Prom Night

It was the common fantasy of Prom Night. My date and I were in the motel room, both feeling awkward.

He was hoping this would be the night he would become a man. He stood there, no Greek god, but not bad for a kid who had just turned eighteen. I wasn't bad looking, and his wide eyes and obvious erection told me he wasn't unhappy with his last minute date.

Very typical, except that I was twenty-nine and married.

My date was my best friend's son, Harry. The poor guy had been humiliated when he found out that the "cool" girl who had asked him to the Senior Prom had done it on a bet from her in-group friends.

Is there anything more pathetic than the high school cliques that think they are better than the rest of us, only to find out later that nobody cares about their high school status in the real world?

But my date was too young for perspective, and when the girl laughingly told him, at the last minute, she was going with her real boyfriend, he was devastated.

His mom called me to commiserate. She was a good friend. As recent arrivals in this city, following my last promotion, my husband and I had not had a chance to meet many people. But Joan and I just clicked.

After getting thoroughly pissed at her description of the treatment her son had endured, a thought sprang into my head. Somewhere in the misty depths of my memory, a vision of a movie or tv plot struggled the surface. Something about a Playboy Bunny, or a movie star, or maybe a voluptuous prostitute, going to the Prom as the date of a similarly situated victim of the mean girls.

I interrupted whatever she was saying to blurt out, "Joan, I will go as his date!"

"Don't joke about this, Joy. It's not funny."

"I'm not joking. With some make-up, I can pass for, well, maybe not high school, but college age. No one around here really knows me or my relationship with you, so no one will guess how I came to be his date. I will act tastefully sexy, and flirt with Harry in front of the girls that did this, and make their boyfriends jealous of Harry. I can do it, Joan."

"I don't know, Joy. He may feel even worse if he thinks it is a pity date."

"Pitch it as a revenge date. Tell him I'm not offering because I pity him, but because I want to crush the assholes that do this kind of thing. It's personal for me. I didn't go to my Prom because my long term boyfriend got enthralled by a bigger pair of tits and dumped me three days before the Prom."

"You are making that up... you want me to believe another teenage girl had better boobs than you?"

"Believe it, Joan. Of course the rest of her was considerably bigger as well, but the boys used say, the bigger cushion, the better the pushin,' so apparently the big ass that accompanied the big tits didn't bother him.

I, on the other hand, was was a cross country runner and a gym rat in high school, because I knew I wanted to be a Marine like my dad. In service, my BMI was 14 and change, meaning I had very little fat tissue.

My girls have plumped up considerably since I got out and got married."

"Well, I would kill for your breasts. Harry will be the envy of his friends."

"Just be sure to let Harry know that no matter what the urban legend of Prom Night may be, he won't be getting lucky on this date."

A brief discussion of logistical issues, then Joan said she'd talk to Harry.

An hour later, Joy answered the phone to hear, with no greeting, "You serious about this, Mrs. Foster?"

"Yes, Harry."

"And you really think it might work? That I could make those bitches sorry?"

"Yes, Harry."

"Mrs. Foster, would you do me honor of being my date for the Prom."

"Yes, Harry. I will expect a corsage, and you can pick me up here at 7 p.m. day after tomorrow. And start calling me Joy'... you don't want to slip up later."

"Thank you, Joy."

"We'll plan to meet tomorrow to go over our act. Say, 3:45?"

"With bells on, Joy."

"Oh come on, Harry, where did you get that? That's even before my time."

"I watch a lot of old movies, Joy. See you tomorrow."

Over dinner, I casually declaimed to my husband, "You'll have to make your own dinner day after tomorrow. I have accepted a date for that evening, and will probably be out late. I am finally remedying a certain painful hole in my range of experience."

I have to give my husband credit, he has incredible aplomb. After asking me to pass the rolls, he said, without blinking an eye, "So I am to understand that my performance as a spouse is so substandard that you have to remedy this lack elsewhere?"

"No, Sweetie, you can't remedy this lack. You are much too old."

"I can get a prescription for Niagra, or buy whips and chains. What is it I'm too old to do."

"You can't take me to the Prom. I am going with Joan's son, Harry." And I told him the story.

