Walking in was like taking a step into film noir.
The brightest spot in the room highlighted a pool table in the corner. In a perfect scene, this light would be thrown off by a stained-glass fixture hanging just a few feet above the table, creating sharp boundaries between a central stage and peripheral shadows – shadows the imagination could envision filled with unseen faces scrutinizing each player’s moves and strokes. Instead, floodlights in the ceiling high above created a more diffuse light that, though still somewhat conical, left little in the way of intimation to shelter either player or voyeur.
Yes. A lonely pool table in a rather upscale locale frequented more by weary travelers than locals. I was tingling.
The time came to get ready. Ashley put on Little Black Thing for the first time since the traditional modeling session a week before. She adjusted the sleeves and smoothed the fabric to her body. She looked in the mirror and observed, predictably, “I need hose.”
I tried to look crestfallen and said, “You wouldn’t do that to me, now, would you?”
“I know,” she said, “but look at me – my legs are so white.”
At least her first concern was not about Little Black Thing being too short. But the eye was, I noted, naturally drawn to that sharp boundary between the whiteness and blackness, naturally drawn to that daringly flirtatious line.
I tried for the wounded puppy look. “Well, yeah,” I said, “uh, the contrast with that jet-black is pretty strong. But hose would really dampen the sizzle – maybe not for other people – but – you know – I’ve really had my sights set on taking you out just like – this.”
She stood quietly for a while. I wanted into her thoughts. I knew she was thinking back to the company Christmas party, her hose the only thing that saved her. She smiled at me and grabbed Little Black Thing by its hem and tugged it down several inches further than the manufacturer (and I) ever intended. I had been afraid of something like that – another night of hemline tuggery. But another idea came to me as I observed . . .
I’m not sure whether she noticed it – I would guess not – but that demure tug born of modesty produced a delightfully immodest effect. Since Little Black Thing was pretty much one sinuous piece of wispy and elastic fabric, the tension introduced by that tug spread more or less instantly from her hemline all the way up to her shoulders, dilating the weave of the already somewhat gauzy material just enough to cause a marked increase in its transparency. Whereas the relaxed fabric offered barely more than a subliminal image of her charms, that tug revealed an image of hidden treasures, walloped into the cognizant, her breasts especially shining through.
Prior to this, I’d worried the tug reflex might take some of the fun out of the evening, but I could see Little Black Thing would silently conspire with me to frustrate her modest instincts, at all times revealing either a dazzling expanse of leg seeking ever higher ground, or an immodest image of breasts shining through a gossamer smokescreen. I lauded at the subtle ironies, looking forward to noticing which of the possibilities would actually rule the evening. I reminded her, as I often do, that it does little good to fight the natural equivocate of a dress such as this – she would ultimately be more comfortable by relaxing and letting it do what it wants.
As we pottered around getting ready, Little Black Thing did indeed work itself back to its natural place, and the vitreous image of her breasts dimmed to a mirage. It struck me, out of the corner of my eye, that Little Black Thing seemed to be just a bit shorter than The Dress. Puzzling, since I knew they measured out to exactly the same length – hanging in the closet, at least. This was a poignant thought, since The Dress was, until then, the shortest thing in her wardrobe by about one full inch. I mused idly that it must be a pleasant illusion, one whose study I would have to defer till later.
The weather still being on the cool side, she donned her long overcoat on the way out but, as is her habit, rather than buttoning it, she just cinched it loosely about her waist with the sash. There seemed to be a startling amount of leg showing through the opening of the coat. In retrospect, I think the effect was just one of color contrast – white leg from well-turned ankle to high-on-the-thigh, topped by jet-black – made her legs stand out. The long slit created by the overcoat helped.
We made our way – finally – to the hotel and cruised around to park. I had inquired by phone where and how we should park, hoping for a structure that might afford a little transient seclusion. Indeed, there was such a structure adjacent to the hotel, and I had been instructed on its use. Valet parking was offered, but that would put the damper on certain potential adventures; it was explained to me how I could self-park in the same structure. That seemed to be the appropriate choice for this occasion.
When we got to the hotel, however, the parking structure had been commandeered by some kind of event and was unavailable. We had to drive around the downtown area and park on the street near the hotel, amid traffic, passers-by and panhandlers.
I had tried to paint a mental picture of this place for Ashley, but verbal words often elude me, unlike putting them to paper. In order to present it to her in the best light, I took her to the front of the hotel; we entered through the main entrance and to the lobby. This particular night there appeared to be a conference, a convention, something. The place was bustling, and the lobby lights were high. We stopped a few feet from the grand piano and stood for a moment. She looked around and soaked up the atmosphere.
“This is the piano I was telling you about,” I said, adding, “Wouldn’t this be a great spot for a nude photo?”
“You have to be kidding,” she giggled, whispered. “With all these people around? Right in front of the door? On the main street?”
“I don’t mean under conditions like this,” I said. “I mean on an off day, when things are quiet.”
“It’d better be pretty damn quiet” Ashley said.
