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"And then I move my tongue in little circles, all across your nipples. Your hard, trembling nipples. And then? Then I bite."

"Fuck." It came out as a low grunt into Gen's phone. "You're going to make me come."

"I know I am." Erica's voice came back with that faint undertone of mockery she always seemed to have. "I like making you come at work. With my teeth on your tits and my fingernails scraping over your clit..."

"Nghh," Gen managed. She realized with a shocked sense of awareness that her girlfriend was about to make her come over the phone. Here, tucked into a bathroom stall with her hands down her pants when she was supposed to be getting appetizers set up for the Felgman wedding. "I can't..."

"You can." Erica sounded so smug. "You can."

"Hey!" It was a harsh yammer from the real world, the world outside her phone. "Genevieve! Get the fuck out of the bathroom and get back to work!" The stall door rattled. "Get off the goddamn phone. Jason needs you."

Jason needed her. So, of course, he'd sent that little bitch Aimee into the bathroom to find her. "Fuck. I'm on a break," Gen hissed.

"You've been in that stall for like five minutes," Aimee snickered, which was true. Erica could usually make Gen come in three. "Come on. Jason's, like, manic."

"Goddamn it! I'll be out in a sec."

Erica giggled over the phone. "Duty calls, sugartwat?"

"Yes. Goddamn, I want to eat you," Gen sighed. "I'll call back later." The last came out as a resigned grunt, but Aimee was leaning up against the counter with a smug smirk when Gen emerged, straightening her pants.

"Naw, you're not going to call back later," Aimee drawled. "You're going to be busy pulling your weight out there, like the rest of us."

"Who the fuck died and made you manager?" Gen snapped. She washed pussy off her hands while the younger woman watched. "Did you need to piss? Or did you just come in here to spy on me, you pervert?"

"I told you, Jason asked for you." She squinted critically at her nails, buffing them against her white button-down. "He really wants you."

"Fuck." Gen traded a vicious glare with Aimee. God help them all, she thought, if Jason ever did make her a manager. Gen would quit before the announcement was even over. "Whatever." She stomped down the service corridor, feeling that deep itch Erica had been trying to scratch. No, the itch Erica had caused. They'd been dating just three months and everything was still exciting. All around her the hotel bustled, waitstaff like her in tight black pants and white shirts swirling around with trays and bins. Jason was conducting it all from the top of the stairs.

"Genevieve!" he called as soon as he saw her. "Where have you been? We've got a situation." Standing next to Jason was a fastidious-looking old guy, vaguely familiar, who Gen thought was probably the wedding planner. "You can sew, right?"

"Jesus!" Gen exploded when she'd marched up the stairs. "What, just because I'm a woman, I can sew?"

"No," Jason shot back, "just because I know your mom runs a dress shop, you can sew. So spare me your self-righteous wrath and tell me: can you sew, or can't you?"

Gen crossed her arms under her little tits. "I can sew," she admitted grudgingly.

"Great. Mr Gerber here has a problem," Jason went on, "and if you can help him fix it up, I'll give you twenty bucks."

"What's the problem?" Gen asked the old guy, managing that fake customer-service smile she could sometimes find.

"One of the bridesmaids tore the lining of her dress," he explained, visibly trembling. Gen thought off the top of her head that nobody so bad at stress should ever go into business as a wedding planner, but it wasn't her call. "She needs it stitched back up."

"What, like, while she's wearing it?"

"If possible." The little guy glanced at his watch. "Whatever's fastest."

Gen nodded and turned back to Jason. "Thirty bucks," she countered.

"And a positive Yelp review," Gerber added, and that's what did it for Jason. Reviews were all he cared about.

"Perfect," he nodded. "Genevieve, thanks. I'm sure there's a sewing kit in the bridesmaids' room."

"There is," Gerber smiled. "We put together a gift basket."

"With a sewing kit?" Gen scowled. "And you can't even sew?"

"Well, you can," Gerber winked. "So everything's fine." He'd led her down a different hallway, all high wainscoting and thick carpet, to a door tucked into the corner. "I'll leave you to it, then. The maid of honor is named Miranda; I'm sure she's waiting impatiently!" He nearly threw that last bit over his shoulder in his haste to get away, and as Gen knocked on the door she wondered what she'd find on the far side.

The door flew open. "Jesus. It's about fucking time." Miranda was tall and angry, not exactly big, but solid, like a rugby player. "You're the waitress who can sew?"

