Naked Dress

"Go get him, girl," she said. Then she slapped my ass like I'd just scored a touchdown. Which I sort of had done. I glanced back down at Georges; he had cleared the photo zone and looked like he was just finishing with Rob from Catwalk. That was a lightning-fast interview, but then again, Georges had kept his word and was wearing an immaculately cut, but perfectly ordinary, tuxedo. I imagine the interview went something like...

"Nice tux, Georges."

"Thanks, bro."

By the time I reached the foot of the staircase, he was already talking to Nina. But their body language showed a reversal from the situation I'd endured. He looked relaxed, even bored, and was giving her an I'm-cooler-than-you-smirk, and she looked stiff and nervous. Sexiest Man Alive mojo, I guess.

I stopped back in the shadows at the edge of the brightly lit interview area. Georges was thirty feet away and I was desperately yearning for him. He was answering one of Nina's questions, when he glanced toward the landing where I'd been standing a moment earlier. His brow wrinkled slightly, and he started scanning the immediate area.

There. He spotted me.

"Excuse me," he said, cutting Nina off mid-question and striding briskly toward me. The Shark looked like she was going to object, but she shut up when she saw me.

Once again, my long, lovely legs overruled my better judgement and I stepped forward to meet him. I realized my mistake right away. Two steps, and I was out in the bright light, visible to everyone, inside the interview area. I was fair game, and I was naked and exposed. There was a hiss in the air as the spectators and the photographers saw my movement and spun toward me. Both video cameramen, Catwalk and CelebNet, swung my way.

Georges was only a couple of steps away and his face was feral intense. Was he angry because I'd blown the secret and put our private relationship out there for the world to see? I prepared myself to clatter off beside him if he just stormed past me, or, if he stopped, give him a quick friend-hug, and then drag him out of there...

The wind whistled out of my lungs as he slammed into me and crushed my body in a powerfully enthusiastic bearhug. He lifted me off my feet and spun me around 360 degrees as I dangled from his brutal grasp. By the time he set me back on my feet, I was breathless and dizzy, and I couldn't stand, so I just hung from him with my arms wrapped behind his neck and my body (especially my breasts) jammed hard up against him.

Our faces were close, and he lowered his head to kiss me, but I turned away at the last instant...feeling electric sparks shoot down my spine as our lips barely brushed.

"Lipstick," I whispered. The glossy shade I was wearing was the perfect color and the perfect texture, but it tended to smear, and I couldn't bear causing the Sexiest Man Alive to spend the rest of the evening with a Clown Mouth.

So instead of a kiss, I twisted my head away, exposing my neck to him. Exposing my Spot to him. Half an inch behind and below my ear, exquisitely sensitive, he knew that Spot very well. His lips gently caressed me there for a moment, and I even felt a warm wet hint of tongue. I was already simmering with the passion and emotion of the night, but that took me a step closer to boiling.

But he only gave me a tease. Then he was smelling my hair and whispering how beautiful I was, how sexy I looked, how much he missed me...how much he loved me...

You get the picture. And so did the photogs; camera flashes flickered all around me, and the crowd around us was oohing and aahing and buzzing.

I don't know if there had been time for Georges to get a good look at The Dress, but he was certainly getting a good feel of it. His huge, strong, warm hands started at the bare skin of my back, but drifted quickly to my waist, where he encountered The Dress's rings for the first time. He explored leisurely, clearly enjoying the juxtaposition of cold, hard metal and warm, yielding skin.

Lower, then, down my hips, down to my ass where he gave me a bit of a squeeze that I knew would make headlines tomorrow. Back up to mid-derriere, where his fingers settled, eight fingers inside eight rings, spread out in a line across my firm booty. His palms curved around the flares of my pelvis, and his thumbs slid through two more rings, touching down on the very lowest reaches of my tummy.

They slid even lower and touched my fur where it poked out above my panty line. He growled, a low rumbling that I felt more than heard.

His thumbs ventured deeper into my jungle, reaching their maximum extension just underneath the elastic band of my G-string. Then his powerful hands squeezed, and he moved his thumbs upward as they pressed into my sensitive flesh. I felt them digging down through skin, muscle, connective tissue, pressing at the exterior of the walls of my vagina. It felt like I was being fucked from the outside. I wondered if anyone in the crowd could see this happening...and I sort of didn't care.

