the driver's side and laid rubber out of the lot.

* * * * *

The National Highway Traffic Safety Commission does not specifically discourage foreplay while driving. But I doubt they would approve of our trip home. The blocks flew by, and the thought of this gorgeous creature beside me, pantiless—nothing between the leather seat and her little spoonful—was distracting. I drove one-handed, because my right hand was busy petting her thigh, and my focus wasn't helped by her hand at my crotch, stroking my junk through the cloth with her exquisitely-manicured fingernails. The windows were getting steamed up.

It got steamier. Someone looking through the windshield—some perv—would have seen, revealed by the occasional passing city lights, a man trying to drive with a long, truly lovely leg thrown over between his, or an emerald-braceleted hand busy at his crotch, maybe a flash of a creamy breast delightfully obscuring his vision.

But I got us home alive. The roof of the car narrowly missed the automatic garage door as it too-slowly opened ahead of us, and we screeched into our spot in the parking garage as we opened our respective car doors and hustled toward the elevator.

We had to put up a facade of decorum for a moment as we exchanged perfunctory pleasantries with the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Thornhill from 1209—God knows where they were going at this hour—and we made it to the elevator without being frowned upon. I did manage to slip the panties into the reverend doctor's overcoat pocket. That'll be an interesting discussion with his wife later.

The door closed and I managed to push the button for 17. I had to do it by memory because Deirdre had me backed up against the mirrored wall and had wrapped her hand around my rock-solid prick through my pants. In the mirror on the opposite wall I saw her skirt hike up onto her hips as she climbed up my front and wrapped both legs around my waist. I took a firm, bare buttock in each paw so she could pull the front panels of her dress apart and yank my head into her cleavage. All the elevator walls were mirrored, and millions of us aped our every move multiplied to infinity in all directions. We were both panting with lust, ragged and fierce, and if the freakin' College of Cardinals had been outside when the elevator doors opened, we would've given them something to preach about.

The door dinged—no cardinals—and we somehow got our door unlocked and stumbled into the apartment. I reached for the light switch, but she stopped me, said, "Hold on," and trotted over to the big picture window, kicked off her shoes, and pulled open the drapes to reveal the city skyline and give us some light. She stood there, looking out, palms to the glass, feet apart and up on her toes, silhouetted by the winking city lights. The hem of her dress was still hiked up. She turned her head and looked at me over her shoulder.

I came up behind her and undid the short zipper that tightened the dress at the small of her back. Then I slipped my hands in along her ribs, under the sides of the dress, and cupped her breasts. I felt the hard little buds against my hands, and I squeezed and teased and did the things one does with breasts, and took great satisfaction in the sweet little sighs and moans she made.

She slid her bare ass up and down along my rigid cock, and in response I pushed her against the glass.

"You wanna take me here, Ricky? Tear off my dress? You wanna flatten my boobs up against the glass and take me from behind? You wanna fuck me while the whole city watches?" Then she turned around and flowed up into my arms and kissed me, her tongue on mine. Then she pulled her lips away far enough to murmur "Get me naked, baby."

I made short work of the snaps at the nape of her neck and let the dress bodice fall.

To this day I'm always a little stunned by how fucking perfect my wife's rack is. Words fail me now, and failed me then; all I managed was a growl.

I pressed her against the glass as I reached down between her legs, thrusting my hand under the dress. I petted her downy muff and slid my finger into her moist sex. I stroked her labia softly, tickled her perineum, then parted her lips and found her hot button under the hood. She moaned and snaked a leg around my thigh, spreading her legs as far apart as she could, wanting as much finger as possible. I gave her another one, and slid them in and out nice and slow. I had her pinned up against the windowpane, and I knew her tight little buns were flattened in two ovals against the glass. Take a good look, big city! This is what I get! Eat your fucking hearts out.

Her juices were dripping down my fingers. "Do it, fucker," she rasped. "Fuck me. Fuck me now. Nail me good!"

I helped the dress down over the swell of her hips and let it fall to the floor as she clutched at my shirt, ripping it open and scattering shirt-studs to the four winds. I shrugged off my jacket and unbuckled my cummerbund so she could attack my fly. She pushed my shorts down to free my prick and took it in her fist. She jacked it slow but firm and licked and sucked at one of my nipples before whispering "I want it so bad, baby. Stick that fucker in me."