Gen forced herself to take a deep breath. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the ponytail. Thirty bucks to slam a few stitches in, she reminded herself, forcing another smile. "Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?"

"Callie's dress is ripped. Like, underneath. The, you know, the white part."

"The lining," Gen nodded. The dresses were an unimpressive shade of lilac, though most of the girls now staring wide-eyed at Gen looked okay in them. The bride had picked strapless, which was a wise choice; Gen saw a lot of bridesmaid's gowns working this job. She scanned the room. "Mr Gerber told me there's sewing stuff?"

"Here." Another hand, nervous, with a big diamond tennis bracelet, pushed a little sewing kit into her hand. Everything was a bustling commotion of lilac and perfume and hair whipped carefully into fairy-twirls of perfection. Cast-off clothes, flip-flops for later, and other random flotsam lay scattered around the room, and Gen plunged into the scrum until she saw a girl sitting against the wall with her lip between her teeth and her hands in her lap.

Gen stopped, blinking. The girl was delicious, a little younger than Gen; all the bridesmaids seemed to be about 22. She showed a smooth, heart-shaped face atop a beautifully curved neck, her copper hair descending in a pair of tendrils past the heavy make-up of her soft blue eyes. She looked hopefully up at Gen. "Hi," she said in a quiet, whispery soprano.

"Hello." Gen didn't trust herself to speak, taking in the smooth pale skin of the young woman's chest, diving down into her enticingly modest cleavage. Gen swallowed. "Just give me a second to thread the needle. I'll, uh... did you want to, like, take the dress off?"

"There's no time for that shit," barked Miranda. "Just crawl under there and fix it!"

Gen swallowed, squinting down at the needle she'd selected. "Uh, okay." The room was a tense mass of flowers, silk, and flasks now as the bridal party slowly brought themselves down. Theirs was a world where everything would be fine, now that the help had arrived. Gen focused on getting the white thread through the eye of the needle, aware that the others were sitting down, giggling nervously, starting to talk.

And still, the lovely bridesmaid with the torn dress sat quietly in her chair by the wall.

"This is probably the one fuckup the wedding's going to have," mused one of the women, a beautiful blonde with a wedding ring. The others laughed a bit too loud, but they were calming down now.

"Good!" another one sighed, plopping theatrically down into another chair. She tipped a flask to her mouth and sucked at it. "The sooner we get out there and get this going, the sooner I can hook up with a groomsman."

More laughter, and Gen turned slowly toward the girl with the tendriled hair. "Um. Maybe you could, like, show me the rip?"

"Not your groomsman, I hope," somebody else was braying. "You're paired up with Chad. My friend Patricia says he's hung like an elephant."

"No way!"

"Yep." The braying voice sounded smug. "He'd rip you in two."

"It's right here," came that whispery soprano, and Gen forced her eyes down to where the lilac hem was coming up, rising over a perfectly sculpted calf sheathed in white nylons. Past the knee, and then it stopped as the woman flipped the dress inside-out. "I caught it on the corner of the coffee table," she added.

Callie. Gen had never met a Callie.

She stooped, seeing about a six-inch L-shaped tear. She nodded, thinking about her mother's shop, about helping out as a girl... "No problem. Should take about ten minutes or so." She hesitated. "Maybe... like, if you stood up?" She smiled and knew it looked awkward. "Then I could just sit on the floor and do my thing."

"Hurry," Miranda put in. "We've got pictures to take. And groomsmen to fuck," she added with a vengeful thrust of her hips.

"If Callie doesn't get her dress fixed," one of the others chuckled, "then I'm happy to take her groomsman."

"Mmm, yes, Dave." Miranda fanned herself theatrically. "What I wouldn't give for a piece of him."

"Ew," one of the others squealed, the one with the braying voice. "Dave's my cousin. Please, please don't talk about fucking him."

The last thing Gen saw as she sank to the floor, her needle between her fingers, was a triumphant squint from Miranda as she glared over at the braying woman. "What, Petra? Got a problem with the thought of me riding your cousin's hard dick?" The Gen swallowed when she felt Callie's legs behind her back, and then after one more moment's hesitation the sudden, raucous laughter was stilled when the dark silky tent of Callie's gown swallowed her.

She smelled newness, the unmistakable odor of a new dress not yet washed, a scent that dragged her straight back to her mother's shop again. But there was much more: there was Callie, all powder and perfume and perspiration.

And pussy.

It was unmistakeable to a mind so recently charged up by Erica's phone call, a high sharp throb at the edge of her senses, cutting straight through to her brain. Gen gasped with the realization: this girl was soaked.