As his thumbs continued to press inward and move upward, I felt my skin stretch, down lower, and then I felt pressure and movement on my...my...

...on my clit...

Oh, dear lord, my hard nipples were digging into his chest and a frigid wind was torturing my naked ass, and his thumbs were fucking my vajayjay from the outside, and he'd found a way to manipulate my clit while the entire planet watched...

His thumbs stroked down, the up, and then his position shifted slightly, and the highest part of his thigh slid into my groin. That caused my skirt to ride up slightly, exposing a couple more inches of hip and ass, and then he stroked down again.

His grip on my hips was hard and unyielding. He pushed down with his thumbs and forward with his leg, and a metal ring from the skirt got caught in between us and it got pressed up against my panties and jammed up against my clit.

My needle on my pleasure meter spiked way up into the red. This was beyond pleasure, beyond bliss, this was absolute ecstasy, and lightning bolts of pleasure were rushing from my clit all through my body. My tummy was quaking, my tits were on fire, my fingers and toes were tingling.

And suddenly I realized I was dangerously close to orgasming, right out there on the Red Carpet in front of everyone. A beast of a climax was rolling up on me like a giant bowling ball. I had maybe a two-second grace period to hit the brakes, to push away from him and gather myself, grab his arm, and get the fuck out of there.

But I didn't. Let's just leave it at that. I stayed put while he rocked me once more, twice more...

...and I came.

I came hard. A massive orgasm that had been building for over three weeks. Yeah, that's right, I waited all that time for him to come home to me, and now I wasn't waiting anymore.

So... having failed at the task of Not Having an Orgasm in Public, I was now trying for the silver medal, Don't Let It Show. And I was doing a surprisingly decent job at first, tightening up my core muscles and willing myself to become a rigid, impermeable Orgasm Containment Cylinder where my ecstasy could bounce around inside me while I kept my little secret.

But it just kept going and going, and building and building, and it was like a downhill freight train, and it was just too much, and it just fucking overwhelmed me...

...and for a moment I slipped away from my universe into another one, and it was pretty, pink, lacey, and quivery, and there were just the three of us there: myself, my man, and my orgasm. And I don't think I was there very long (but I might have been), and I don't think I moaned or screamed or shrieked (but I might have), and I don't think I humped his leg or bit his neck or shredded his tux with my claws (again, might have), but the point is I had lost myself in my orgasm while the entire planet could have been watching.

I returned to my universe of origin as I came down from the orgasm. I became aware again of my surroundings, and the crowd seemed pretty quiet. Maybe they were just smiling and happy for Georges and me, coming out as a couple for the first time, or maybe they were just stunned by the obscene show I'd put on for them.

My eyes were closed, and I kept them that way for a while, reluctant to face the aftermath. Then I heard a nervous cough that sounded uncomfortably close. My eyes snapped open, and there was Nina's video cameraman, no more than five feet away, his camera aimed right at me.

Fucking hell. Now the entire world knew that Georges and I were a couple.

And they knew what my O-face looked like.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Paul Bechler was probably one of the ten most powerful people in Hollywood...

After fleeing the interview area, we rushed up the stairs ("Did you just..." he asked, and "Yeah," I gasped, and he told me again that he loved me). Then we crossed the courtyard. Georges didn't stand in the queue to get inside the building, he just dragged me to the front of the line and bulled his way through. Nobody said anything.

There was a big crowd milling around in the center of the lobby, with smaller groups around the edges. Georges and I ducked to the side just to get out of the wind, which was howling in through the open glass doors. We found a quiet spot backed up against a partition, and we people watched.

Georges, emboldened because no one was behind us, poked his fingers through the rings of my dress and started tugging at the strap of my G-string just above where it dipped down between my buttocks. I found that somewhat distracting because a) I didn't want anyone with a front view to see my panties disappearing up into my pussy, and b) it was tickling my most sensitive areas. But I let him keep doing it because b) it was tickling my most sensitive areas.

Then Paul Bechler and his crew rolled up on us...

Did I mention Paul was one of the ten most powerful people in Hollywood?

Paul wasn't a movie producer; he was a Movie Producer. Everything he touched was gold. Every project he did was big. Huge budgets, superstar casts, massive box office revenues. Hollywood was his sandbox.

