Work Out Hanger On

I don't have the hips for this one. At least, I don't think I do. I never really paid that much attention to my hips. There are other parts of me that deserve my attention there abouts. And this dress does hide most of the shape. Most, not all. I toss the ideas back and forth in my head, and I don't really know what the final verdict will be. I liked the one before this, but not the color. I don't work in bright pastels.

I turn in the mirror and, as it turns out, I do have the hips for it. And the ass. The bulging shapes in front, from my chest to my waist to everything else. I like this dress now and I think this is the one. I turn to the other side and get the same impression from the mirror.

There is also a dark head poking through the dressing room, ogling me and undressing me and doing terrible, terrible things to me with her eyes. I move to my heels and make my legs long and flexed and tight. Louise likes that. She likes what she sees when I turn to face her, her eyes darting to my crotch and my chest, my everything so wrapped and adorned and vested for her.

"Rachel, is it possible for you to look bad in anything," she asks. I shrug. And I blush. I like looking good for her.

"I think there has to be something," I say, "Have you seen me in a suit?"

"No, I think that would work. Bulge down the side, along the crease. Tie and jacket and all that. Couldn't see your arms, but your shoulders would take care of it."

"I'm taking full business. Casual suit or just a blazer, sure. Maybe rainbow suspenders. I don't think I could pull off suspenders."

"No one can. But yeah, that one. That's the one. Take it off so we can buy it."

"Are you going to watch me?"

The head nods and the hair bounces in eager anticipation. I would look at her undress too. She should get in here and do that and then we'd both be naked and that would lead to some fun places. But not now. Other things to do, other places to be. And it would be somewhat inconsiderate of the people who actually work here. I am a disaster and it is not their job to pick up the pieces in my wake. But it would be the best kind of indulgence.

Louise watches me slowly take off the straps and let my shoulders come free. I flex and move and let the form of my strength come through. I watch her umber eyes drink me in with bestial hunger. Again, we could do it, right here, right now. Get banned from the store, thrown out of the dressing room and just tossed on the street. Keep going for world to see and join. Just like I've always wanted.

The magic is gone when my new dress clears my bra. A bit of a drop, then they are still. Louise is still with me, watching every move I make. I take a deep breath and my chest moves. She doesn't know where to look. There is so much of me, so much of everything and there is not enough of her to have it all. The world is wrong and there should be more of her, just for me. I agree. I need more.

The dress comes down to my stomach and the hard lines of my muscles give her more to deal with. I'm blushing and heating and thinking once more of how I can just pull her in here and take her and we'd all be so happy. It's getting harder and harder to ignore that particular urge. I'm surprised that she is showing this much restraint as well. I'd be in here with hands all over my body.

I struggle a bit with my hips and that cements the idea that I can pull this off. Her breath is getting hot and ragged and pleading, while there just is not enough of anything anymore.

"You're getting such a good time when we get home," she says.

"I hope so," I sigh, "I don't normally go for dresses and skirts."

"You can't just have band shirts and ripped jeans."

"Can I keep my jacket?"

"You can keep the jacket. It's a good jacket. But not a fancy party jacket."

"It has fur though."

"Fur doesn't mean fancy. Although, you in fur is something to think about. Like a Viking or something."

I'm struggling with the last bit of cloth, getting my favorite part free and clear. A little more push and pull and shift and then it's out. Louise stops breathing and just stares. Tight boxers, but everything on me is tight and hugging.

"You like what you see?" I prod with a sway and turn. She nods in the dressing room mirror. I grab it and move it and let the weight carry out a motion. My length wants its terrible freedom to rampage and decimate. I want that same righteous conquest.

I shake my head and clear the basest thoughts from the forefront. I am in a store. I have to put clothes on. There exists a society outside my urges and that is a good thing. Most of the time. And the rules of said society say no sex in dressing rooms and that I need to be somewhat proper when I walk through downtown. Unless there's a pride parade. Then everything can hang out and flow with the breeze as we walk along rainbow-colored streets.