But no wonder. All her friends could talk about, judging from the muffled chatter from the world outside the bridesmaid's gown, was getting laid.

"Shut your ears, Petra," one of the voices snickered. It was the girl with the flask, the theatrical one. "Because I want to talk about how white-hot your cousin is."

"Fuck you," growled the brayer. Petra. "I'm telling you: Chad's too big for you." There was a scattered laugh, with howls of approval. "Way too big," she snarked. "Maybe I'll take him, instead."

"Yeah," said Flask, "because your vag is so stretched out you wouldn't even feel it."

"Fuck you."

"Whatever."

"Well, I'm already in," another voice announced: silky, devious. "I told Olivia to pair me up with Wayne because I've already made out with him."

"No way!" Various supporting yelps.

"On a couch. In college. But we'd have moved to the bed if I hadn't passed out," Silky Voice announced, to general derision.

Suddenly it dawned on Gen, as she found the edges of the tear and jabbed her needle in, that Callie's pussy was right near her, just behind her head, practically touching her. She felt her face grow warm, her body start to tingle; moisture crept from her armpits and her crotch as, mindlessly, her fingers worked at her stitches.

"How about you, Callie?" someone asked; Gen felt the legs behind her stiffen. "Since Lacie's going to claim Dave, who're you going to go home with?"

Gen listened, sewing quietly, as Callie gave her quiet answer. "I'm thinking I'll definitely get lucky," she said at last, "and I don't kiss and tell."

Miranda snorted. "Whatever. Look, girls, I'm not picky. I'll take whatever dick nobody else wants and ride it all fucking night."

"You can have the groom's dad," Silky Voice retorted. "I bet he'd fall asleep during sex."

"Nasty!"

Her needle crept along the tear, fingers bending and straightening, bending and straightening. Gen felt the brush of the gown lining along her hairline, and her mind was consumed with the overwhelming need to turn, to scrape her forehead along the inside of Callie's gown, to twist around and stare at what her mind's eye told her was a perfect, aroused young pussy, dampening the silk of what had to be expensive panties...

Gen shivered. She was sweating hard, and not just because it was so close under the dress.

The whispery soprano cleared her throat. "Hot in here, right?" The gown moved, light blinking in at the hem, as Callie flapped the material. "Um. How are you down there?"

It took Gen a moment to realize the girl was speaking to her. She forced the answer. "Fine, thanks." The curiosity burned her, the need to see the girl absolute now, and she shifted lower on her knees. But she took advantage of the moment, adjusting herself under the bunched gown to the low cruel gurgle of Miranda's laughter.

"Having fun down there?" The voice sounded distant to Gen. "Is she eating you out yet, Callie?"

"No," the soft voice replied into a roomful of laughter, but Gen wasn't even listening anymore. Her head had found its way around, her eyes wide in the gloom, and there Callie stood just inches away. The dim purplish light around her showed slim legs shining in their white nylon, but only up to mid-thigh; the stockings ended in two thick bands of lace, clinging hard, the smooth skin of Callie's thighs barely bulging where they left the lace. Her eyes crept up to catch a glimpse of brilliant white in a narrow triangle over the girl's slit, but then Gen felt a toe nudge her through Callie's gown.

"You almost done?"

"She better be!" It was the braying voice. "We need to get set for the pictures, Miranda."

"We do." Miranda sounded grumpy.

"Just a few more minutes," Gen made herself croak; she knew Callie would be able to feel her breath on her thigh, would know she'd turned her head.

She spoke again.

"Why don't you guys head out, and I'll catch up whenever she's through?" Desperately, Gen wrenched her head further back, catching her breath: the woman's thong was amazing, the lace straps stretching down from soft hipbones above, the sheer silk pulled tight over her young mound. The smell enthralled her. "Please. Don't wait for me."

"Sounds good to me," the brayer announced with a burp. "I need to use the bathroom anyway. Come on, ladies," she called, and Gen blinked herself back to her job as the world outside exploded into a rustle of silks and satins. "See you out there, Callie!"

"Yes," the girl replied faintly, but by then Gen was concentrating again, her hands back at their work, and as the sweat rolled down along her eyes she finally started in on her knots. "Don't have too much fun without me!"

Gen was finishing her second knot when she heard the sharp slap of the door closing. The pussy-stenched air hung heavy all around her as she finished. "I'm sorry this is taking so long."

"I... do you mind if I sit down for a minute?" the girl asked quietly. "Like, if you're almost done?"

