Now, apparently he had just asked her something about me. About that time I’d arrived to stand right next to the guy, on the side away from my wife. She looked at me and lifted one hand in a genteel gesture of introduction. The poor fellow had the shit scared out of him like he had seen a gray alien wanting to do unspeakable medical experiments on him. He yanked his arm away from her shoulder like a culprit caught, jumped back a foot or two, and stammered, “H-H-hello, Sir!” I extended my hand and introduced myself. He quickly walked away. Ashley and I left, sharing a good chuckle. But my notions proved wrong.
“Was he hitting on you?” I asked.
“No,” Ashley said. “He likes you. He wants to fuck you. I mean, he probably wants you to fuck him. He has a nice ass; what do you think?”
She gave me a wink.
After a bit of schmoozing, I made a bar run; I figured Ashley would be a little more at ease after a glass of wine. I was a little afraid she would feel the need to hold something for security, and if it wasn’t the wine, she might hold that damn wrap all night. So I traded her the wrap for a glass. Not being quite ready to let it go, she watched longingly after it as I used it to save a couple of seats for dinner.
The Dress was now on unobstructed display for the first time since we came in the door. It was not long before the attention started to pile up. As we stood near the bar, for example, we chanced upon one of a handful of openly lesbian women in the company, together with her girlfriend. She caught sight of my wife and did a little double-take, obviously not connecting Ashley with The Dress at first gleam. She turned to us and called Ashley by name, taking Ashley’s free hand (the one without the wine) and holding it away from her body, taking a good look at The Dress.
“What a sexy dress!” this woman said. “What closet did you come out of?”
The obvious joke was on the mark. Ashley had always been curious about the lesbian experience, and had always felt a connection with these women; I think they sensed this at some level. What did I know? In fact, what did she know?
We continued milling, enjoying the appreciative comments of men and women alike. A couple of the partners and their spouses made a point of greeting us again.
Ashley, at first a little embarrassed by all the attention, quickly answered the incoming compliments by saying I had bought everything for her – thinking this, of course, an excuse for her uncommonly daring appearance. She and I both were a little unprepared for the even higher and more envious praise we received in response; wives envious because their husbands would never exercise such thoughtfulness, husbands shuffling a little because they knew this to be true. Two of them in particular, at different times, spoke to me in low tones, “You bought her that?”
“Yes,” I said, watching their faces as they stole glances back at Ashley, their demeanor betraying envy of several different stripes; then, self-consciously and with just a hint of personal shame muttering, “I just can’t shop for my wife.”
Another gulp of a highball and then on to more mingling.
One of the men whom I knew was gay came up to her, and, lifting both of her arms upward and outward in front of her; he looked her up and down, telling her The Dress was simply to die for.
We were getting hungry, and found ourselves hanging out with a couple of the marketing directors and their wives near the seats we had chosen for dinner. One of these men had the most party-doll-like trophy wife of them all. Bouffant blonde with enormous cleavage barely contained in her dress, drippy jewelry, teetering heels, and one of the most annoyingly snobbish nasal voices I’ve heard outside of a situation comedy. She looked a little green around the eyes to me, and the way she interacted with my wife, placing herself between Ashley and her own husband, suggested to me that the cat in her was flexing its claws.
I’d noted The Dress was so short that she’d need to wear some kind of panty hose to stay on the responsible side of the publishing company’s moral clause (it would’ve been something to have her bare butt pop out in front of the CEO). We’d found some black, glittered panty hose, giving the ensemble a nice dashing “Emma Peel” sort of look. I was a little disappointed that the only suitable pair we could find had a dense black panty at the top, rather than being uniform to the waist. I would’ve preferred the color to continue; were The Dress to ride up at all, the image of her legs would persevere smoothly across the divide. As Ashley had practiced various movements in The Dress and panty hose, I found the black panty had an interesting and unanticipated effect, the same as seeing the tops of thigh-high or gartered hose peeking out from under a more demure accouter.