Being a typical man, he said with a grin, "You know what is expected by every red-blooded boy after the Prom, don't you?"

"Of course I do. It ought to work out great. Harry gets rid of his virginity, and I get a young guy with lots of energy and a quick recovery time, for once. I just hope he has a big one."

We both laughed, and had great sex that night.

The next day, I showed Harry how I would flirt with him at the dance, and made him make out a little with me as we practiced dancing. Nothing overt - this was high school - but I noted some swelling as I pressed my breast against him. I told him go with the flow, and never act surprised no matter what I did. Then I grabbed his hand and rubbed it over my tit. He jumped, let out a little weird noise and looked shocked.

"That is just what I do not want you to do. Act blasé. Keep your face calm. It's not real, so no need to get emotional."

I pulled his hand from my breast to my ass, and this time he managed to look, if not blasé, at least reasonably calm.

"Better."

"Kiss me."

He looked startled.

"Blasé, remember. You've done all this before, and it's no big deal. Kiss me."

For a closed lip, muscles tight, wooden face press, it wasn't so bad. I finally got him to relax, and while we kept our tongues out of it, he finally managed something that looked real.

We sat and talked about after the Prom. When we were finished, he knew we would spend the night together, that if he was considerate, he would probably see me naked, and that he was not going to fuck me, but might get some heavy petting experience.

As he was leaving, I said, "Blasé. Practice it." And I slid my hand across his crotch. He hardly flinched. Progress.

I talked to Joan that evening. She was happy. Harry, she said, had come completely out of his funk, and was looking forward to the Prom. She thanked me several times. But there was something in her manner that suggested a little residual regret. I pried it out of her.

Turns out that the girl had led Harry to believe he would get very lucky after Prom, and she was sorry he wouldn't have the make out experience she and her late husband did, even without sex. It was traditional, she said.

I don't believe she was hinting at my taking up the slack in this area. She was a widow, but very circumspect, and I was married. I just think she had some disappointment for her son. But it started me thinking.

That night, I asked my husband if he would be all right with me spending the night with Harry. Not having sex, but staying with him for bragging rights later. He knew the motel where his tormentors were planning to stay, and I figured if they saw us spend the night, it would do much for his reputation.

Hubby laughed and said he thought that was a great idea. But he surprised me when he said I should do a little making out for real. "Give the kid a thrill, with a capital T. Teach him the stuff I wish I had known at his age."

I wasn't really comfortable with the idea, but I remembered Joan's comments, and missing the same opportunity at my Prom, so I kept silent.

As we kissed following a pleasant missionary evening, he said, "Think about what I said. I'll bet the kid has never even seen a nipple in person." Then he turned over and was shortly in la-la land, probably dreaming about being a teenager fondling a bare breast.

The next morning was the day of the Prom, and I was excited. I bathed early, shaved legs and underarms smooth, and then, impulsively, my lady parts. I was bare from the neck down.

I thought how it would be a shock to Hubby, who asked me to shave or wax before, but who had never seen me bare. I would tease him later that I only did it for Harry, and make him wonder about the make out session.

I looked online, and sure enough, his school had dress code guidelines for the Prom. So much for the dress I had planned to wear. Apparently backless was not allowed.

I ended up choosing an opaque, but silky thin, white top that draped nicely over braless breasts, keeping the lack of infrastructure discretely camouflaged. I paired this with a long, full, black skirt. Simple and elegant, but quietly sexy.

Harry would know immediately my braless state the first time I brushed against him, and I could jiggle revealingly when we confronted his tormentors. But most others would not have a clue, unless my high beams switched on. And even Harry would not know that I would leave my panties behind when he picked me up.

Hubby made me show him what I was going to wear. I put it on over bra and panties for him. He looked at me critically for a moment, and then said, "No bra."

"What?"

"Bra straps will show when you turn, and you know strapless bras don't flatter you. Your tits are perky and perfect without a bra, and that top doesn't need one. Even with strong light behind you, the top is opaque, so no Princess Diana effect to show the lack of a bra."

My husband may be a computer geek, but he has an eye for clothing. Of course I already knew I was going braless, but I essayed one more feigned gesture of reluctance, "But what will Harry think. I don't mind looking good for our revenge plan, but I don't want him to think I am a floozy."