"Of course." She blinked as light flooded suddenly into her world, the heavy gown whisked away. "I can finish up if you just, you know, hold up the material." The had to look like a mess, Gen realized, following Callie on her knees, her face scarlet. She knew her hair had to be a wreck from the static cling. "Your friends are funny," she began lamely as Callie sat down. "Uh, which groomsman do you plan to go after?"

The woman pulled her skirts up over her knees and gave a grim little chuckle. "Actually? I'd rather fuck the bride." Gen darted her eyes up to Callie's, and they both burst out laughing. "This is nice work, Genevieve," she ventured, examining the repair.

"Thanks. My mom runs a dress shop." Gen's mind was racing, though: Genevieve. The woman had called her Genevieve. Meaning she'd looked at her nametag, and in Gen's experience nobody looked at the nametag. Unless they were planning to flirt. Swallowing in a throat suddenly dry, she dropped her eyes to where the thigh-highs ended in their riot of lace, wanting nothing more but to run her fingers underneath the elastic. "You, um, have great taste in stockings," she managed, not even knowing why, and the silence that followed made her glance back up at that gorgeous heart-shaped face. To those wide blue eyes.

The ones that were now staring straight into hers. "It came as a set," she murmured, her voice all hoarse, "with the thong you saw under there."

Gen felt herself start, her face still red. "Well." She swallowed. The room felt very, very still, and it was difficult to get words out. "Can you blame me?"

Callie's eyes started nervously toward the door, her whole body tense. A lovely rosy glow, Gen saw, was spreading up her chest from under the strapless gown. "You can, uh, see it again. If you want." Her fingers, trembling slightly, hooked the bunched silk and dragged it slowly up her legs.

Gen caught her breath, her ears buzzing. She had an overpowering urge to shove her hand back down her pants, as turned on as she'd been on the phone in the bathroom. She knew she'd find a drenched pussy. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "I shouldn't have turned around in there." The hem rose another inch.

"Because you didn't want to?" Callie sounded hesitant, like a woman asking for a raise.

"Because you're in a hurry," Gen sighed, her eyes back on Callie's slender thighs. "Definitely not because I didn't want to."

Callie was nodding, the flush spreading toward her neck now. "I'm glad they left." It was a whisper now. "I wanted them to."

"Shit." This was moving so fast! This kind of thing didn't happen to her, but there was no getting around the fact that it was: she was kneeling on thick carpet before a nymph with a hiked-up dress, both of them breathing hard. "You're still in a hurry," she squeaked desperately.

But she wasn't listening. "Having you under there... I mean. I've never had a stranger so close to me." She paused, swallowing. "Especially a gorgeous one."

"I'm not gorgeous..." Gen began, but then the dress rose up and it was there, in the full glaring room lights, the crease of her slit plain between puffed labia under the tight white fabric. "Fuck."

"I... I liked it." Callie drew a deep breath and licked her lips, those blue eyes flickering once more toward the door. "I wanted you to stay under there." She parted her thighs, the muscles leading Gen's eyes and mind in long, lean curves toward the sodden fabric over her mound. Gen blinked, amazed at the perfection of Callie's body, wishing hers looked like that.

In a trance, she shuffled forward on her knees, feeling wetness in her pussy and tightness at her nipples. She wondered whether she looked as needy as she felt. Her eyes seemed hyperaware: she saw the twisty fibers of the thread she'd used to repair the lining, the redness on Callie's skin where the elastic pinched, the stitching at the edge of her panties, where the brilliant white disappeared against the chair, diving toward her ass. She saw hair curling around the stitching, a single burnt-orange coil she'd failed to tuck in when she'd adjusted her thong across her mound.

All this Gen took in as she leaned toward the piled silk and toned flesh of the girl with the tendriled hair, their eyes tight on each other's flushed faces. Neither of them could believe this, the big room with its disheveled chairs, its spilled gym bags, and its empty Solo cups fading down to just the two of them against the wall, drifting closer together.

If the smell of Callie's arousal had been a heady fog underneath her dress, it was now an overpowering beacon, drawing her in. She was very aware of the other woman's breathing, now gone deep and more than a little ragged, her whole body sagging lower on the chair to get closer to Gen.

Finally their eyes parted, Callie's toward the door, Gen's to the vagina spreading out before her, her hands finally reaching up to rest where Callie's thigh-highs met her flesh. They both jumped at the touch, the bridesmaid nodding crazily as Gen's fingers moved over the goosebumped skin.