Paul was mid- to late-50's, short and stocky but looked like he got to the gym occasionally. He was flanked by two younger men, not big or scary enough to be bodyguards, so probably a lawyer and a personal assistant.

Although I was quite partial toward Georges' arm candy (namely, me), Paul had nice arm candy as well. She was a stunning blonde, several inches taller than him and a good three decades younger. He didn't bother to introduce her, which was kind of rude. She seemed overwhelmed, like this was her first Red Carpet. I might have said something to make her feel welcome, but she was staring at Georges and ignoring me. Besides, my brain cells were still recovering from the earlier excitement, so I'm not sure I could have managed anything more profound than "Hi, I just had an orgasm, how are you?"

Paul eyeballed my dress and gave me a quick nod, suggesting he might actually know who I was, even if he didn't know my name. Well, that's fine, he was clearly there to talk business with the Sexiest Man Alive.

"We'll start shooting late first quarter or early second," he was saying.

"The timing works for me," Georges replied. "I'm definitely interested."

"Good, I'll send the script over."

"Awesome! Who are you thinking for the director?"

"Maybe Michael, if he's done with the other thing," said Paul.

"How about Henri?" asked Georges. Paul chuckled.

"Your loyalty to Henri is touching. But after 'Queen of the Vikings,' he's not gonna have trouble finding projects." His eyes flickered to me briefly. "Excellent work, Sonya, by the way."

Wow. Yeah, Paul Bechler knew who I was, and even threw a compliment my way.

"Thanks," I beamed, my body blushing a pretty pink for him. That got a nice smile.

"But you'll talk to Henri," said Georges.

"Of course," Paul replied.

Just then, a security guy decided to open a glass door behind Paul's entourage, and we were blasted with arctic hurricane-force winds.

"Jesus Christ!" shouted Paul, and someone else quickly closed it, but the damage was done. I wasn't yet fully thawed out from being outside earlier, and the frigid blast hit me head on, flash-freezing my tits, nipples, tummy, crotch, and thighs.

I shivered hard, and it kept going for a bit. But the weird thing was, the vibration of the shivering was on a wavelength that seemed to harmonize with the wavelength of my earlier orgasm. Inside the shivering, I quivered. That turned the shivering into shuddering, then shaking. And something broke loose inside me and I had a hard aftershock, which really was another orgasm.

My pussy clenched and unclenched, and my nipples stiffened, and my legs turned to jelly, and I clung to Georges for dear life.

"We'll probably shoot the city scenes in Vancouver," Paul was saying. "And I, ah, umm, uh..." His voice trailed off as my eyes closed and my tummy spasmed and I went "Ahhh" a fair bit louder than I should have.

Most men have an intense, spiritual relationship with female orgasms. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the beauty of a woman as she climaxes, but for men it's a religious experience. The assistant and the attorney were staring at me wide-eyed, and One of the Ten Most Powerful Men in Hollywood looked like an 18-year-old virgin seeing porn for the first time.

"You okay, baby?" asked Georges, a concerned look on his face. The way I was trembling, he probably thought I was having a seizure.

"Just...c-c-cold," I answered.

"Sorry to barge in on you," said Paul, still looking like he'd just met Jesus. "We'll talk next week, Georges. And nice to see you too, Sonya."

Yeah, Paul Bechler would sure as hell remember who I was now.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Paul's posse went one way, Georges and I went the other. He led me deeper into the crowd, where I was sheltered from the cold drafts in the room and surrounded by warm bodies.

I was feeling wrung out and exhausted. My panties were filled with my nectar. They were too tiny to absorb two orgasms, and I felt a droplet rolling down my leg. I'd pulled a muscle in my tummy, so it was difficult to stand up straight, and my legs felt wobbly in my stiletto heels. We weren't even inside the auditorium yet, and we still had two hours of speeches and presentations to endure. God, I just wanted to go home.

"Wanna split?" asked Georges, apparently now able to read my mind.

"We can't...can we?"

"Hell yes, we can," he said. "We did the red-carpet thing, that's why we're here. Nobody cares if we stay now."

"But..."

He was talking again but mumbling and not looking at me. I realized he was blue toothing, most likely calling his driver.