Fine by me. I wrapped my hands around her ass, slid her up along the window, and lowered her tight, dripping pussy down onto my engorged shaft, forcing a gut-level gasp from her, then moans and grunts of pleasure as I lifted her again and again and slammed her down onto my rigid meat. She moaned "OhhOhhooohFUCK I love your cock, baby; your thick, hard, fucking cock! Yeah, do it, I need a fuckingaaAAaOOOwwGodYES" and she twitched her ass, wriggling on my cock, and I was bending at the knees to thrust myself up into her and we both were panting and sweating and the smell of sex was strong and she was screaming with each thrust and screaming my fucking name and YES YES YES and--

And she locked her long legs around behind my back and was driving herself down onto me once, twice, and then took me to the hilt and held me there, and I stood on my toes to ram it all the way home, and I felt her cunt pulsing rapidly and sucking at me; she took a deep breath, her head lolled back, and quaking and twitching she came hard on my cock, heartfelt sighs and moans, soft squeals, shuddering and gasping. My back was bleeding, the blood on her nails.

She wasn't done, and I sure as hell wasn't either. She was a raging fuckbunny at this point, no trace of the elegant creature I'd wined, dined and danced. And I wasn't the tuxedoed gentleman who'd perused the wine list. We were succubus vs. goatboy by now, and no holds were barred.

Not sure how, but I found myself naked on my back on the coffee table, and Deirdre was straddling me, her feet on the floor on either side. No words any more, just grunts and panting. She rubbed her pussy to and fro along my prick and clutched at her breasts, then spread her pussy with her fingers and lowered herself down onto my throbbing gristle. Slowly, I watched my prickshaft disappear between her labia as she slowly lowered herself down, then slowly slid up my cock, slowly out to the head, then slid down again, and again and again, each time a little faster until she was bobbing up and down, her beautiful breasts bouncing to the beat, and she let out a cross between a scream and a gasp with each impalement, and a groan as my meat slid out. She would pull out to the head, then move her bootie side to side or up and back or in figure eights, or reach down between our legs to play with my scrotum, then slam down again to the root, when she might run her hands up and down my chest and stomach. Her dewy eyes were half-closed and her smudged lips parted, and I wanted to touch and fondle every inch of her glorious body all at once, her face, her bobbing boobs, her thighs, her muff, her hips, her throat, her ass, and tried my best to do it all.

And yet, she had the wherewithal to prolong it. She could've made me spew buckets at any time, but she kept bringing me to the edge and backing off.

All at once she raised up off my prick and turned herself around, the old Reverse Cowgirl, straddled me again and took my cock in her hand. She pressed it against her pussy and went slowly down and up, her downy muff tickling its length. With her left hand she tickled and played with my nutsack. I watched her perfect ass flex and release with each move, and my shaft was shiny with pussyjuice.

"You want in again, Ricky?" she teased. "You want to fill me again? Mmmm, yeah. I'm gonna slide down your pole again, baby, and make you come in me."

She raised up and guided my prick into her glistening quim; I watched it spread her lips and felt their sweet caress as I slid inside. She took half, then twitched and shimmied her tight little ass, and swirled her hips to spiral down the shaft. With the full length of my cock buried up inside her, she flexed her pussy muscles so they clutched at me, over and over, then pulled up again and her inner labia prolapsed out, my cock in their grip.

I guess she'd finished playing with me, because now she began fucking in earnest. She bounced up and down, gasping with each thrust, and I began shoving myself up into her, and the gasps became screams, and I could see her reflection in the picture window, her breasts bouncing and jiggling, and I watched her ass-cheeks rippling, slamming down onto my loins until I was screaming too, and I clutched at her hips and pulled her down harder onto my rigid purple pork, and my balls tightened up and the tickling warmth spread. She rocked her hips from side to side, and her head lolled, her magnificent mane spilling from one side to the other or forward and back. My cock felt like it was vibrating. "Come in me, baby!" she rasped, "Give it to me hard! Fill up my little wet cunt!"

I came hard, rocketing cum inside her. Each spurt made me spasm, and I felt like my balls were deflating from being drained. When I was spurting nothing but air she fell over backwards onto my chest, and we lay there panting and senseless for a moment, and then she rolled off of me and knelt by my midsection beside the coffee table.

"I'm going to clean you off, baby," she purred, and she bent to my spent prick and began to gently lick every inch, from tip to base to balls, and back. All I could do was shudder and twitch. I might have passed out; details get hazy around this part. But I know we lay together on the carpet afterward, exhausted, and I happened to glance over at the little black dress.

See, actually, I'd had a little problem with that zipper. There was some little hook arrangement or something that had to be undone first, and, well, I'd just ripped it apart. We'll have to get her another one. Maybe in red this time . . .