And the thoughts of naked bodies are back. I force them to simmer down and creep along until they slip into background noise. Money, public transit, jobs, things in a society that aren't bestial mating. Like fancy parties. I have been invited to a fancy party and I needed a fancy dress. We are all fancy and proper as I slip on ripped jeans and faded shirts, thinking decidedly unfancy thoughts about everyone fucking all the time. Especially the nice cashier lady with a tattoo of some lipstick prints on her collar. She gets some very special thoughts.

---

I may have been oversold on the fanciness of the party. There are no hors d'oeuvres or butlers or ballgowns. There aren't even any regular gowns. There are a lot of short skirts and clutch bags, high heels and heavy makeup. There is a lot of thumping music and dancing lights. It's all designed to make it hard to think about anything at all. Louise plays with her drink on the bar counter, taking the stir stick around and around and around in lazy circles. I think she's bored. I kind of hope she is. Then we get to leave early and get out of these terrible clothes. The dress looks good but it doesn't work all that well over a long time. Kind of stiff and itchy, too tight over my stomach and back. I squirm a bit on my seat.

"You still don't see him?" she asks.

"No. I swear," I sigh, "If Rob doesn't come to his own birthday party, I am kicking his ass the next time I see him."

"So, he'll be fine. Considering he doesn't appear to ever show up to anything ever."

"Apparently. He knows. He has to know what I'll do to him. He's hiding. God, I can't believe him."

She takes another sip of her drink and that brings me to her lips. I don't know where she got it, but it's gold lipstick, just on the tasteful side of gaudy. There are the same flecks in her eyeshadow catching the light. It works wonderfully with her dark skin. I want to see it smear and run and tear down her face. I want it to pour down to some indistinct mess as I rampage against her. She will do the same to my simple ruby and shadow. Both of us forgotten in our self with the other body, heat and sweat and pleasurable work colliding down into the deepest parts of everything that can be. I take a sip of my drink too. Thank God it's an open bar. Don't know how Rob pulled that off. I don't really know how Rob pulls anything off.

Louise's dress isn't quite as tight as mine, but it sure makes up for the fact with most of her chest exposed. I'm almost positive a wrong move will bring out her navel, the neckline is so low. I don't mind. She has the stomach for it. So many lines and muscles and sculpted fissures on her now. Nothing bulky or bulging, just carved away and revealed like marble. I want to touch them. But again, there exists something like civilization that condemns open groping in most circumstances. She takes glances at my arms and I think that there is still the same urge in her. Thin straps and high on my waist, I have come fully around to enjoying my form in this package. I still prefer my other style, but it's good to know. I flex and move and shift for her, letting the shapes of my arms take something a bit more aggravated. She likes it. She likes it a lot and that is something to always strive for.

I move fast. My hand is on her chin and that brief moment of surprise overtakes anything. Startled, but not afraid as I move in and kiss her. She tastes like vodka. It's strong enough to pierce any taste, any scent of her. But as it fades and settles into that numbing burn, the rest of her comes through. A hand goes to my collar bone and keeps me there. Not quite pulling, not quite pushing, just a gauge to keep us at this distance for another second.

She's the one to break. There's an odd daze in her eyes, a bit from me, a bit from her libation, a bit from the endlessly thumping music that refuses to advance into anything else. She is gone to somewhere numb and still and thinking over every single permutation of existence. Zen, perfectly Zen. The world is as it should be and there are only distractions from the state. One of her straps has slid away. Something rather uncouth is bound to happen if she keeps this particular train of thought.

"Bathroom," she says and that pulls us both out of the fog. The lights are blaring, the music is droning, and the general presence of other bodies becomes something a bit more annoying once more. I'm kind of hungry too. There should be a kebab place not too far from here. There's always a kebab place where people get stupidly drunk on booze that costs more than a mortgage. That or wings. I could definitely go for some wings.

She glides away in the crowd and I watch her ass shift with no shame at all. That's mine. That's all mine. I can just reach out and take it whenever I want. I can just lean and smack and pinch and touch and grope the tone and muscle put on because of her work and then everything will be beautiful and right. I'm not the only one watching her, but I'm the only one who can take it any further. I take another sip of my drink. I definitely wouldn't pay any sort of money for it, but free is the right price for something like this. I drink again and my glass is empty. That's fine. I don't need anymore.