There had been a small dinner party the prior night, for the publicists and their spouses. I had the idea Ashley ought to use this smaller affair as a warm-up to the big party, and attire in something flattering but not so daring as The Dress. She thought most of my suggestions were too much for her boss’s house; I could see her point.
She had not yet decided what to wear to this dinner party when she came out from our bedroom Sunday morning, in a charcoal gray catsuit and a brief blazer. I was a little surprised by this, since I’ve always thought the catsuit displayed her body rather well and I had no idea she would think it appropriate for a simple dinner. This was tasteful – muted soft cotton blend that tapered without clinging from stirrups at the feet all the way to the curves of her hips, following her torso and arms closely, without fitting too tightly. The most suggestive thing was a nice definition to her ass; and, when worn alone, it invited the eyes to wander up and down. The blazer broke up that wandering eye effect, but allowed her ass to show nicely. I suggested that this outfit would probably work better at the dinner party than any others we’d discussed.
The dinner party was uneventful, by the way. The other women were tastefully dressed, some casual, some in high-end fashions and teetering heels. None bore the subtle hint of daring Ashley had. The effect was mostly in her mind and mine. Once, during a little break in the cocktail chatter, I caught her eye; I licked a finger and touched her butt, mouthing, “Tssssssst.” She grinned and swatted my hand away playfully, saying, “Don’t embarrass me!”
Soon we were called to dinner. I sat beside Ashley, and the aforementioned trophy wife sat on her other side – to be sure her husband didn’t sit there. This was Ashley’s first sit-down of the evening, and she sat priggishly, giving a gentle tug on her hem that just kept The Dress from riding up without unnaturally distorting things. Even so, she sat, for the most part, directly on the chair, showing a wedge of the black panty, growing from nothing above her thigh to about three-quarters of an inch below. I got a kick out of this – it’d make the trophy wife squirm; it also meant she was sitting with her pussy in contact with the chair. Continuing her sedate behavior, Ashley acquired her napkin and placed it on her lap, conveniently covering the triangular shaped tunnel.
As dinner wore on, the patch of black panty to be seen was gradual, as the natural movements associated with sitting a long time caused The Dress to creep. I inspected this progression as indifferently as I could. I had anticipared this, yet the creeping continued well beyond the point which I expected her to re-compile herself and restore The Dress to its intended position. Two things made her unaware of this – she often wore leggings, stretch pants and the like, and was used to the feeling of sitting in them (I suspected the panty hose had a similar feel); and that damn napkin: she didn’t notice her hemline was trailing so. It delighted me to note the trophy wife was also seeing what I was seeing; more than once I noticed her glancing down and getting this uncomfortable look on her face, tinged with disbelief. I found it hard to believe, too. The creeping continued higher and higher until none of The Dress was left between her and the chair. This extreme condition didn’t last long. Ashley soon realized she’d come rather undone and moved to put herself back together. She laid the napkin aside, which then showed her hemline to be not down on her thighs where she had left it, but to have gathered in the crease of her pelvis, leaving the totality of her crotch on di
splay. She was a little flustered, but one quick tug and she was normal.
After a delicious dinner, dessert, and a little more wine, everything was cleared away. The conversation and drinks had loosened the atmosphere. The music started and people began to dance. Ashley and I decided to wait, let the dance floor fill up, let people relax before venturing out. It wasn’t long before the D J switched to a particular swing I enjoyed, and I had to drag Ashley out, ready or not. We made our way to the dance floor hand in hand; she was smoothing The Dress over her hips and butt as we walked.
Just about everyone was on the floor for this one, which was fine, since Ashley felt less exposed in the middle of the crowd. She made sure we didn’t stop until we got to the most hidden point of the dance floor. For the first couple of songs, one or the other of her hands tugged on her hemline about every eighth beat. I tried to tell her she didn’t need to do that, and she eased up as she got into the mood. The Dress had a tendency to rise a bit as she danced, but this was the panty hose; had she been butt-naked, The Dress would’ve behaved better, sliding on her hips.