“Well, like I told you at home,” I said, “when I’ve been in here before, at off hours, this place has been virtually empty – and the lights are usually kept much lower.”
“Still,” she said, “it’s right off the main street –”
I said, “We could drive up, stroll in, take the shot, stroll out, and drive off before anyone would know what happened.”
“So . . . I’d come in – in my coat, and just throw the coat aside when you’re ready?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know,” Ashley said. “I don’t see myself laid out across a grand piano.”
I said, “I was thinking more in terms of having you sitting at the piano as if playing, taking a wide angle shot of the whole lobby. You know, contrasting the formal elegance of this backdrop with the intimate image of your bare-ass naked body.”
She smiled at that and said, “It’d still have to be pretty quiet.”
We moved to the side of the lobby, to the restaurant and bar. We confirmed our reservation, time and table; and then went next door to the bar.
Like the rest of the hotel, the bar was relatively busy. Just by chance, the pool table was being vacated as we walked in, so we claimed it and I went for drinks. By the time I returned, she had racked up the balls, and was sitting pretty, waiting for me. She sat with that long coat cinched around her, crossed bare legs sticking out. I swear she looked naked from the waist down.
I handed her a drink and said, “You gonna wear that coat all night?”
She smiled, “Maybe.”
She took a sip, and then stepped out of her coat into the swanky light that gave just a hint of pool-hall atmosphere to this corner of the otherwise upscale bar.
I had to take a deep breath. I still couldn’t tell whether it was an illusion or not, but Little Black Thing seemed just breathtakingly short, topping a jarringly long expanse of leg with a tousled skirt edge.
We each picked a pool cue and looked stupidly at each other. I had been so long since we’d played pool; neither one of us remembered the rules. We started playing anyway, and within a f
ew shots it was coming back. We both sucked. We were having fun.
We were no more than six to eight shots into the game when we came to a point where Ashley had an awkward cross-table shot. She asked for the bridge.
I handed it to her but didn’t let go. “Don’t use this too often,” I said.
“What?”
“Don’t use this too often,” I said, and reminded her this whole evening had been contrived so I could admire her figure bent over the pool table.
We both held on to the bridge for a few seconds, staring. I doubt whether more than a single muscle cell flinched in her face, but her countenance shifted subtly during that brief shared gaze, from one of simple social pleasure to one laced with sultry mischief.
I eased my grip, releasing the bridge to her, and she took it slowly, letting her eyes linger on mine just a bit longer than necessary. She took her shot, missing as wildly with the aid of the bridge as she would’ve without it.
Since we had not been playing very long, I hadn’t really noted anything significant in her behavior one way or another, but as we continued playing it seemed to me she was acting less self-consciously than I might’ve expected. For example, with all the bending over, I might’ve expected her to be tugging herself more than she was, which was essentially not at all. I was, in fact, curious to see the effect her tugging might produce in this situation, but that effect never materialized. Instead, the atmosphere was rarefied by the high altitudes through which Little Black Thing flitted. Whether she quashed her modest instincts in deference to me or not I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I just enjoyed the scene.
Eventually, Ashley found herself with another bungling cross-table shot that clearly called for the bridge. This one was made awkward by the fact she would have to make the shot with her back to the open area of the busy bar. She looked at the shot, looked at the patrons and, rather than asking for the bridge, whispered, “Stand behind me.”
I looked about the bar, partly in that quick, involuntary, self-conscious way we all do in public when we do the unexpected – which may draw the attention of others; but this quick scan was also in a practical mode. I was just one person. I did not expect to be much of a screen; the people in the bar were too scattered about, and I’d have to stand back a few paces from her to avoid interfering with her shot. Obviously, she didn’t take this into account and turned to the table, already starting to lean over. “Oh well,” I mused with a grin, and took about three paces back.
She lined up her shot, leaned in far, a stretch that raised the hemline of Little Black Thing well past the edge of her ass, unveiling several inches of her bare, creamy cheeks and the mysterious void nestled below. She was no more than five seconds thus, lining up and taking her shot, but it was one of those delightful moments that seem to proceed in slow motion.
After that high point, things seemed a little different, a little more charged. I was perplexed; something was different. It was some time before my attention returned to the thought that kept flowing through the evening like a sensual fugue – Little Black Thing was shorter than The Dress. As I studied this again, it finally occurred to me what was different – an effect I had not anticipated.
The Dress is form-fitting; it is not really clingy. One consequence of this is when Ashley wore it sans-underwear, The Dress slid well on her skin, generally behaving itself. Little Black Thing, however, was clingy everywhere except in the skirt. I was faced with a consequence of that cling I’d never thought about. With all of her bending and standing, bending and standing, the fabric of Little Black Thing had been subject to a lot of flexing in a kind of a breathing motion: stretching, relaxing, stretching, relaxing.
Another fabric would’ve shown a wrinkle or two as a result of this, but with every stretch relax cycle this fabric seemed to adjust itself in such a way that the bit of slack which crept in was evenly distributed over her torso, so no wrinkles were evident. The result of this activity was Little Black Thing had shrunk by about an inch over the course of the game. The hemline of Little Black Thing no longer fell an inch below the edge of her butt, but precisely at the edge of her butt.