"Floozy? Who uses that word anymore? Any way, the way the top fits, it won't be obvious, and when Harry bumps into you, it'll give the kid a thrill."

At 7 p.m. sharp, Harry arrived with a knock on the door. He actually had a corsage. Hubby let him in, shook his hand, and said, "I am counting on you to take care of my wife. Protect her with your life."

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Foster. Thank you for letting me get back at the bitches with your wife. She is some kind of schemer, isn't she."

"Indeed she is. And speak of the devil, here she is. Now line up for Prom pictures. Yes you, wifey. Put your hand around her waist, Harry. It's traditional. Now, you kids be good. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I kissed Hubby good bye, took my date's arm, and walked out to the car.

"Harry," I said, "We can't go in this car."

"Huh? Why not. It's a Beamer. My mom let me have it for my special date."

"But will your classmates recognize it as yours. I think not. We are going to your place and getting your old Toyota with the Save the Whales stickers, and anyone who doesn't actually see us arrive at the motel will know it's you in that room."

"O.K., but I don't have any Save the Whales' stickers..."

"Well, I Heart Calculus' or whatever. Anyway, get the car."

I drew many an eye when we walked in. A stop to stand before some kitschy backdrop for our professional Prom pic, and then on to the Gym, complete with twisted streamers just like I imaged it. I looked towards the refreshment table, and sent Harry off to get me punch, telling him to take his time.

I moved over to the chaperons, and said, "Before you jump to conclusions, let me tell you a story."

It turned out that they were teachers at the school, and all knew of what happened to Harry. When I told them what I planned to do, they all smiled. The one whose smile looked like it hurt her face quickly reverted to her usual (I assume) disapproving scowl and told me not to carry it too far.

I drank the punch, then forced Harry to dance, close, and secretly smiled at the evidence pushing at my stomach that he had realized my girls were uncorralled. I got him to point out the clique with his erstwhile date, and, a few dances later, danced him over to them.

"These some more of your friends, Harry? Introduce me to them." Some side to side movement made sure the boys knew I wore nothing under the dress. The girls too, of course. Then it happened. The straight line I was hoping would come.

The guy who was with girl that dumped Harry said, "What's an old babe like you doing with this loser?"

"Why, you think you'd be a better catch?"

He broke out of the slouch I am sure he thought was just so cool, and stood to his full height, maybe six feet. He flexed a couple of times and announced, "I expect I could give you a much better time than the dork here. Come with me right now and I'll show you."

I stared him up and down. "I think you have an overinflated ego, little boy. Probably trying to make up for an under inflated dick. Almost certainly you are an adolescent jerk off who thinks it's enough if he can get it in before the premature ejaculation makes his cock all soft again. That may be enough for this air head bimbo who actually nodded encouragingly as you dissed her by hitting on me," I paused and looked at her as this sank in, "but I prefer a man who has skills in bed. One that can make me come again and again, before and after he gets his. And can hold an intelligent conversation when we are not in bed. Clearly not you on either count."

"Fuck you, bitch."

"Touché! A brilliant riposte. I am deeply wounded." I clutched my heart. "By the way, riposte is spelled r-i-p-o-s-t-e in case you want to look it up later."

Turning to said airhead bimbo, I said, "Thank you freeing Harry to see me. We know we have no long term future, just fun in bed for a while, so I encouraged him to date girls his age. He was excited about you, but I guess he didn't realize you were just jumped up trailer trash. Thanks to you, I get him for the whole night tonight, no curfew. Y'all have fun with Billy Bob, ya hear." The last in my best fake Southern Accent.

Turning to "Billy Bob," I lowered my voice to a whisper, and leaned in toward him, "Despite your wounded pride, you won't try to beat on me in the school gym. Probably a good thing for you. Before I became a contractor, I was the first woman in Marine Force Recon. Look it up on Google. Try me and you could well end up literally dead, fucker. But one nice thing about being an ex-Marine is that there are no ex-Marines. While I doubt Harry needs protection, I don't like you. I would welcome an excuse to point you out to my brethren in this town. So you better hope no one bothers my friend, because I will not try to find out who did it. I will hold you responsible, no questions asked. This will be your only warning."