"So," says a slick voice full of honeyed devious will, "Finally all alone. That's a shame."

I roll my eyes and turn to a face growing blank in surprise. My simmering annoyance shifts into mischievous glee as I recognize the face. A smile creeps up to my ears and the face doesn't seem to appreciate it.

"Hi Troy," I say. He doesn't smile back. He should. He has a very nice smile.

"Hey Rachel," he says. He has a drink too. Not quite reaching up to his cheeks, still pale and cold, but it's getting there. I will be there waiting for him. He resigns himself to his new fate, taking Louise's seat. Shame he has to sit on something so pretty.

And that creeps up to the rest of him. Definitely still professional, no tie, low button, but styled hair into something sharp and cut. I don't know the name of it. He could definitely pull of some lipstick or mascara. Nothing heavy or opulent, but he could pull it off. He won't go for it. He has the jacket and the shirt that says he won't. He has his little niche and that's good enough for him. And for me. I have thoughts and now we play the game again.

"I didn't recognize you where you're not sweaty," he says.

"I can get sweaty," I hum, "I have a few ideas on how you can help."

He rolls his eyes again. Fair. I had my turn with that expression.

"Yeah sure. Thought Louise was in charge of that now."

"Eh, more or less. She does good work. But we can go with more players if we want. I've done it already."

"Good for you. Must be nice."

"Don't give me that. Go out there and give a little effort and you'll pull like two or three for yourself tonight."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? Not been doing good on that front for a bit. Probably just lost my touch."

The music finally changes and I think I like it a bit more now. There are instruments that I can identify beyond the eclectic mash up of computer generation. Don't think that it's going in the playlist if I have anything to say about it.

Troy's into it. His finger keeps tapping with the beat. Or he's trying to get another round. Turns out it's the second and he turns to me with a question. I answer negative and our lovely bartender with a tight blouse hurries over to fetch my friend's every whim.

"I don't believe that," I say, "Guy like you, dressed like that, in a place like that, it's a sin if you go home alone tonight."

"I don't know," he says, "Maybe my heart's not in anymore. Don't even know why I showed up. Apparently, Rob got a call early on and had to put out a fire somewhere."

"He's a firefighter now?"

"Are you surprised? Dude has more jobs than you have notches on your bedpost. Hold up, 10 o'clock. Is that Louise?"

I turn and he's not quite right according to my internalized clock. His finger gets me the rest of the way. There is indeed Louise out on the dance floor. But she's not moving. She's kind of frozen there, blocked in place by a guy trying to keep her in place. She finds my eyes for a brief moment and that is enough to get me up and fuming. She is there and she doesn't want to be there.

The crowd parts around me and what doesn't is shoved, gently. Not their fault, but they're in the way. The music is getting louder again and I think that I like it this time as well. It fits the mood. Louise's captor is a big guy, large beard well kept. There is something to do him, for someone somewhere. Not for me, not for her. He's talking loudly, fully flushed and somewhat unaware of what he's doing.

"Listen," Louise shouts, "I'm taken. Ok? Nothing against you, but seriously, just let me go."

I can't make out his response through the music and his slurred thoughts. I don't need to. She is still there and she does not want to be there.

"Hey," I yell, "Hey, you're bothering her. Leave her alone."

He turns and there is a moment of confusion through his fogged mind. He slurs something and comes out with a confused cough as everything slots together.

"I'm doing anything bad," he says, "Just trying to be friends. Do you want to be friends too? I bet we can all get friendly somewhere."

"You're bothering here. Leave her alone."

That confusion comes back and settles into something like annoyance.

"C'mon," he slurs, "You know what I think. Dykes, both of you. Don't know how to have a good time. I can show you."

In some ways, I admire this man's ability to trundle forward. It's impressive, like a drunk elephant crashing through the brush. If it was off in the distance, I would stare in awe at the raw power of its ineptitude. But it's directed at me and a person I am rather fond of.

Part of me wants this to keep going, to come to blows, to descend into the pit of rapturous violence. My blood is already starting to spark, the music falling a bit quieter, the lights coming a bit more alive. I can take him. I can break him and bleed him and end everything about him. I want to do it. My knuckles clench into fists.