Soon the music slowed down and we got a chance to get touchy-feely. We’d practiced this in front of a mirror that morning, so we knew exactly what would occur. She placed her forearms loosely on my shoulders, lightly folding her fingers together behind my neck, keeping her elbows at a level just below my collarbone. This was sort of a modest half-stretch that’d raise her hemline just about exactly even with the bottom of her black panty, allowing a peek to those far enough away to enjoy the right angle, but otherwise kept decent. If I chose to, I could manipulate this, drawing her extra close, or unobtrusively pressing The Dress into the small of her back as I held her, both of which caused The Dress to slide up more, assuring that somebody, somewhere, would catch a glimpse.
Being a good boy, however, whenever I let her come a little undone that way, I would soon shift position and smooth her out. This must’ve looked pretty interesting as well: it meant sliding my hands down her back and across her ass in a rather intimate manner.
I had to answer nature’s call. It turned out this place was not very well equipped in the outhouse department; the only lavatories for the ballroom floor were halfway back into the lobby. I got to the men’s room and, being a man, walked right in. At the wash basins were two men and one woman. And a beautiful one at that. The men were washing hands, straightening ties, whatever; she was freshening her makeup. She looked at me in the mirror, I acknowledged her with a polite hello, and went to my business. I assumed the position at one of the urinals.
As much as I needed to go, the thought of this peculiar and resplendent woman standing at the mirror a few feet away complicated matters by rendering me, shall we say, a little less than flaccid. About this time, she said something to someone else in the stalls, and a feminine voice answered, talking about having on one of those snap-crotch bodysuits, and the fact she was having trouble getting the snaps to close.
Soon there was a flush, and out stepped a leggy blonde, still not quite put together, adjusting what I would say had to be the #3 dress of the evening. She stood there for a couple moments, just a few feet to my left, fumbling with the closure around her neck. I could see in the reflection of the polished marble tile on the wall that she was taking in a relaxed view of my not very relaxed cock.
She finally succeeded in getting her dress closed, smoothed herself, and started to walk by, still looking at my poor cock that by now was showing unmistakable interest in something other than taking a piss. She looked up just in time to say hi as she passed me. I said, “Hi.” They were gone. My bladder was still struggling to empty, the flow so abruptly interrupted. On the way back to the ballroom I saw these ladies in the hall, and acknowledged them with a polite, “Hello, again.” They smiled and nodded. And that was that.
The DJ tried to cater to everyone, and eventually a few big band tunes came on. That cleared the floor pretty quick, but if you like ballroom dancing, that’s exactly what you want. Ashley and I were fond of ballroom dance in college (where we met), especially swing. Glen Miller’s “In the Mood” came on. Poor Ashley: she puts up with a lot from me. During “In the Mood” she was whirled and twirled and twisted and rocked and bopped and who knows what with nary a moment to regain her equilibrium until the thing was over. This also meant she was rather indisposed to maintain control of her hemline; although we missed a couple of moves because her catch hand was tugging instead of catching, she lost the battle. We were dancing so vigorously, Ashley found it impossible to keep her hemline within the bounds of propriety.
There were a couple of combination twirl-and-clutch moves that were especially revealing. There was one where we were hand-in-hand facing each other, then passed each other raising hands over heads (hemline going way up), then extended and returned to a closed position with my arm around her waist (bringing the hemline up still more). This is actually a simple maneuver, but one of my favorites; it looked good and we did it well. Consequently, I threw her into it a number of times during this one song.
As the song progressed, we had an increasing difficulty with it. This particular move left her hemline somewhere around mid-butt. Ashley was trying to make me aware of this, and was valiantly trying to regain control of her attire. I suspect it is safe to say about a third to a half of the company got a good view of about a third to a half of her pantied butt.
This proved the wisdom of the panty hose.