Actually, I lied about being Force Recon. But I was one of the first females to qualify for infantry, and I was sure I could actually kill an untrained kid, even if he were bigger and stronger. Judging by the look on his face, I doubted I would have to find out.

Harry asked me, "What was that about?"

I told him, "You had better get good in bed real quick, because you're gonna have girls wanting to find out what you did to me after the way I talked you up. Lots of people heard. I wasn't quiet. I got the idea from the Legally Blonde movie."

He said, "Yeah, I remember that scene. But I doubt it will work in real life."

"We'll see."

We danced and socialized until the witching hour, and then headed to the motel. We got there just as "Billy Bob" and his bimbo were going into their room. I smiled and waved. And sure enough, the clerk I had charmed yesterday had come through. Our room was adjacent to theirs.

I opened the suitcase I brought when I checked in that afternoon. It held a laptop, and two small but loud bluetooth speakers. It would have been too much trouble to separate the audio from the video on the three long amateur porn vids, so I cued them up on the computer for later. It had taken a couple of hours of research, even with the expert help of my husband, but they sounded real, not faked, with no background music or other distractions. I figured Harry could even watch, to add spice to his Prom night experience. It even turned out that the laptop had HDMI out and the TV mounted on the wall across from the bed had HDMI in.

The head board of the bed was against the wall that separated Harry's tormentors from us. Perfect. I climbed up and slammed my back into it, before grabbing a few pillows from the chairs in the room to make it comfortable to sit up against it. Harry got the idea without coaching, and his thump was more enthusiastic than mine. We knew they heard, because of the answering thumps. Too many of them. Obviously staged.

I patted the bed beside me, and Harry hesitantly sat down. Too far away. He was stiff a a board... except not the way he should have been. He looked scared.

I said, "I'm ticklish behind my knees and in my armpits."

It was all he needed to get started. Soon I was screaming with laughter, shouting "Stop that. Leave me alone, you animal."

In short order, Harry had, accidentally, of course, manually confirmed my lack of bra, and visually confirmed my lack of panties.

Finally, I pushed him away. I raised my arms and told him to take my top off. His eyes got wide as he dropped it in the bedside chair, but that was all. He must have practiced blasé. I stood and dropped my skirt myself. I said, "Naked. Now."

He was hesitant at first, but I could see his resolve kick in. After a smooth and amazingly unhurried flurry of discarded clothing, he was standing there with nothing on but an erection. I patted the bed, as before. No hesitation this time. Blasé, indeed.

"Harry, you are going to learn some techniques that women like, shortly. Girls will be curious about you after tonight. But not yet. We need you to be able to pay attention, so we will try to reduce this distraction." With that, I initiated my first pure hand job in many years.

I will say this for Harry: as my hand pumped up and down, sliding ever more easily as pre-cum was slathered over that hard cock, he said exactly the right thing... nothing. He just got stiffer, made a few involuntary jerks, and eventually spewed ejaculate over my hand.

He looked like he was about to apologize, so I put one finger on his lips, and raised the other to my mouth, where I stuck my tongue into one of the blobs. Then I said, "First lesson."

I sucked up some of his come, and pulled his lips to mine. I kissed him, pushing his come into his mouth. Gamely, he accepted it.

I said, "You are going to want a girl to blow you, someday, and you are going to want to come in her mouth. If you want her to take your come in her mouth, you should be willing to take it in yours. And if you come in her pussy without giving her an orgasm, you must be willing to eat your come off her clit if you want to really earn the reputation I started for you. Get a reputation in high school for being mindful of the girl's pleasure, and you will never need to fear competition from the jocks."

I turned on the porn vids for the audience next door, while I showed him how to kiss and caress the various parts of a woman's body, with special emphasis the clit. God knows I would have put out in high school for any boy who had even heard of a clitoris.

When he was doing a pretty good job of vibrating his tongue in the right place, I gave him a bigger compliment than he knew... I let myself come on his tongue. Surprisingly, for the beginner he was, he tightened his grip on my hips and wouldn't stop, even as I became too sensitive and tried to buck and push him away.

Except I must not have been toooo sensitive, as I didn't let myself come the second time. He ripped it from me.