"Let's go," he said, grabbing my hand. He pulled me through the crowd, toward the rear of the lobby. We approached a "Restrooms" sign with an arrow pointing right, but we went left. A short hallway led to a door that opened onto a long hallway.

The carpet in the long hallway was thicker, and I mis-planted my heel and nearly stumbled. Georges slid his arm around me and held me up while I slipped my shoes off.

Barefoot in a naked dress, one of his hands dangling my high heels, the other grabbing my ass. The "just friends" thing wasn't going to fly anymore.

Especially when five giggling early-20s youngsters stumbled around a corner. I recognized them as The OverEasies, a hot new boy band. Even from a little way away, they reeked of alcohol and marijuana. I guess I could hope they were too fucked up to remember what they saw.

But they probably would. I was looking pretty memorable. They came to a stop and stared at me.

"Fuckin' hell," said one of them. "Now that is a motherfuckin' dress."

"Come party with us, baby!" said another.

"Keep walking, boys," rumbled Georges.

"Fuck you, Tarzan," said the kid who was staggering and needing help from his friends to stay vertical. A couple of his bandmates shushed him and hung onto him, making sure he wouldn't make a sudden move toward Georges, who was looking positively scary now.

"Relax, mate," said the one who seemed to have the most common sense and the lowest level of intoxicants in his system. "Just havin' some fun, don't mean nothin' by it."

Georges was still glaring at them, but they edged by us without further comment.

"Have a nice night, Tarzan," yelled the drunk kid after they were further down the hall, and the others laughed. Georges slowed and I felt his body weight shift like he was about to turn and go after them. I tugged firmly on his arm to keep him moving forward.

"Keep marching, soldier," I said. "You have your orders."

Another turn, another hallway, and we found ourselves in another lobby, but much smaller than the main one. Georges pushed through a set of doors, and we stepped out onto a landing at the top of a wide stairway that would take us down into an underground parking structure. Right at the foot of the stairs was a valet station staffed by four or five attendants. To our left was an arched entry where the street entered, with a similar exit to the right, so were in kind of a tunnel. Wind was howling through, and it seemed colder here than it had been out in front where we arrived.

In addition to the valets, there was a small crowd of a couple dozen bored-looking people behind velvet ropes, but none of the security guys we'd seen out front. Okay, so this looked like the place where most attendees would be catching their limos and leaving after the event concluded. There would be a bigger crowd of celebrities (and celebrity watchers, and security) later, but no one was expecting to see anyone like Sexiest Man Alive or Viking Queen leaving this early.

I stepped from the carpet onto the concrete landing and let out a yelp when my bare feet went from warm carpet to frozen concrete. Sensing that my feet were freezing but I wouldn't want to put my shoes back on to negotiate the steps, Georges simply bent down, put his hand behind my knees, and scooped me up into his arms, then started marching down the stairs. This movement caught someone's attention, because...

"SONYA SHANE!" someone shouted (yes, it was cool they shouted my name first instead of Georges'), and suddenly the sleepy crowd was awake and loud and seeming a lot scarier. Georges switched from a march to a jog down the stairs. The only problem was, there was still no car there to pick us up.

Someone tried to step over the velvet rope but stopped when a valet blocked his way. But then a second guy stepped over, and he wasn't as easily discouraged. Then a woman almost got through. The valets tried to form a line between us and the small crowd, but they were outnumbered and untrained in crowd control. Reinforcements showed up...well, just reinforcement because it was only one more valet attendant, sprinting toward us from up the tunnel.

Meanwhile, a man broke through the valet line and ran toward Georges and me, trying to block our way and holding something in front of him. At first, I thought it was a knife or a gun, but it was just a microphone.

"Sonya Shane!" he yelled. "Tell us what's --" and then Georges lowered his shoulder and bumped the guy, not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough to get past him.

Georges was running now, and the crowd was surging past the valet line and closing in on us. But then everything fell into place: Georges' car pulled up and screeched to a stop; the sprinting valet guy arrived just before we did and pulled the door open for us; and George half-dove, half-stumbled into the car, and did something between setting me down gently and throwing me wildly into the car. I landed awkwardly but unharmed on the seat.

Georges staggered into the car, and the valet guy tried to close the door, but microphone guy was back, and he was trying to climb into the car, for fuck's sake. Another attendant yanked him back, the door closed, and the car accelerated away from the curb.