"At least let me have her," he whispers, "You don't know what to do with a lady anyway. I can show her a hell of a time."

"She's mine," I say, calm venom dripping from every letter, a frozen flame of towering rage made into sound, "If you want her, then you'll have to take her from me. Can you do that?"

There is so much in that question. He parses through it all, trying to come out on top. He's taller than me. He's wider in the shoulders. But he sees something that I can't, something deep in my eyes that frankly terrifies him into submission. I wish it didn't. I wish he was a bit braver, a bit more reckless, just so I can do something with the excitement boiling under my skin.

He huffs and turns, trundling once more through the crowd until he is swallowed up. Again, a mote of the majestic in something lumbering retreating back to safer pastures. And again, it would have my respect in other circumstances. I am just not an observer this time.

I am broken free from the contemplation with another body pressed into mine. I almost through it off and indulge in my blood lust. But it's Louise. She gets my regular lust. And I get her kiss and a fluttering gaze as she swoons in my arms.

"My hero," she sighs with all the cottony sugar of fairy tales and glass slippers. I grab her ass just in case she thought I was charming. I am not. I never claimed to be.

I cast my glance away from her for a moment. We are still adrift in the sea of bodies milling about in time to the drum and bass. And we're not alone. Troy tagged along, slipping in my wake undetected. He's also slipping his watch back on and working his knuckles, just in case something was going down. He points to the edge of the crowd, opposite from the trundler's exit. He's pointing to the real exit. Good call. It's loud, my blood is boiling and I think I've had a bit too much to drink. I think I'll give him an invite to kebabs. Anyone willing to throw hands with me deserves that at least.

---

We don't have kebabs. We have gyros. It's close enough and I don't care. It's meat and hot and covered in garlic sauce that probably has been in a vat for a fortnight. It works well though. I have my third waiting for me once I finish my second. I didn't realize how hungry I was. Something in the air, or just better things to think about.

"So, it ends with the guy probably eating a toddler," mumbles Troy through the last of his fries, "And turning up in the gutter a few years later, dying of the plague or something."

"What the fuck?" says Louise, "What the fuck? Why do you know that?"

"You would be surprised what people tell their banker in order to butter them up. And you want to go ever farther? There's at least one other guy like that. Don't think he ate anyone but ate like 200 cats and tried to eat a dude's severed leg."

Louise stares at her food and then looks to me. I can get hungry, even hangry if everything lines up properly, but I don't think I would ever go that far. I have my third and that's probably too much. Drunk hunger is a strange thing to gauge. I'm still going to eat it though. And all of that wasn't enough to deter Louise from going through her pita. She's eyeing me though. Maybe she's the one planning to eat me. I don't think about that. I have food. She has food. I'm probably stringy and gamy and tough. Not enough fat on me for any sort of marbling. I would taste terrible. Troy's a snack though.

"Does that work," Louise asks, "Just random terror facts."

"Ladies like true crime and serial killers," he shrugs, "And my ex seemed to like it. This is all second hand, by the way. She followed like 5 different podcasts about those things."

And he is back to talking about his ex. Never a good sign. He realizes it and starts to clam up. The food is a clear and evident excuse. He has fries that have been draped in whatever gyros are made of, drenched in that same mysterious garlic sauce. And it's good, I assume. I want to sneak some from his plate just for my use. That would be rude. I still want to though. It would be so incredibly worth it.

Troy's slipped back into something melancholic and I have my gyro to distract me. And then it's gone. I can go and get more. That is a path I can take, but it's probably not a good one. There is a small voice of reason saying that this is all enough and I can be sated with what I have already had. We're good. Troy's gone silent really fast and Louise picks up the same cues from him. Not sure how to pull him out and if we even should.

"Never mind. Next one," he says, "The Gray Man, the Moon Maniac. That's a fun one."

"Dude," Louise says, "I'm trying to eat. I don't want to know more about serial killers while I eat. Save that for a bedtime story or something. Sorry, not sorry. Little sorry."

He shrugs and clams up again. I'm still eyeing his fries, but despite his malaise, he's still working through the plate.