I watched her closely for a while to confirm this conclusion. There was no doubt about it. Most every shot from this point onward showed cheek. And some showed a lot.
I was on edge for the rest of the game. My eyes and mind were obsessed with her ass. She had to realize the state she was in. Yet, not once did she tug herself toward a more modest condition. Her face continued to reflect just a hint of mischieviousness, her countenance remarkably cool. She displayed no self-consciousness whatsoever in her shots. She didn’t asked for the bridge again. She didn’t avoid deep bends when conditions called for it. In fact, she seemed to be bending more than necessary. Her hemline rose so high toward the end of the game, that not only did every shot show a bit of cheek, but on her tougher shots I could have cupped a healthy handful of her luscious behind without touching fabric. I kept picturing myself grabbing each cheek, right here, spreading them, finding the pink pucker of her asshole and exposing it to the bar.
Our game came to an ignominious end about the time we were supposed to take our table in the restaurant. We stowed our cues and left the bar. She walked smugly; I walked stiffly. No one seemed to notice us. I think I was disappointed. There are so many little worlds in the world, it amazes – sometimes.
We didn’t really need a reservation. The restaurant was less than a quarter full. I had expected this; when I’d checked the place out before, there’d been no one in restaurant except the service staff. When I walked in, they’d all jumped to their feet and assumed positions. Although a reservation was not necessary, I made one because I wanted a particular table. By many standards, the table I chose would not be considered the best. Like most of the tables here, this was a booth; it was next to the kitchen, so the service traffic passed between it and the rest of the dining room. Its orientation was such that we faced the open area of the restaurant and would have this parade of traffic right in front of us. For me, this negative was more than balanced out since this was the most dimly lit table, furthest from the entrance, a bit around a corner from the main part of the dining room: quite private, quite intimate, quite romantic, perfect for a devious turn of the hand.
Except for the service traffic, of course.
Waiters, stewards, maitre d’s – all are members of a cadre who know the value of discretion, particularly the fact that greater discretion is often rewarded with higher tips. The situation presented by this dark little alcove was perfect for intimate nuzzling, while savoring a few culinary delights.
We announced ourselves and were shown to our table.
We settled into the plush leather. I coaxed Ashley back out of her coat so I could enjoy our closeness more than had been possible in the bar. We were given menus, which revealed right off why this was a five-star restaurant. Fortunately for us, there was a commoner’s special, still somewhat steep by my standards, but a worthy compromise. We both chose that, and settled in for the wait.
We sat quietly, enjoying the setting and each other’s company. Too many people, I feel, don’t know how to enjoy silence. My wife sat to my left, so I let my left hand slide smoothly over those wonderful legs, up one thigh, following the fold of her thigh and across her cunt, grazing pubic hair, following the other fold onto her other thigh and down again. Nice, easy, absent-minded caresses. Back and forth.
The net effect of a few of these gliding touches was to get us both nicely relaxed, and to leave her sitting with Little Black Thing pulled up around her waist. I gently lifted her right leg over my left; her legs parted in a relaxed carriage that kept her cunt open for me. It was the kind of position that would have easily allowed me to stimulate her, had we both been in that kind of mood, but our mood was more casual. Maybe another time.
Our dinner proved to be truly splendid, albeit rather expensive; it was well worth it. I, at least, was moaning over almost every mouthful. Positively decadent. Our commoner’
s special included dessert, which I had forgotten until Ashley mentioned it as we neared the end of the meal. I told my wife how I would like to have her for dessert, at which she just smiled, and offered herself up for a particularly deep kiss. “Your ass,” I said to her, “I’d like your ass for desert.”
“Why that in particular?” she asked, batting her eyes.
“I had to drool at it in the bar,” I said. “The pool table. You had to know.”
“I knew,” she said.
“Now all I have is your ass on my mind,” I said to her. “That’s what I’d like for desert. A mouthful of ass. My tongue deep in that.”
She snuggled closer. She held her glass of white wine and said, “As we ate dinner, I imagined that you had come in this glass, and I was drinking your warm come with this wonderful food.”
The nuance of our dessert discussion grew increasingly sexual, frustrating me to no end, since I knew we would not be acting on any of our suggestiveness until we got home.
We finally collected ourselves to go. I tipped the waiter well for his discretion. We exited the hotel and approached our car. I cursed myself for not being able to find a more secluded parking place; I could see myself in the back seat with Ashley lying face down on the leather, my face buried between her butt. We leaned against the car in front of passers-by and several lanes of traffic. I opened her coat, taking her in my arms from the inside.
I pulled her to me for a final kiss and, as we kissed, I slid my hands under Little Black Thing, raising it up enough so between the two of us, at least, she was as naked as circumstances would allow. I stroked her flesh as far as my hands could reach, caressing her buttocks, stroking her, pressing her breasts into me. We finished our kiss, I restored her to decency, and we drove home.
The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Michael Hemmingson Page 7