On that note, we collected ourselves and left. We unraveled the long walk back to our car, saying assorted goodbyes and Merry Christmases to those we met along the way. We found our way back to the car, safe and secure under that bright street light, various people and the occasional car going by. At least the uniformed gnome was gone from the hut. This was far too conspicuous a place to get carried away, and the risk of any passers-by being company people was great. Still, it was tough to just walk away from an event like this without a little gratuitous foreplay. I opened the driver’s door and dropped a couple of items inside, then rounded to her side, the side away from the worst of the traffic, and opened her door. We held each other for a while, enjoying warm kisses betraying the heat growing within us both. I told her that wherever we were going, and whatever we were going to do, she wouldn’t need the panty hose any more; so while we stood there together, I was going to strip them off her. She said, “Okay.”
I slipped my hands under her wrap, let my hands drop to her hemline and slid them under The Dress, raising it ever so slowly as we kissed, continuing until The Dress was in a wad around her breasts. I slid my hands down again to the top of her panty hose, hooked them with my thumbs, and began to peel them off with surgical precision. I worked them down to about the end of her wrap, so that it would not yet be obvious to passers-by what was going on, and restored The Dress to its proper position.
Taking one last nibble on her lips, I glided down her body and finished peeling the hose off each leg. I pulled the wrap off her and put it in the car, enjoying a few moments of The Dress in its bare-assed glory. We exchanged a few last kisses; for a second, I slipped my hands under The Dress once again, raising it over hips, exposing her nether cheeks to the nip of the December air. One squeeze each and we were on our way.
I drove us toward the shore, to a place we’d visited once or twice last summer. It was a small beach set among the rocks. Not really good for swimming or sunning; the surf too rough, not much sand. It was popular with the surfers. I reasoned that this time of night, and this time of year, it’d be deserted; except for local traffic on the access road and the houses overlooking the beach. It’d be pretty quiet too. Besides the natural beauty of this spot, and the prospect for solitude, it was also quite picturesque. Set into the rocks, just above high tide, were four heavy wooden poles supporting a lattice roof in good repair, which was overlaid with palm fronds that made a sort of Tahitian gazebo.
We arrived at the beach, and things were as I’d hoped. There were less than two dozen parking spaces, and the
couple of cars looked like they belonged to dwellers rather than visitors. We secured our car, and walked carefully down the sand and rocks to the gazebo, taking care that Ashley did not lose her footing due to the inappropriateness of heels to this terrain.
We’d never actually visited the gazebo before. It provided token shelter from the surrounding houses and elements – more in concept than fact; the streetlights still fell on us, and I faced the ocean in what followed and knew we were in the plain view of the nearby street and houses. Our real cover was night itself. The little gazebo provided mood, like that of a well-chosen picture frame, adding romantic flavor to an already beautiful scene. The tide was high, with the waves broke just a few feet from where we stood. Ashley liked it.
I leaned against one of the four posts and opened my arms, inviting her in. She came and stood in front of me, gave me a kiss, and began to unfasten my trousers; they were new and it took her a little while to figure out how they fastened, but soon she had them open and coyly, slowly, lowered my zipper. She pushed her hands inside my waistband, stroking my hips and working her hands up under my shirt. Her next motion was intended to drag my usual banal underwear down, but as she got to the waistband of my thong underwear, she stopped short, smiling and saying, “And what’s this?’
She lifted my shirt-tail and inspected approvingly, but paused only a moment before continuing on and dragging these down mid-thigh.
Having liberated me, she cupped my cock and balls in both hands and stepped into me, pressing her pussy against them. By this time I was eager to return the favor and, reaching under her wrap, I slid my hands under The Dress once more, this time raising it as high as it’d go, baring her from her breasts down to tiny heels. She pressed into me harder now, both out of a visceral urgency and a need to shield us both from the cold. I roamed over her body like it was the very first time, taking in every curve and deeply massaging every sensuous tumescence from her breasts to her supple sides to her hips to the globes of her exquisite ass.
The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Michael Hemmingson Page 4
